THE IVY SONG.
185
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where Kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victor's tent:
Tho' shining there in deathless green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.
Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.
The cold halls of the regal dead,
Where lone th' Italian sunbeams dwell,
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread—
Ivy! they know thee well!
And far above the festal vine,
Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung,
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine
—The Rhine, still fresh and young!
