IVY SONG.
WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE.
Oh! how could Fancy crown with thee
In ancient days the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be
Companion of the vine?
Thy home, wild plant! is where each sound
Of revelry hath long been o’er,
Where song’s full notes once peal’d around,
But now are heard no more.
The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Entwined thee with exulting strains
Around the victor’s tent:
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green,
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor’s grave.
Where sleeps the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past;
Where, through the halls of glory gone,
Murmurs the wintry blast;
Where years are hastening to efface
Each record of the grand and fair;
Thou, in thy solitary grace,
Wreath of the tomb! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue Italian sky,
Hath naught of beauty left by time,
Save thy wild tapestry!
And, rear’d midst crags and clouds, ’tis thine
To wave where banners waved of yore,
O’er towers that crest the noble Rhine,
Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish’d race—
Homes of the mighty, whose renown
Hath pass’d, and left no trace.
But there thou art!—thy foliage bright
Unchanged the mountain storm can brave;
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or deck the humblest grave!
’Tis still the same! Where’er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see—
The marvels of all ages fled
Left to decay and thee!
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, grace, and strength;
Days pass—thou ivy never sere![322]—
And all is thine at length!
[322] “Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere.”—Lycidas.