Or crown the lowliest tomb!
Ivy! Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.
’Tis still the same: our pilgrim-tread
O’er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,
Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power—
Days pass—thou Ivy never sere,[417]