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A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid
am thy mother !-spurn me not, my child !”
Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother—wept
At once in silence.—Heavily and prone
Her child bent o'er her-call'd her-'twas too late!
TO THE IVY.
OCCASIONED BY RECEIVING A LEAF GATHERED IN THE
CASTLE OF RHEINFELS.
Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the god of wine,
Companion of the vine?
Of revelry hath long been o'er ;
But now are heard no more.
The Roman, on his battle plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
Around the victor's tent;
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Where sleep the sons of ages flown,
The bards and heroes of the past,
Murmurs the wintry blast ;
Each record of the grand and fair-
Wreath of the tomb ! art there.
Oh! many a temple, once sublime,
Beneath a blue, Italian sky,
Save thy wild tapestry.
To wave where banners wav'd 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,
Hath pass’d and left no trace.
Unchang’d, the mountain-storm can braveThou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
And deck the humblest grave.
The breathing forms of Parian stone,
That rise round Grandeur's marble halls; The vivid hues by painting thrown
Rich o'er the glowing walls ; Th’ acanthus on Corinthian fanes,
In sculptur'd beauty waving fair, — These perish all—and what remains ?
Thou, thou alone art there.
'Tis still the same—where'er we tread,
The wrecks of human power we see,
Left to Decay and thee.
August in beauty, grace, and strength-
And all is thine at length.
*• Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."