A stranger through them broke-the orphan maid From the heart's urn-and with her white lips prest Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother-wept But never breath'd in human ear the name The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, Awhile o'erpower'd her?—from the weeper's touch She shrank-'twas but a moment-yet too much For that all humbled one-its mortal stroke Came down like lightning's, and her full heart broke At once in silence.-Heavily and prone She sank, while, o'er her castle's threshold-stone, Their early pride, though bound with pearls no more— And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 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, And bid thee at the banquet be, Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound But now are heard no more. The Roman, on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Around the victor's tent; Yet there though, fresh in glossy green, Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,— Better thou lov'st the silent scene, Around the victor's grave. Where sleep the sons of ages flown, 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, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry. And, rear'd 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 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 Hath pass'd and left no trace. But thou art there-thy foliage bright, Unchang'd, the mountain-storm can brave Thou 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; "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," And all is thine at length. "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere." Lycidas. |