THE IVY.

LOVING ruins, old and gray,

O'er which ages pass away.

Clinging to the cold, dark stone,

All deserted and alone,

Lonely Ivy!

Towering up so tall and high,

Reaching ever towards the sky

With the soft green of thy leaves,

Which stern winter ne'er bereaves,

Lovely Ivy.

Clinging to the dark, rich mould,

Twining round the ruins old,

In the sunny clime of Rome

Towering towards the Pantheon's dome,

Classic Ivy!

Toiling upwards, sure, but slow,

Clinging, as the ages go,

To the same old wall of stone,

Without a murmur or a moan, -

Patient Ivy!

A.