Lady! if I for thee would twine The IVY-WREATH, can feeling trace No cause why, on a brow like thine, The Muse might fitly place Its verdant foliage — "never sere," Of glossy, and of changeless hue? Ah! yes, there is a cause most dear To Truth, and Nature too.
It is not that it long hath been Combin'd with thoughts of festal rite; The cup which thou hast drunk, I ween, Not always sparkled bright! Nor is it that it hath been twined Round VICT'RY'S brow in days gone by; Such glory has no power to blind Thy intellectual eye.
For thou canst look beyond the hour Elated by the wine-cup's thrall, Beyond the Victor's proudest power, Unto the end of all! And therefore would I round thy brow The deathless wreath of Ivy place, For well thy song has prov'd — that thou Art worthy of its grace.
Had earth, and earth's delight alone— Unto thy various strains giv'n birth; Than had I o'er thy temples thrown The fading flowers of earth: And trusting that e'en those — pourtray'd By thee in song, would spotless be, The Jasmine's, Lily's, Hare-bell's braid, Should brightly bloom for thee.
But thou to more exalted theme Hath nobly urg'd the Muses' claim; And other light before thee beams Than Fancy's meteor flame. And from thy harp's entrancing strings Strains have proceeded more sublime Than e'er were waken'd by the things Which appertain to TIME!
Yes! Female Minstrel! thou hast set, Even to the MASTERS OF THE LYRE, An eloquent example! — yet How few have caught thy fire!— How few of their most lofty lays Have to Religion's cause been given, And taught the kindling soul to raise Its hopes, its thoughts to Heaven!
Yet this, at least, has been thy aim; For thou "hast chos'n that better part," Above the lure of worldly fame, To touch — and teach the heart! To touch it by no slight appeal To feelings — in each heart confest; To teach — by truths that bear the seal GOD hath himself imprest!
And can those flowers, which bloom to fade, For thee a fitting wreath appear? No! wear thou, then, the Ivy-braid, Whose leaves are never sear! It is not gloomy — brightly play The sunbeams on its glossy green; And softly on its sleeps the ray Of moon-light — all serene.
It changes not, as seasons flow In changeful, silent course along; Spring finds it verdant, leaves it so— It outlives Summer's song. Autumn no wan, or russet stain Upon its fadeless glory flings, And Winter o'er it sweeps in vain, With tempest on his wings.
"Then wear thou this" — THE IVY CROWN! And though the bard who twines it be Unworthy of thy just renown, Such wreath is, worthy thee. For her's it is, who, truly wise, To Virtue's cause her powers hath given; Whose page the "Gates of Hell" defies, And points to those of HEAVEN!
