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THE IVY GREEN.

O, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old !
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed,

To pleasure his dainty whim ;
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,

And a stanch old heart has he ! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings

To his friend, the huge oak-tree !
And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and

good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold

November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely

ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long

ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the

summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in

the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook in au.

tumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as

falls the rue on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from

upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still

such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their

winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though

all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the

rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose

fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the

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Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations scattered been ;
But the stout old ivy shall never fade

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days

Shall fatten upon the past ;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.

stream no more.

CHARLES DICKENS.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

And then I think of one who in her youthful

beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faled

by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the

forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a

life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young

friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the

flowers.

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WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows

brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn

leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rab.

bit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the

shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all

the gloomy day.

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that

lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous

sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race

of flowers

God might have bade the earth bring forth

Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,

Without a flower at all.
We might have had enough, enough

For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

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" When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill."

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