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Which being seen
Blest with perpetual greene,
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.
The Ivy, the last flowering plant of the waning year, now puts forth its plentiful clusters of pale blossoms, the berries of which become ripe the ensuing Spring.
The Ivy, that staunchest and firmest friend,
That hastens its succouring arm to lend
To the ruined fane, where in youth it sprung
And its pliant tendrils in sport were flung.
When the sinking buttress and mouldering tower
Seem only the spectres of former power,
Then the Ivy clusters around the wall,
And for tapestry hangs in the moss-grown hall,
Striving in beauty and youth to dress
The desolate place in its loneliness;—
In all seasons the Ivy is green and bright,
Bring garlands of Joy for Christmas night!
Mosses, Lichens, and the strange, fantastic Fungi, are now in full perfection, and in forests may be studied in all their wonderful varieties of form, size, and colour. But we must now turn to our more especial subjects—Flowers—and going back to the corn-field, we see myriads of bright scarlet Poppies, Blue-bottles, and other lovely wild flowers fall beneath
