And as it is the leaf of life, so is it by that very fact the leaf of _death_; for death is only the water of life. And in this sense we find a rare beauty in the poem by Mrs. Hemans, though she saw its truth, not through the dim glass of tradition, but by direct communion with Nature.
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, Companion of the vine? Thy home, wild plant, is where each sound Of revelry hath long been o'er; Where song's full notes once peal'd around, But now are heard no more.
The Roman, on his battle plains, Where kings before his eagles bent, Entwined thee, with exulting strains, 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, The bards and heroes of the past, Where through the halls of glory gone, Murmurs the wintry blast; 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 Beneath a blue Italian sky, Hath nought of beauty left by time, Save thy wild tapestry. And, reared 'midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine To wave where banners waved of yore, O'er towers that crest the noble Rhine, Along his rocky shore.
High from the fields of air look down Those eyries of a vanished race, Homes of the mighty, whose renown Hath passed and left no trace. But thou art there--thy foliage bright, Unchanged, 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; Th' acanthus on Corinthian fanes, In sculptured beauty waving fair-- These perished all--and what remains? --Thou, thou alone art there.
'Tis still the same--where'er we tread, The wrecks of human power we see, The marvel 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,'[6] And all is thine at length.