Bend down your glittering urns Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm; Bid all the woods be calm; Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed. That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the grey grass their dusky bed. [Decoration] _SONG._ Seek not the tree of silkiest bark And balmiest bud, To carve her name--while yet 't is dark-- Upon the wood! The world is full of noble tasks And wreaths hard-won: Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done. Sing not that violet-veinèd skin, That cheek's pale roses; The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes! Forth to the fight, true man, true knight! The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale To win her charms. The warrior for the True, the Right, Fights in Love's name: The love that lures thee from that fight Lures thee to shame. That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves The spirit free,-- That love, or none, is fit for one, Man-shaped like thee. [Decoration] _SONG._ I. When I was young, I said to Sorrow, "Come, and I will play with thee:"-- He is near me now all day; And at night returns to say, "I will come again to-morrow, I will come and stay with thee." II. Through the woods we walk together; His soft footsteps rustle nigh me; To shield an unregarded head, He hath built a winter shed; And all night in rainy weather, I hear his gentle breathings by me. [Decoration] CHARLES DICKENS. 1812-1870. _THE IVY GREEN._ Oh, 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 wall must be crumbled, the stone 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 staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend, the huge Oak tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have 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 on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.