To his friend the huge oak tree;
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,
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 where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
It is remarkable that the ivy never clings to a poisonous tree, but the
trees to which it so "closely twineth and tightly clings" it very often
kills, even "its friend the huge oak tree."
Near the bridge we stayed at a refreshment house to replenish the inner
man, and the people there persuaded us to ramble along the track of the
River Erme to a spot which "every visitor went to see"; so leaving our
luggage, we went as directed. We followed the footpath under the trees
that lined the banks of the river, which rushed down from the moor above
as if in a great hurry to meet us, and the miniature waterfalls formed
in dashing over the rocks and boulders that impeded its progress looked
very pretty.
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