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| IN the far south lies Nympha, a city long since dead; | |
| Now overgrown with ivy, the inhabitants all fled, | |
| She lies, half sunk, half buried, in her green cloak at rest, | |
| And harmless ’mong the ruins now stalks the Pontine pest. | |
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| Her sisters could Pompeii and Herculaneum be, | 5 |
| Yet the evergreen-clad Nympha is the fairest of the three; | |
| O’er those towns mighty Vulcan hurled ash-heaps in his spleen, | |
| But Nympha lies protected by the rich ivy green. | |
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| Her walls and streets and churches are ruins, yet they show | |
| She once did boast a grandeur,—how many years ago? | 10 |
| O, is there no one living can of that glory tell? | |
| Or is it left the ivy to creep and ring her knell? | |
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| The flowers in the churchyard inquisitively peep | |
| Out from between the ivy, that over all doth creep; | |
| At each old crumbling casement appears its dark-green face, | 15 |
| It climbs round every gateway, and doth each portal grace. | |
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| A carpet of rich blossoms is o’er the chancel spread, | |
| And through the aisles, while ivy forms arches overhead, | |
| The birds and bats and insects, where monks long, long ago | |
| Their litanies were chanting, are flitting to and fro. | 20 |
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| And on the walls—al fresco—can paintings still be traced; | |
| They too have frames of ivy, Nature hath Art displaced, | |
| And for the ancient martyrs hath she woven crowns anew, | |
| The instruments of torture gently she hides from view. | |
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| And in the streets and alleys there many a rich flower blows, | 25 |
| The lily and sweet mallow, narcissus and moss rose, | |
| But all around is silent, save the babbling of the brook, | |
| And the hooting of the night-birds that haunt each tower nook. | |
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| ’T is said ’t was once the dwelling of nymphs, and hence its name; | |
| They all have long since vanished, and those who knew her fame. | 30 |
| Still do I love to linger, to contemplate that pile; | |
| Though Science would be searching, ruins the Muse beguile. | |
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| For Poesie hath a fondness to leave things as they are, | |
| But Science must be lifting the veil to show each scar. | |
| “I care not for thy grandeur, I love thee as thou art, | 35 |
| Thou Ivy City Nympha,—the Ruin of my heart!” | |
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