Oh! a dainty plant is the ivy green. 
    That creepeth o’er ruins old! 
  Of right choice food are its meals, I ween;
    In its 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 dainty 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 hath he: 
  How closely he twineth, how tight he clings. 
    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.  Occasionally it paused a little in its progress to form small pools in which were mirrored the luxuriant growth of moss and ferns sheltering beneath the branches of the trees; but it was soon away again to form similar pretty pictures on its way down the valley.  We were pleased indeed that we had not missed this charming bit of scenery.

Emerging from the dell, we returned by a different route, and saw in the distance the village of Harford, where in the church a brass had been placed to the Prideaux family by a former Bishop of Worcester.  This bishop was a native of that village, and was in a humble position when he applied for the post of parish clerk of a neighbouring village, where his application was declined.  He afterwards went to work at Oxford, and while he was there made the acquaintance of a gentleman who recognised his great talents, and obtained admission for him to one of the colleges.  He rose from one position to another until he became Bishop of Worcester, and in after life often remarked that if he had been appointed parish clerk he would never have become a bishop.