THE VIOLET.

VIOLETS!--deep-blue Violets!

April's loveliest coronets!

There are no flowers grow in the vale,

Kiss'd by the dew, woo'd by the gale,--

None by the dew of the twilight wet,

So sweet as the deep-blue Violet!

I do remember how sweet a breath

Came with the azure light of a wreath

That hung round the wild harp's golden chords,

Which rang to my dark-eyed lover's words.

I have seen that dear harp rolled

With gems of the East and bands of gold;

But it never was sweeter than when set

With leaves of the deep-blue Violet!

And when the grave shall open for me,--

I care not how soon that time may be,--

Never a rose shall grow on that tomb,

It breathes too much of hope and of bloom;--

But there be that flower's meek regret,

The bending and deep-blue Violet!