VIOLET. 81 



Violets, dim, 



But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 

 Or Cytherea's breath. 



winter's tale. 



the trembling Violet, which eyes 



The sun but once, and unrepining dies. 



And Violets, whose looks are like the skies. 



BARRY CORNWALL. 



steals timidly away, 



Shrinking as Violets do in summer's ray. 



That strain again! it had a dying fall: 

 Oh! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, 

 That breathes upon a bank of Violets, 

 Stealing and giving odour. 



TWELFTH NIGHT. 



TO AN EARLY VIOLET. 



HOWITT. 



Herald of brighter hours ! why from thy rest 

 Thus early dost thou start? chill is the gale 

 To form, like thine, so beautiful and frail. 

 The rook, with careful cries that seeks its nest, 

 Flings its broad shadow on thy dewy breast. 

 For sunny is the day, though like the smile 

 Dear woman wears, when she would fain beguile 

 coldness of her fortune. Upward towers 

 S 



