GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. 



And he sailed o'er the faithless sea, 

 To a brighter clime than ours ; — 



So it faded, that fond and fickle love, 

 Like its alphabet of flowers. 



SONG OF THE LAST VIOLET. 



EMMA. C. EMBURY. 



Written immediately after receiving from a very dear friend, on Christ- 

 mas day, a Violet, which had been found growing in the open air. 



I 'm weary of biding the pitiless blast, 

 I'm weary of lingering — the lone one — the last ; 

 Too long I have pined for the soft summer shower, 

 And the sunbeam, to waken each slumbering flower j 

 Too long* I have drooped o'er the desolate bed, 

 Where my kindred so early lay withered and dead. 



In vain my rich treasures of fragrance I fling. 

 They mingle not now with the breezes of spring ; 

 Too rude are the rough blasts of winter to bear 

 Such perfume as gladdens the soft summer air ; 

 And the Violet, the pride of the spring-time, soon dies. 

 Unknown and unseen, 'neath December's dark skies. 



Oh, better, far better, 'twould be, could I fade 

 Mid the clustering locks of some pitying maid; 

 But I listen in vain for the echoing tread 

 Of the young and the gay round my verdureless bed; 



