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THE FIRST VIOLET. 



BT THOMAS MILLBR, BASKET-MAKER. 



But ever and anon of griefs subdued, 



There comes a token like a scorpion's siina:. 



Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 



And slight withal may be the things which bring 



Back on the heart the weight which it would flnig 



Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 



A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring, 



A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound. 



Sinking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 



CBILDE HAROJ.D. 



Our thoughts thread strange labyrinths, windings intricate, and mazes 

 unknown even to the will. They are indeed the only free denizens 

 that roam unchecked down the dark slopings which lead to the untrod- 

 den avenues of the past. They alone dare to climb the cloud clothed 

 battlements, that look over the dim distance of the future : they see the 

 mist, the dense gathering, the faint gold-bursting that announces sun- 

 shine, or the blackness that heralds the thunder-storm. Restless when 

 the body sleeps, they wing away through the pale starlight of memory ; 

 they traverse dreary shores, wildernesses, desolate and wild places, 

 peopled with the distorted shadows of wilder realities. When awake, 

 like restive steeds, they start aside at objects that rear up on every 

 hand, and bound away over immeasurable plains, sweeping earth, air, 

 and sky, and even daring to heed the vapoury track over which Time 

 has hurried. 



We find monitors in every thing around us. The slow-pacing silvery 

 cloud, as it glides, spirit-like, over the blue fields of heaven, brings 

 before our eyes the white-robed idol of our youth, and we sigh to see it 

 vanish like the object we adored. The murmuring river, sweeping 

 along in liquid music between its willow-waving banks, rolls away like 

 our cherished hopes, and is lost amid the forgetfulness of the ocean. 

 Even music is heard with a sigh ; though it awakens the echo of the 

 eternal hills, it dies heavily upon the heart, like the sweet voices that 

 have for ever faded away from our hearth. The dancing leaf falls on our 

 footpath, and its green beauty is soon worn away, like the happiness of 

 childhood. Flowers wither, and friends grow cold. The hope of spring 

 too soon bursts into the reality of summer ; then comes the staid autumn, 

 solemnly demure, and her heavy eyes are fixed upon the darkness of 

 winter. Still there are patches of sunlight in our paths — tiny glades, 

 which no gloomy umbrage overhangs— spots in the unfathomable dreari- 



