THE FIRST VIOLET. I 19 



wear away all traces of thy early love. No ! Deborah, they conld not, 

 — thou hadst always a smile and a tear for the first violet. 



A solitary flower, a sweet violet, how small a key, opens the door of 

 memory ! how, the veil rolled from the face of time, the gray, the for- 

 gotten years moved before me ! I became a youth ; — Park — house — fields 

 — rose upon my sight ; alovely girlhung upon myarm — she bore a basket ; 

 now her face was hidden by the stem of a mighty tree, again her while 

 kirtle faintly glanced between the thick underwood, as she flew from my 

 side in search of violets ; anon she emerged from behind the broom- 

 covered bank, then stood like an angel of light between me and the sky. 

 And then I closed the leaves on Comus, and we listened in the old wood 

 for another voice, 



"To smooth the raven down of darkness till it smil'd." 



And trees started into enchanters, and spirits sung in the brook. We saw 

 their long hair wave in the water-flags. Then we grew bold, and 

 threaded " lanes and alleys green." Then I stole away, not far, just so 

 far as to see her lovely figure hurrying to and fro, and calling upon my 

 name ; then she sat down in despair on the green moss, her white 



^ ^ " made sunshine in a shady place ;' 



and I thought of Una. A knot of wild lilies of the valley shot up beside 

 her, like a milk-white lamb. Then I stole gently up to her, " How 

 could j'ou leave me ;" I looked on her sweet face, on her gentle eyes, 

 as they were uplifted in kind reproach, just reaching the nrargin of tears, 

 and my heart reproached me, and I wondered how I could leave her for 

 a moment; then I bound our violets in little bundles, and she soon 

 forgave me : oh, I could have hidden myself behind the trees again, to 

 be so sweetly forgiven ! But she left me, — Death stole her, — how I have 

 haled him ever since ! And the dead leaves that were strewn around 

 my lonely violet, seem neat emblems for a thing so lovely, — for then I 

 thought of her. No, those bright leaves that glittered round the stalk of 

 my little flower, were not so sunny as her silken locks ; nay, the blue 

 of her eye would shame the flower's radiance, and her lips — so exquisite ! 

 and to die so young ! and with her heart filled with love ! Oh ! I would 

 sooner that spring had withheld its flowers for ever ! the sweetest violet 

 that ever blowed withered when she died, — the woods will never bear 

 such another I 



A little flower had assumed the reins of my thoughts ; — how feeble a 

 charioteer can drive the fancy ! Within one short hour I had visited the 

 old forest of Sherwood. Rohin Hood, in his garb of Lincoln green, fol- 

 lowed by his many outlaws, had swept before me. The bugle had 

 sounded through the glimmering glades, and rude drinking-horns were 

 seen waved to and fro by powerful arms, keeping chorus to the loud 

 " Dcrry Down" that rang beneath the greenwood tree. 



The dark groves of Newstead had again risen before the Arcady of 

 England, where the mighty-minded Byron had so often trod. Again I 

 traversed those violet-scattered solitudes, again paced the long oaken 

 galleries of that ancient abbey, lifted his skull-cup to my lips, rugged 

 with the dregs of the blood-red wine, seeing the smooth lakes on whose 

 surface he loved to ride, or within their sullen depths to plunge. The 

 ruined window, with its eternal ivy; the old fountain, with its quaint 



