THE VIOLET. 
This little flower, so sweet and wild, 
Is nature’s fairest, simplest cMld, 
With whispers soft. May’s earliest breeze. 
Seeks for it, under budding trees. 
By sunny banks and waters cool, — 
The gentlest bud in beauty’s school. 
On wings of love the evening hew, 
To bathe it in her crystal dew. 
Gray morning tripped on silvef feet. 
Its earhest blush and smile to meet. 
And noon, bright noon, his clear rays shed 
In dazzling lustre round its head. 
It is the little maiden’s pet. 
It is the poet’s favorite; — 
To name it, is to touch a spring. 
Which moves each tender bosom string 
To music, such as childhood hears. 
And love recalls in after years. 
’Tis like the bleating of the lambs. 
Or mellower voices of their dams ; 
’Tis like the tinkling heifer’s bell. 
Or noon-day horn’s clear distant swell. 
Or like the cooing of a dove. 
Or like the gentle voice of love; 
C7) 
