TB.E VIOLET OF THE VALLEY 285 
carry its sweetness afar off, perfuming unseen and distant 
places that were not solitary. 
Although her beauty had not gladdened the gaze of 
many beholders, still, her voice on a calm summer’s even- 
ing had fallen with a peaceful hush on many a gentle 
heart, coming upon the ear 
“ Like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of Violets, 
Stealing and giving odour ; ’ ’ 
for hers were sweet and rustic strains — unstudied melo- 
dies, that stole in and out of the heart : they were “ old 
and plain, ’ ’ such as : 
“ The spinsters and the knitters, in the sun, 
And the free maids that weave their thread 
with bone, 
Do use to chant : for they were silly truth, 
And dallied with the innocence of love 
Like th’ olden age.” 
They were such as Barbara was wont to chant when she 
went singing about the house, before she “ hung her head 
aside,” and all for love; for within that innocent heart 
Love had not yet “ lighted his golden torch, and waved 
his purple wings.” The temple and the shrine were 
there, but within that holy place no worshipper had as 
yet knelt down — no incense was offered up excepting from 
the flowers, those bowing adorers of that tranquil valley. 
The anthems that echoed there were the songs of the wild 
birds, and the prayer breathed forth was the adoration 
of nature, ministering in her own holy temple. 
If Love was there, it sat like a child playing in its 
innocence upon its own hearth, admiring the starry Jas- 
mine which threw its green curtaining over the casement, 
or looking fondly at the Moss-Rose which peeped in 
timidly at the latticed doorway. There was an unstudied 
grace in her attitude which the eye of the sculptor hath 
not yet caught — a finish about the turning of the head 
and the rounding of the shoulders to which marble hath 
not yet lent its enduring immortality; while in the large 
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