124 
VIOLET. 
And from your clust’ring leaves tlie glow¬ 
worm fling, 
The emerald glory of its earth-born light. 
The same. —smith. 
Sweet Violets ! from your humble beds 
Among the moss, beneath the thorn, 
You rear your unprotected heads, 
And brave the cold and cheerless morn 
Of early March ; not yet are past 
The wintry cloud, the sullen blast, 
Which, when your fragrant buds shall blow, 
May lay those purple beauties low. 
Ah stay awhile, till warmer showers 
And brighter suns, shall cheer the day ; 
Sweet Violets stay, till hardier flowers 
Prepare to meet the lovely May. 
Then from your mossy shelter come, 
And rival every richer bloom ; 
For though their colours gayer shine, 
Their odours do not equal thine. 
And thus real merit still may dare to vie 
With all that wealth bestows, or pageant 
heraldry. 
