VIOLET. 
127 
And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light. 
I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower 
That made the woods of April bright. 
TO A WHITE VIOLET. 
H. I. JOHNS. 
Coy inmate of the lowly shade, 
’ Mid clustering leaves embosom’d deep, 
Why thus, in modest garb array’d, 
Idid’st thou beneath the hedge-row’s steep 1 
While gaudier flowers that woo the sun, 
In all the pride of colour glow. 
Thy odoriferous breath alone, 
Heveals the gem that lurks below. 
So modest worth, in humble guise, 
Retiring, shuns the gazing eye ; 
While round the hallow’d spot arise 
A thousand sweets that never die! 
THE VIOLET. 
MISS EANDON. 
Why better than the lady rose, 
Love I this little flower ? 
M 2 
