Tfoltt 85 
Yet grand parterres and stiff trimmed beds 
But ill become our modest beads; 
We’d ratber run, 
In shadow and sun, 
O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. 
There, where the Birken bough’s silvery shine < 
Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine, 
Moss, deep and green, 
Lies thick, between 
The plots where we Violet-flowers are seen. 
And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold 
Bise sparkling beside our purple’s fold:— 
Such a regal show 
Is rare, I trow, 
Save on the banks where Violets grow. 
Louisa A. Twamley. 
I know where bloom some Violets in a bed 
Half hidden in the grass; and crowds go by 
And see them not, unless somg curious eye 
Unto their hiding-place by chance is led. 
I often pass that way, and look on them, 
And love them more and more. I know not why 
My heart doth love such humble things; but I 
Esteem them more than robe or diadem 
Of haughty kings. A babe, or bird, or flower 
Hath o’er the soul a most despotic power. 
The tearful eye of infancy oppressed— 
A flower down-trodden by the foot of spite— 
Awaken sighs of sorrow in the breast, 
Or nerve the arm to vindicate their right. 
MacKellar. 
