48 
Yee Violets that first appeare, 
Your pride in purple garments showne, 
Takeing possession of the yeare 
As if the spring were ail your owne, 
What are you when the Rose is blowne ? 
Sib Henby Wotton. 
Ail Europe, from Norway to Greece, daims the 
Violet as the tenant of its woods and fields: 
“ That lavish hand 
Which scatters Violets under every thorn 
Forbids that sweets like these should be confined 
Within the limits of the rich man’s wall.” 
In North America the sweet scented Violet is an 
alien, and the hand of man is needed to culture and 
cherish it. Who will envy that country its hedge-rows 
of Rhododenrons, while its banks breathe not the 
fragrance of “ the violet-scented shade ? ’ 
