THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 39 
Bat of all the odors that ever floated from the spicy 
shores of “Araby the Blest,” there are few to excel 
the sweet fragrance of our scented Pinks ; over which, 
when the wind blows, the gale seems to come laden as 
if with perfume from a bed of spices. Beautiful are 
they in their wild state, waving on the ruined walls of 
some ancient fortress, and drooping peacefully over 
those mouldering battlements, behind which the warder 
once paced, and the crossbowman took his deadly 
aim,—there it still hangs, throwing its sweetness over 
the roofless walls of the banquet-hall, as if to show how 
frail and fleeting was the beauty which once proudly 
trod those crumbling floors. 
Alas! the breathiug beauties have departed, and 
only the flowers are now remaining behind. They 
are gone who loved to see themselves wreathed around 
with blossoms, and thought their loveliness still love¬ 
lier when adorned with summer’s opening buds; for 
amid all the rich stores which Imagination suggested, 
they could find no tints that excelled, no shapes that 
surpassed, no fragrance that outsweetened, the per¬ 
fumed breath of the flowers. From the deep purple 
which the haughty Emperor wore, to the shaded and 
delicate colors which mingled in the varied costume of 
