VIOLET. 
41 
VIOLETS. 
J. MOULTRIE. 
Under the green hedges after the snow. 
There do the dear little violets grow, 
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads 
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds. 
Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, 
Down there do the dear little violets lie, 
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen ; 
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath 
been. 
THE ALPINE VIOLET. 
BY LORD BYRON. 
The Spring is come, the Violet’s gone, 
The first-born child of the early sun ; 
With us she is but a winter flower, 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower ; 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
But when the Spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most, 
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse 
Her heavenly odors and virgin hues. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald, out of dire December ; 
