FLOKAL POESY. 
It was a sweet, low flower. 
A shepherd maiden came that way, 
With lightsome step and aspect gay. 
Came near, came near, 
Came o’er the green with song. 
Ah ! thought the Violet, might I be 
The fairest flower on all the lea. 
Ah ! but for one brief hour : 
And might be plucked by that dear maid. 
And gently on her bosom laid. 
Ah ! but, ah ! but 
A few dear moments long. 
Alas ! the maiden, as she pass’d. 
No eye upon the Violet cast; 
She crush’d the poor wee flower; 
It sank, and, dying, heaved no sigh. 
And if I die, at least I die 
By her, by her. 
Beneath her feet I die. 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
BRYANT. 
When beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know. 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare. 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 
