1 
SONG FOR THE SEASON. 
509 
And thou, meek Violet, appeal 
Unto her guileless heart, 
And with thy quiet loveliness 
Celestial dreams impart. 
Interpret thus her destiny, 
Whose gifts of kindred birth 
Lend sweetness to our daily life, 
And beauty to the earth. 
A blooming garland softly rests 
Upon her modest brow, 
And may the Dew-Drops ne’er exhale 
That sparkle on it now ! 
Stong tax % j Msaw 
Eliza Cook. 
I OOK out, look out, there are shadows about; 
The forest is donning its doublet of brown, 
The willow-tree sways with a gloomier flout, 
Like a beautiful face with a gathering frown ! 
'Tis true we all know that Summer must go, 
That the swallow will never stay long on our eaves! 
Yet we’d rather he watching the wild rose blow, 
Than be counting the colors of Autumn leaves ! 
T 
