Violet. 
35 
Yet grand parterres and stiff trimmed beds 
But ill become our modest heads; 
We’d rather run, 
In shadow and sun, 
O’er the banks where our merry lives first begun. 
There, where the Birken bough’s silvery shine 
Gleams over the hawthorn and frail woodbine, 
Moss, deep and green, 
Lies thick, between 
The plots where we Violet-flowers are seen. 
And the small gay Celandine’s stars of gold 
Rise sparkling beside our purple’s fold:—• 
Such a regal show 
Is rare, I trow, 
Save on the banks where Violets grow. 
Louisa A. Twamley. 
I know where bloom some Violets in a bed 
Half hidden in the grass ; and crowds go by 
And see them not, unless some curious eye 
Unto their hiding-place by chance is led. 
I often pass that way, and look on them, 
And love them more and more. I know not why 
My heart doth love such humble things; but I 
Esteem them more than robe or diadem 
Of haughty kings. A babe, or bird, or flower 
Hath o’er the soul a most despotic power. 
The tearful eye of infancy oppressed— 
A flower down-trodden by the foot of spite— 
Awaken sighs of sorrow in the breast, 
Or nerve the arm to vindicate their right. 
MacKellar. 
