io6 
Floral Poetry. 
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ip 
But no—the flower for which I pant, 
No rare, no brilliant charms can vaunt, 
’Tis ever meek and lowly. 
THE VIOLET. 
Concealed and drooping I retreat, 
Nor willingly had spoken, 
But now my silence, since ’tis meet, 
It shall at length be broken. 
If I be that which fills thy thought, 
How must I grieve, that I may not 
To thee waft all my odours ! 
THE EARL. 
I love the Violet, indeed, 
So modest in perfection, 
So gently sweet—yet more I need, 
To soothe my heart’s dejection. 
To thee alone the truth I’ll speak, 
Not on this rock, so bare and bleak, 
Is to be found my darling. 
Earth’s truest wife, in yonder glen, 
Is wandering by the river; 
Till I, her lord, am free again, 
She’ll sigh and weep for ever. 
When a blue floweret by that spot 
She plucks, and says— Forget-me-not, 
Here in my cell I feel it. 
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