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Floral Poetry. 
233 
THE VIOLET. 
T HE Violet in her greenwood bower, 
Where Birchen boughs with Hazels mingle, 
May boast herself the fairest flower 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 
Though fair her gems of azure hue, 
Beneath the dew-drop’s weight reclining, 
I’ve seen an eye of lovelier blue, 
More sweet through watery lustre shining. 
The summer sun that dew shall dry, 
Ere yet the day be past its morrow; 
No longer in my false love’s eye 
Remained the tear of parting sorrow. 
Sir Walter Scott. 
ON A FADED VIOLET. 
T HE odour from the flower is gone 
Which, like thy kisses, breathed on me ; 
The colour from the flower is flown, 
Which glowed of thee, and only thee ! 
A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, 
It lies on my abandoned breast, 
And mocks the heart, which yet is warm, 
With cold and silent rest. 
I weep,—my tears revive it not! 
I sigh,—it breathes no more on me ; 
Its mute and uncomplaining lot 
Is such as mine should be. 
Shelley. 
2 G 
