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Floral Poetry, 
THE VIOLET. 
HE forward Violet thus did I chide : 
A Sweet thief, whence did’st thou steal thy sweet that smells, 
If not from my love’s breath ? The purple pride 
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells 
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed, 
The Lily I condemned for thy hand, 
And buds of Marjoram had stolen thy hair: 
The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand, 
One blushing shame, another white despair; 
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both, 
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath ; 
But, for his theft, in spite of all his growth, 
A vengeful canker ate him up to death. 
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see 
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee. 
Shakspere. 
THE SCENTLESS VIOLET. 
D ECEITFUL plant! from thee no odours rise, 
Perfume the air, or scent the mossy glade, 
Although thy blossoms wear the modest guise 
Of her, the sweetest offspring of the shade. 
Yet not like hers, still shunning to be seen, 
And by their fragrant breath, alone, betrayed, 
Veiled in the vesture of a scantier green, 
To every gazer are thy flowers displayed. 
Thus Virtue’s garb Hypocrisy may wear, 
Kneel as she kneels, or give as she has given ; 
But, ah ! no meek, retiring worth is there— 
No incense of the heart exhales to Heaven. 
C. H. Townsend. 
