VIOLET. 
55 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
BRYANT. 
When beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 
Of all her train, the hands of Spring, 
First plant thee in the watery mould , 
And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 
Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 
Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 
Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
Unapt the passing view to meet, 
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 
Oft, in the sunless April day, 
Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; 
But ’midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 
