VIOLET. 
57 
THE ALPINE VIOLET. 
BYRON. 
The Spring is come, the violet’s gone, 
The first-born child of the early sun; 
With us she is but a winter flower, 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower ; 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue, 
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
But when the Spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most, 
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse 
Her heavenly odours and virgin hues. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald, out of dire December; 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours ; 
And ’mid the roses, ne’er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 
THE VIOLET. 
BARRY CORNWALL. 
The virgin violet, 
The nun, who, nestling in her cell of leaves, 
Shrinks from the world in vain. 
