VIOLET. 
83 
VIOLETS. —A SONNET. 
BARTON. 
Beautiful are you in your lowliness; 
Bright in your hues, delicious in your scent; 
Lovely your modest blossoms, downward bent, 
As shrinking from our gaze, yet prompt to bless 
The passer-by with fragrance, and express 
How gracefully, though mutely eloquent, 
Are unobtrusive worth, and meek content, 
Rejoicing in their own obscure recess. 
Delightful flowerets! at the voice of Spring 
Your buds unfolded to its sunbeams bright; 
And though your blossoms soon shall fade from sight, 
Above your lowly birth-place birds shall sing, 
And from your clust’ring leaves the glow-worm fling 
The emerald glory of its earth-born light. 
The same. — smith. 
Sweet Violets! from your humble beds 
Among the moss, beneath the thorn, 
You rear your unprotected heads, 
And brave the cold and cheerless morn 
Of early March; not yet are past 
The wintry cloud, the sullen blast, 
Which, when your fragrant buds shall blow, 
May lay those purple beauties low. 
Ah! stay awhile, till warmer showers, 
And brighter suns, shall cheer the day! 
