22 
GARDENS. WREATHS. &c. 
And he sailed o’er the faithless sea, 
To a brighter clime than ours;— 
So it faded, that fond and fickle love, 
Like its alphabet of flowers. 
SONG OF THE LAST VIOLET. 
EMMA. C. EMBURY. 
Written immediately after receiving from a very dear friend, on Christ¬ 
mas day, a Violet, which had been found growing in the open air. 
I’m weary of biding the pitiless blast, 
I’m weary of lingering — the lone one — the last ; 
Too long I have pined for the soft summer shower, 
And the sunbeam, to waken each slumbering flower ; 
Too long I have drooped o’er the desolate bed, 
Where my kindred so early lay withered and dead. 
In vain my rich treasures of fragrance I fling, 
They mingle not now with the breezes of spring ; 
Too rude are the rough blasts of winter to hear 
Such perfume as gladdens the soft summer air; 
And the Violet, the pride of the spring-time, soon dies, 
Unknown and unseen, ’neath December’s dark skies. 
Oh, better, far better, ’t would be, could I fade 
Mid the clustering locks of some pitying maid; 
But I listen in vain for the echoing tread 
Of the young and the gay round my verdureless bed; 
