THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
29 
beholders, still her voice on a calm summer’s even¬ 
ing had fallen with a peaceful hush on many a 
gentle heart, coming upon the ear 
“ Like the sweet south, 
That breathes upon a bank of Violets, 
Stealing and giving odour: ” 
for hers were sweet and rustic strains,— unstudied 
melodies, that stole in and out of the heart: they 
were “ old and plain,” such as 
“The spinsters and the knitters, in the sun, 
And the free maids that weave their thread with bone. 
Do use to chant: for they were silly truth. 
And dallied with the innocence of love 
Like th’ olden age.” 
They were such as Barbara was wont to chant when 
she went singing about the house before she “ hung 
her head aside,” and all for love; for within that 
innocent heart Love had not yet “ lighted his 
golden torch, and waved his purple wings.” The 
temple and the shrine were there, but within that 
holy place no worshipper had as yet knelt down — 
no incense was offered up excepting from the flowers, 
those bowing adorers of that tranquil valley. The 
anthems that echoed there were the songs of the 
wild birds, and the prayer breathed forth was the 
adoration of Nature, ministering in her own holy 
temple. If Love was there, it sat like a child 
playing in its innocence upon its own hearth, ad- 
