POETliY OP PLOAVEKS. 
THE VIOLET. 
In a lone vale, remote from view, 
A simple, liumble A r iolet grew— 
A loAvly, unpretending flower, 
With no rare beauty for its dower. 
Full often had the wintry storm 
Low’d down its unprotected form; 
And the bright sun alm'ost forgot 
To shine upon that lonely spot; 
While cold unbending pride pass’d by 
With scornful and averted eye, 
Deeming as far beneath her care 
The humble flow’ret growing there. 
Lut still sAveet hope Avould linger near, 
And strive AAuth all her poAver to cheer 
This poor sad offspring- of the glade. 
And not in vain her task—her smile 
Would oft its Aveariness beguile, 
Foretelliug brighter hours to come 
Within that lonely Violet’s home. 
And did a brighter hour arise ? 
Oh, yes! for friendship’s beaming eyes 
One day beheld this simple floAver 
Alone within her humble bower, 
And deeming (though of loAvly birth) 
It might possess some little worth, 
Glided beside its quiet bed, 
And softly rais’d its drooping head, 
