VIOLET. 
49 
“Violets dim, 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, 
Or Cytherea’s breath.” 
The frequent allusions made to “ the nodding violet” 
by our great dramatist cause it to be regarded as his 
favourite flower; and in the eyes of many, the fact will 
not be one of its slightest charms. There is not a more 
exquisite passage in the whole range of English poetry than 
that in “ Twelfth Night,” where the Duke, listening to 
plaintive music, desires 
“ That strain again ; it had a dying fall : 
Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet South 
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
Stealing and giving odour.” 
Shakspeare employs his beloved flower as the type of 
modesty and maidenhood. Indeed, poets are continually 
using this retiring blossom as an emblem of those qualities. 
“ She steals timidly away, 
Shrinking as violets do in Summer’s ray.”—M oore. 
Barry Cornwall gives it the preference over the rose : 
“ The king told Gyges of the purple flower ; 
It chanced to be the flower the boy liked most: 
It has a scent as though Love, for its dower, 
Had on it all his odorous arrows tost; 
Bor though the rose has more perfuming power, 
The violet—haply ’cause ’tis almost lost, 
And takes us so much trouble to discover— 
Stands first with most, bait always with a lover.” 
“ No flowers grew in the vale, 
Kissed by the dew, wooed by the gale— 
None by the dew of the twilight wet, 
So sweet as the deep blue violet.”— L. E. L. 
“ When the grave shall open for me— 
I care not how soon that time may be— 
fi 
