DEOPS FROM FLORA’S CLP. 21 
THE ALPINE VIOLET. 
BYRON. 
The spring is come, — the violet is gone, 
The first-born child of the early sun; 
With us she is but a winter flower, 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower; 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue, 
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 
But when the spring comes, with her host 
Of flowers, — that flower, beloved the most, 
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse 
Her heavenly odors and virgin hues. 
Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald, out of dire December; 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight’s lengthened hours; 
And, ’mid the roses, ne’er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 
Did you but know, when bathed in dew 
How sweet the little violet grew 
Amidst the thorny brake; 
How fragrant the ambient air 
O’er beds of many flowers fair, 
Your pillows you’d forsake. 
J. Hetrick. 
