74 
But Venus having lost tlie day, 
Poore girles, she fell on you, 
And beate ye so, as some dare say 
Her blovrs did make ye blew. 
Our divine Shakspeare, in his loftiest flights of thought 
and imagination, frequently pauses to cull the lowly Violet; and 
never does her soft hue and sweet perfume gi’eet us in such 
power, and gi’ace, and beauty, as when wrought into some 
spirit-stirring picture or mighty “fabric of a dream” among 
his wondrous works. How beautiful, in “ Twelfth Night, is 
the comparison of soft music to the breath of wind upon 
the Violet! 
That song again — it had a dying fall. 
O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet south 
That breathes upon a bank of Violets, 
Stealing and giving odour. 
The Violets from which the illustrative drawing was made, 
were the late-flowering variety, the leaves of which are some¬ 
what larger than the wild Spring ones; those having bloomed 
and passed away while the author’s hand was powerless, and 
her pencil idle, during illness. 
The occupant of the following plate rrrust be equally well 
krrowrr with its more gentle companions, for, as the almost un¬ 
failing inhabitant of wild moor, rnoirntain, and waste land, the 
yellow Gokse is orre of our fanriliar roadside acquaintances; 
and rough though it be, there is a kind of cheeriness in its 
bright golden face, that makes us ever gr’eet its seeming smile 
