THE VIOLET OF THE VALLEY. 
35 
like a green curtain embroidered with silver flowers ; 
while here and there the queenly Moss-rose, creep¬ 
ing in and out like the threads of a fanciful tapestry, 
shows its crimson face amid the embowered green, 
— a beautiful lady peeping through a leaf-clad 
casement. 
But of all the odours that ever floated from the 
spicy shores of “ Araby the Blest,” there are few to 
excel the sweet fragrance of our scented Pinks; over 
which, when the wind blows, the gale seems to come 
laden as if with perfume from a bed of spices. Beau¬ 
tiful are they in their wild state, waving on the 
ruined walls of some ancient fortress, and drooping 
peacefully over those mouldering battlements, be¬ 
hind which the warder once paced, and the cross¬ 
bowman took his deadly aim,—there it still hangs, 
throwing its sweetness over the roofless walls of the 
banquet-hall, as if to show how frail and fleeting 
was the beauty which once proudly trod those 
crumbling floors. 
Alas! the breathing beauties have departed, and 
only the flowers are now remaining behind. They 
are gone who loved to see themselves wreathed 
around with blossoms, and thought their loveliness 
still lovelier when adorned with Summer’s opening 
buds; for amid all the rich stores which Imagin¬ 
ation suggested, they could find no tints that 
excelled, no shapes that surpassed, no fragrance that 
