
46 POETRY OF 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness— 
Fearless, yet frail—and clasping his chill hands 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. Midthe pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast. 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 
Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 
HOW VIOLETS CAME BLEW. 
Love on a day, wise poets tell, 
Some time in wrangling spent, 
Whether the violet should excel, 
Or she in sweetest scent. 
But Venus having lost the day, 
Poore girles, she fell on you, 
And beate ye so, as some dare say 
Her blows did make you blew. 
Herrick. 
