

44 FLORAL POESY. 
It was a sweet, low flower. 
A shepherd maiden came that way, 
With lghtsome step and aspect gay, 
Came near, came near, 
Came o’er the green with song, 
Ah! thought the Violet, might I be 
The fairest flower on all the lea, 
Ah! but for one brief hour: 
And might be plucked by that dear maid, 
And gently on her bosom laid, 
Ah! but, ah ! but 
A few dear moments long. 
Alas! the maiden, as she pass’d, 
No eye upon the Violet cast ; 
She crush’d the poor wee flower ; 
It sank, and, dying, heaved no sigh, 
And if I die, at least I die 
By her, by her, 
Beneath her feet I die. 
THE YELLOW VIOLET. 
BRYANT. 
WHEN beechen buds begin to swell, 
And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 
Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 
Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone 1s in the virgin air. 



