FRAGMENT VIII.
THE VIOLET.
To her who sent me the Spring's first Violets.
“Poiche d'altro honorate
Non posso, prendi liete
Guesti negre viole
Dall umor rugiadose.”
B. Tasso.
I
Oh! say, didst thou know 'twas mine own idol flower
That my heart has just welcom'd from thee?
And, guided alone by sweet sympathy's power,
Didst thou rear it expressly for me?
II
Sure thou didst! and how richly it glows through the tears
That dropt o'er its beauties from heaven!
Like those which the rosed-cheek of fond woman wears
When her bosom to rapture is given.
III
And meek, modest, and lovely, it still seems to shun,
E'en as though it still blush'd in the vale,
Ev'ry too glaring beam of the too ardent sun,
Ev'ry rudely breath'd sigh of the gale.
IV
Oh! dear is the friend whom the blossom resembles,
Who as sweet, as retiring is found;
In whose eye the warm tear of feeling oft trembles,
Who unseen, sheds her fragrance around.
V
And thou art that friend! and thy emblem believe
Has now found in my bosom a shrine;
And ne'er did the holiest relic receive
An homage more fervent than mine.
