 | Hours at Naples, and Other Poems |  |
TO THE VIOLET AT NAPLES.
Sweet Violet! ever with fresh delights teeming,
Deep, deep, 'midst the moss droops thy delicate head;
Thou might'st seem like some lovely One slumbering and dreaming,
And thy leaves still are folded, yet Morn blushes red.
Deep, deep, 'midst the moss droops thy delicate head;
Thou might'st seem like some lovely One slumbering and dreaming,
And thy leaves still are folded, yet Morn blushes red.
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Morn blushes red o'er the vineyard and mountain,
The grove and the garden, the shore and the sea,
Enkindling the pathway, illuming the fountain,
And painting the stems of the green leafing tree.
The grove and the garden, the shore and the sea,
Enkindling the pathway, illuming the fountain,
And painting the stems of the green leafing tree.
Wake, Violet! wake! hath some fairy spell bound thee
While all things are wakening—while Morn blushes red,
The sweet Orange-trees whitening and blossoming around thee,
Hang their crown-wreaths of Silver and Pearl o'er thy head.
While all things are wakening—while Morn blushes red,
The sweet Orange-trees whitening and blossoming around thee,
Hang their crown-wreaths of Silver and Pearl o'er thy head.
Ah! Spring scarce seems Spring, Flower of Beauty! without thee,
For what with thy breath and thy hue may compare—
Such an Atmosphere streams of Enchantments about thee,
So rich is thy vesture, thy fragrance so rare.
For what with thy breath and thy hue may compare—
Such an Atmosphere streams of Enchantments about thee,
So rich is thy vesture, thy fragrance so rare.
Art thou matched by the lilies in all their pure splendour,
Or the roses that shine like the golden-winged hours?
No! thy tint is more beauteous, thy scent is more tender—
Thou art fairest and first of the fair train of flowers.
Or the roses that shine like the golden-winged hours?
No! thy tint is more beauteous, thy scent is more tender—
Thou art fairest and first of the fair train of flowers.
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Thou art dyed of one hue with the clear Heavens above thee,
Where their blue is the richest, their glory most bright;
This Earth seems to greet thee, those proud Heavens to love thee,
Thou flower of all Beauty—thou flower of delight.
Where their blue is the richest, their glory most bright;
This Earth seems to greet thee, those proud Heavens to love thee,
Thou flower of all Beauty—thou flower of delight.
Wert thou snatched from those skies by some mystic translation,
Since thou seem'st like their own lovely offspring to be?
Or, say, at the first hour of flowery creation,
Did some Seraph's sweet eyes pour their blue light on thee?
Since thou seem'st like their own lovely offspring to be?
Or, say, at the first hour of flowery creation,
Did some Seraph's sweet eyes pour their blue light on thee?
Like a Seraph's sweet eye thou art celestially shining,
When all thy deep charms are disclosed to the view,
And oh! in Spring's chaplet no flower is entwining
So perfect as thou—ever lovely and new.
When all thy deep charms are disclosed to the view,
And oh! in Spring's chaplet no flower is entwining
So perfect as thou—ever lovely and new.
But flower—darling flower!—I will own that Affection
Hath lent thee a charm which nought else could have given;
I look on thee still with a fond predilection,
Till my heart wears thy hues—and those hues are of Heaven!
Hath lent thee a charm which nought else could have given;
I look on thee still with a fond predilection,
Till my heart wears thy hues—and those hues are of Heaven!
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In the days of my childhood, the bright, the enchanted,
I made thee my treasure, and joyed in thee still;
I knew the dear spots by thy sweet breathings haunted,
And felt, as I neared them, my heart bound and thrill!
I made thee my treasure, and joyed in thee still;
I knew the dear spots by thy sweet breathings haunted,
And felt, as I neared them, my heart bound and thrill!
Oh! think with what fullness of innocence glowing
Was the heart that could thrill at so slender a call,
Which could prize that pure treasure of Nature's bestowing
Beyond all Earth's pomps—its proud pageantries all.
Was the heart that could thrill at so slender a call,
Which could prize that pure treasure of Nature's bestowing
Beyond all Earth's pomps—its proud pageantries all.
Oh! the hues that it wore must have been fair and shining,
Let it wear them again then—the hues of that hour—
But, alas! the dark dyes of strife, sin, and repining,
Have too deeply o'erclouded the heart's canker'd flower.
Let it wear them again then—the hues of that hour—
But, alas! the dark dyes of strife, sin, and repining,
Have too deeply o'erclouded the heart's canker'd flower.
Yet Memory—the Enchantress—the Embracing—the Enthralling,
Can the dreams e'en of Innocence bring once again
The pure hallowed feelings so sweetly recalling,
That Sin seems exorcised—and Sorrow—and Pain!
Can the dreams e'en of Innocence bring once again
The pure hallowed feelings so sweetly recalling,
That Sin seems exorcised—and Sorrow—and Pain!
| Hours at Naples, and Other Poems | |