THE VIOLET.
Among all the sweet-blooming flowers of the spring,
That deck every meadow, and scent every gale,
There is none to my heart such a transport can bring
As the violet that blossoms unseen in the vale.
The rose may delight with its odors and blushes,
We may hang on the lily's leaves tender and pale,
Hues of beauty may glow on the laurel's gay bushes,
But lovelier the violet that blooms in the vale.
Though the earliest dawn of the morning should find me
Inhaling the fragrance that breathes in the gale,
I would leave all the flowers of the garden behind me,
To view the sweet violet that blooms in the vale.
When the fields are one flower-bed, all blooming and gay,
And far-floating clouds of aroma exhale;
Still, no hues in the sunbeams so pleasingly play
As those on the violet that blooms in the vale.
I have seen many beauties in woman's soft form,—
In the cheek gay with hope, or with sorrow all pale;
But none could my heart so delightfully charm
As the maiden that bloomed in obscurity's vale.
At the accent of joy, O how bright was her eye!
How she wept when she listened to pity's soft tale!
From every gay beauty of fashion I'd fly,
To the maiden who bloomed in obscurity's vale.
