THE VIOLET.

The white viulet has been made the emblem of candor.' It is said that this flower when planted in rich soil, and cultivated, loses its purity and becomes the purple violet; gaining, however, in fragrance what it loses in simplicity, it becomes the emblem of modesty. Thus, candor precedes modesty.

Poets have sung loudly in praise of this little flower, and some deem it a rival to the queenly rose; so thought Cornwall: —

It has a scent as though love, for a dower,
Had on it all its odorous arrows tost;
For though the rose has more perfuming power,
The violet (haply 'cause 't is almost lost,
And takes us so much trouble to discover,)
Stands first with most, but always with a lover.

No flower is more universally admired, and nature has spread none more profusely abroad.

In 1324, a golden violet was offered as a poetical prize to the author of the best poem in the Provencal language.

And in that golden vase was set

The prize the golden violet.'

SMITH.

Sweet violets stay, till hardier flowers
Prepare to meet the lovely May;
Then from your mossy shelter come,

And rival every richer bloom;

For though their colors gayer shine,

Their odors do not equal thine.

And thus real merit still may dare to vie

With all that wealth bestows, or pageant heraldry.

VIOLETS.

BARTON.

Beautiful are you in your lowliness;

Bright in your hues, delicious in your scent; Lovely your modest blossoms, downward bent, As shrinking from our gaze, yet prompt to bless The passer-by with fragrance, and express

How gracefully, though mutely eloquent, Are unobtrusive worth and meek content, Rejoicing in their own obscure recess.

Delightful flowerets! at the voice of spring Your buds unfolded to its sunbeams bright; And though your blossoms soon shall fade from

sight,

Above your lowly birthplace birds shall sing,

And from your clustering leaves the glowworm

fling

The emerald glory of its earthborn light.

TO THE ROSEMARY.

H. K. WHITE.

Sweet-scented flower! who 'rt wont to bloom

On January's frost severe,

And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,

And I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in the lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom

A sweet, decaying smell;

Come, press my lips and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder tree:
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god as he files,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine;

It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;

My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where, as I lie by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

HERRERA.

With purple flowers, O, Muse! each morn,

The freshest flowers in bloom,

Scattered with pious hands, adorn

Thy Lasso's holy tomb.

As burns the bird whose perished frame

Arabian herbs inter,

Your broken boughs give to the flame

With rosemary and myrrh; And O, for his lamented sake, Apollo, to thy temple take

The wreath of funeral fir; And sadly to the solemn string, His glory and his sorrows sing.

THE FADED FLOWER.

EDWARD EDDISON.

A child wept o'er a grave;
Its father's corpse lay there;
His beauteous form was bent
In sad and silent prayer.

A cypress gently waved

Its leaves o'er its bowed head:

He did not hear their sound;

His thoughts were with the dead.

On that loved spot each morn,
Breathing his soul in prayer,
He pleaded Heaven's high King,
To join his parent there.

His suppliant prayer was heard;
He faded fast away:

Alas! so sweet a flower

Had bloomed but to decay.

Another cypress weeps

Above that hallowed bed; And son with father sleeps

Amid the lonely dead!