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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Silence, forgetfulness, and rust,
Lute, are for thee:
And such my lot; neglect, the grave,
These are for me.
"Now take the harp, Eulalia mine,
For thy sad song;" and at the sign
Came forth a maiden. She was fair
And young; yet thus can spring-time wear
The traces of far other hour
Than should be on such gentle flower.
Her eyes were downcast, as to keep
Their secret, for they shamed to weep;
Her cheek was pale, but that was lost,
So often the bright blushes cross'd;
