22
TO A VIOLET,
GATHERED ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
Sweet violets, Love's paradise, that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched beare
Within your paly faces,
Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind
That plays amidst the plain;
If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain
Such grace as in my lady's bosom place to find,
Be proud to touch those places.
Sir Walter Raleigh.
On old Hyem's chin and icy crown,
A fragrant chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set.
Shakspeare.
Fair child of the Spring,
Loved gem of the year,
Why thy fragrance fling
Amid winter drear?
Each kindred flower hath veiled her head,
E'en the Autumn daisy is closed and dead.
Dost come because Summer's bright laughing sky
Can no more with thy sapphire radiance vie?
Nor when breathing thy scent through the leafless vale,
No roses their rival perfumes exhale?
And com'st thou, loved flower, mine eyes to greet,
Because thou art alone, the fair—the sweet?
