VIOLET delicate, sweet,
Down in the deep of the wood, Hid in thy still retreat, Far from the sound of the street, Man and his merciless mood :- Safe from the storm and the heat, Breathing of beauty and good Fragrantly, under thy hood Violet.
Beautiful maid, discreet, Where is the mate that is meet,
Meet for thee—strive as he could—
Yet will I kneel at thy feet, Fearing another one should,
VIOLET!
W. C. MOREHOUSE.
ROSE, in the hedge-row grown,
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay Cornea up from the fields new-mown, You know it—you know it—alone, So I gather you here to-day !
For here—was it not here, say ?— That she came by the woodland way, And my heart with a hope unknown Rose ?
Ah, yes!—with her bright hair blown, And her eyes like the skies of May, And her steps like the rose-leaves strown When the winds in the rose-trees play,— It was here, —0 my love, my own
AUSTIN Donsox.
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