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Non di verdi giardin, ornati e colti,

Del soave e dolce acre Pestano,

Veniam Madonna nella tua bianca mano;
Ma in aspre selve, e valli ombrose colti
Ove Venere afflitta, e in pensier molti

Pel periglio d'Adon, correndo in vano,

Un spino acuto al nudo piè villano Sparse del divin sangue i boschi folti ; Noi sommettimmo allore il bianco fiore,

Tanto che 'ldivin sangue non aggiunge
A terra, ond' il color purpureo nacque.

Non aure estive o vivi tolti a lunge
Noi nutrit' anno, ma sospir d'amore
L'aure son sute, e pianti d'Amore l'acque.



(Viola tricolor.)

I used to love thee, simple flower,

To love thee dearly when a boy;
For thou didst seem, in childhood's hour,

The smiling type of childhood's joy.

But now thou only mock’st my grief,

By waking thoughts of pleasures fled. Give me-give me the withered leaf,

That falls on Autumn's bosom dead.

For that ne'er tells of what has been,

But warns me what I soon shall be ; It looks not back on pleasure's scene,

But points unto futurity.

I love thee not, thou simple flower,

For thou art gay, and I am lone;
Thy beauty died with childhood's hour-
The Heart's-ease from my path is gone.



In gardens oft a beauteous flower there grows,

By vulgar eyes unnoticed and unseen ; In sweet security it humbly blows,

And rears its purple head to deck the green.

This flower, as Nature's poet sweetly sings,

Was once milk-white, and Heart's-ease was its name, Till wanton Cupid poised its roseate wings,

A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame.

With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew,

Which she with icy coldness did repel ; Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew,

Till on this lonely flower, at last, it fell.

Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherds found ;

No more the nymphs its snowy form possess ; Its white now changed to purple by Love's wound,

Heart’s-case no more,—'tis Love-in-idleness.



The spring is come, the Violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower;
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue,
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue ;

But when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most,
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse
Her heavenly odours and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald, out of dim December ;
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of day-light's lengthened hours ;
And, 'mid the roses, ne'er forget,
The virgin, virgin Violet.



Belle, fresche, e purpure Viole,

Che quella candidissima man colse,

Qual pioggia, o qual pure aer produr volse, Tanto più vaghi fior che far non suole ? Qual rugiada qual terra, over qual sole

Tante vaghe bellezze in voi raccolse ?

Onde il soave odor Natura tolse,
O il ciel che ha tanto ben degnar ne vuole ?



Far from his hive, one summer's day,

A young and yet unpractised bee, Borne on his tender wings away,

Went forth the flowery world to see.

The morn, the noon, in play he passed ;

But when the shades of evening came, No parent brought the

ue repast, And faintness seized his little frame.

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