LOVE-IN-IDLENESS.

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-case 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.

MRS. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

THE ALPINE VIOLET.

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.

BYRON.

LE VIOLE,

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?

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

THE VIOLET AND THE PANSY.

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 due repast,

And faintness seized his little frame.

By nature urged, by instinct led,
The bosom of a flower he sought,

Where streams mourned round a mossy bed,
And Violets all the bank enwrought.

Of kindred race, but brighter dyes,
On that fair bank a Pansy grew,
That borrowed from indulgent skies,
A violet shade, a purple hue.

The tints that streamed with glossy gold,
The violet shade, the purple hue,
The stranger wondered to behold;
And to its beauteous bosom flew.

In vain he seeks some virtues there,
No soul-sustaining charms abound,

No honeyed sweetness to repair

The languid waste of life is found.

An aged bee, whose labours led

To these fair springs and meads of gold, His feeble wing, his drooping head Beheld, and pitied to behold.

"Fly, fond adventurer! fly the art

That courts thine eye with fond attire ; Who smiles to win the heedless heart,

Will smile to see that heart expire.

"This modest flower, of humble view,
That boasts no depth of glowing dyes,
Arrayed in unbespangled blue,
The simple clothing of the skies ;

"This flower with balmy sweetness blest,
May yet thy languid life renew:"

He said, and to the Violet's breast
The little wanderer faintly flew.

LANGHORNE.

THE VIOLET.

THE Violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle,

May boast herself the fairest flower,
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining,

I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watery lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow ;-
Nor longer in my false love's eye
Remained the tear of parting sorrow.

SIR. W. SCOTT.