To The Violet.

Sweet tiny flower of darkly hue,     Lone dweller in the pathless shade;     How much I love thy pensive blue     Of innocence so well display'd!     What time the watery skies are full     Of streaming dappled clouds so pale,     And sideling rocks, more white than wool,     Portending snowy sleet, or hail;     I 'gin to seek thy charming flower     Along each hedge-row's mossy seat,     Where, dithering many a cold bleak hour,     I've hugg'd myself in thy retreat.     What makes me cherish such fond taste,     What makes such raptures spring for thee,     Is, that thou lov'st the dreary waste     Which is so well belov'd by me.     For solitude should be my choice     Could I this labouring life resign,     To see the little birds rejoice,     And thy sweet flowers in clusters shine.     I'd choose a cave beside some rock,     Clos'd in all round with ash and thorn,     That near my door thy tribe might flock     To shed their sweets in early morn.     But, ah! that way would never prove     Means to sustain impending life;     I must forego those scenes I love,     And still beat on with needy strife.     Sweet flower ! we must reverse the plan,     Nor cherish such romantic views;     I'll strive to seek thee when I can,     Through noontide heat or evening dews.     To spring return, with all thy train     Of flowrets cloth'd in varied hue,     I long to see that morn again     Which brings to light the violet blue.