Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then—
The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys,
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.
—LORD BYRON.
Where the rose doth wear her blushes
Like a garment, and the fair
And modest violets sit together,
Weaving, in mild May weather,
Purples out of dew and air