LINES TO A WILD VIOLET,
FOUND IN THE WOODS OF ALABAMA.
BY HENRY THOMPSON.
Type of thy God, in nature drest,
Emblem of innocence and rest,
Why hid'st thou in the sunless glade
Those lovely tints which sure were made
To woo the light?
Hast thou too felt the cold world's scorn,
The with'ring blight of rayless morn
That thus within the woodland gloom
In ivy shade you're wont to bloom
So far from sight?
And wilt thou fade in lonely bower,
Pale, gentle, melancholy flow'r!
And die when leaves in vernal dearth
Shall kiss the cold and dewy earth
In autumn day?
Or wilt thou wither on my heart,
And there sweet sympathy impart,
And give beneath the dew of grief,
Those lovely hues so bright and brief,
To slow decay?
Ah! no, I will not thus intrude,
To mar thy gentle solitude,
For thou art pure and undefil'd,
Lonely and beautiful and wild,
A forest queen!
Bloom on in thy secluded dell,
Sweet flow'r! that lovest alone to dwell!
And there within thy silent glade,
In God's own purity array'd,
Perish unseen.
TRAITS OF A SUMMER TOURIST.
No. I.
Hamlet. I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir.
But what, in faith, make you from Wirtenburg?