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Page 10
"Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow land, wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
Where rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold?
"No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!
"Speak, my sweet violet, answer and tell,
How you have grown up and flourished so well,
And look so contented, where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet?"
Then the Violet answers, and tells the child why it is so contented, and
how it is able to hold up its head, and where its pretty blue petals come
from. But I will not recite the remainder of the poem, for I am sure my
readers do not need to be told who made the flowers, and who taught them to
bloom so sweetly in their wild haunts.
The early flowers of spring! I loved them fondly when a child; but now I am
a man, I love them still more. Shall I tell you why, dear child? There is
something sad in the reason, and yet it is not all sadness. I had a
sister--I _had_ a sister. Ah! that tells the tale. I have no sister
now! The dearest companion of my early rambles among the flowers--herself
the fairest and sweetest of them all--has fallen before the scythe of
Death. She has gone now to a world of perpetual spring, and the flowers she
loved so well are blooming over her grave. She faded away in the early
spring, and we laid her to rest where her mother had long been sleeping. By
the side of the streamlet where we used to play in the sunny days of
childhood, and where the Dandelion grew, and the Butter-cup, and the
Violet--there is now the form of her I tenderly loved.
But my strain is sad--too sad. I will sing, and be cheerful.
Alas! how soon
The things of earth we love most fondly perish!
Why died the flower our hearts had learned to cherish?
Why, ere 'twas noon?
I cannot tell--
But though the grave be that loved sister's dwelling,
And though my heart e'en now with grief is swelling,
I know 'tis well.
'Tis well with the--
'Tis well with thee, thou lone and silent sleeper!
'Tis well, though thou hast left me here a weeper
Awhile to be.
'Tis well for me--
'Tis well; my home, since thou art gone, is dearer--
The grave is welcome, if it bring me nearer
To heaven and thee.
I'll not repine--
No, blest one; thou art happier than thy brother:
I'll think of thee, as with thy angel-mother,
Sweet sister mine.
Still would I share
Thy love, and meet thee where the flowers are springing,
Where the wild bird his joyous note is singing--
Come to me there.
Oh! come again,
At the still hour, the holy hour of even,
Ere one pale star has gemmed the vault of heaven;
Come to me then.
TEMPTATION RESISTED.
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