THE FADED VIOLET.

WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,

Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands.
That found thee by a river's brim,

That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled, as with drinking wine:
For love of her who love forgot,

I hold thy faded lips to mine.

That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead for me, and wrong,

For this I use my subtlest art,

For this I fold thee in my song.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

The Mountaus Heartscase.

By scattered pocks and turbid waters

By furrowed glade and dill,

feverish

shifting

men they calme, sweet face uplifting
Thon stayesh them to tell

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression
For rudes apiech tro fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE.

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,
By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting,
Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression,
For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,
And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,
And, leaning on his spade,

Laughingly calls unto his comrade neighbor
To see thy charms displayed;

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises,

And for a moment clear,

Some sweet home-face his foolish thought surprises And passes in a tear,

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village,

Of uneventful toil,

Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage

Above a peaceful soil:

THE VIOLET.

O FAINT, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odor, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory's wards, to let
A thought of sorrow free!

The breath of distant fields upon my brow

Blows through that open door

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low
And sadder than, of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place,
And that beloved hour,

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass;
The lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O pass, ye visions, pass!
I would that I were dead!

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love, that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thine odor through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain

Thy velvet leaf.

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet;

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast;
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;

He music plays if so I sing;

He lends me every lovely thing;

Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton! still ye!

Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence,

And bind you when you long to play. For your offence;