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ORIGINAL POEMS.
THE WINTER VIOLET.
O TELL me what the flow’ret is,
That I should in my bosom place?
The gentle flower to make my bliss?—
O where can I its dwelling trace?
I sought the gardens through and through,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, nought was there,
Was nought for me, where roses grew,
Where pinks and lilies blossom’d fair.
Time passes on, I seek in vain,
And nought to cheer the heart I find,
And now the winter comes again
With gloomy sky and howling wind.
In still despair I wander on,
All, all around is nought for me,
When lo! a quiet bank upon,
A Violet all alone I see.
I to my bosom seize and kiss
Th’ unhop’d for treasure newly found;
My soul awakes again to bliss,
And all again is spring around.
