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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Soft as it were but beauty's smile
That lit her favourite bower the while.
Back from each open lattice flew
The curtains, like swoll'n waves of blue
Star-dropt with silvery broidery rare;
And every motion seem'd to bear
A message from the grove beneath,—
Each message was a rose's breath.
A thousand flowers were round the room,
All with their gifts of scent and bloom;
And at the far end of the hall
Like music came a lulling fall
Of waters; at the midnight time
Play'd from the fount a liquid chime,
As 't were the honey-dews of sleep
'Lighting, each lid in rest to steep.
