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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
There was shade all around, but had one place
Somewhat more softness in its gentler grace;
There of fair moss a pleasant couch was made,
And a small fountain o'er the wild flowers play'd,
A natural lute, plaining amid the grove,
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love.
They told their history: the maiden came
From a far heathen land, of foreign name;
The Soldan's daughter, but she fled her state,
To share a Christian lover's humbler fate:
That lover was from Italy, his hand
Had o'er a cunning art a strange command;
For he had curious colours, that could give
The human face, so like, it seem'd to live.
He had cross'd over land and over sea
To gaze on the fair Saracen; and she,
