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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Rose the red blush, her accents fell,
Scarce might they hear her low farewell.
When as she turn'd to leave the hall,
Rose kindly murmurs of recall;
The crown was hers, and many a brand
Now waited only her command.
One word, one look, on them she cast,
"Your queen's request, her first, her last."
Silence as deep as in the grave,
To the new king his homage gave;
Arose no shout to greet his name,
To him no word of welcome came,
But pass'd he solemnly and sad
To palace halls no longer glad.
