THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
143
And seem'd her mouth so sweet the while,
As if its nature were to smile;
Her very birthright hope,—but earth
Keeps not the promise of its birth.
'T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast
Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest;
Love had been there,—in that is said
All that of doom the heart can dread.
Oh! born of Beauty, in those isles
Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise,
They call'd thy mother queen of smiles,
But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.
She woke the harp: at first her touch
Seem'd as it sought some lighter strain;
But the heart breathes itself, and such
As suffer deep seek mirth in vain.
