THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
145
Oh! memory there too much recalls
Of saddest and of sweetest.
I'll turn me to the gifted page
Where the bard his soul is flinging;
Too well it echoes mine own heart,
Breaking e'en while singing.
I must have rest; oh! heart of mine.
When wilt thou lose thy sorrow?
Never, till in the quiet grave;
Would I slept there to-morrow!
Rose-bud mouth, sunny brow,
Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now
Beside the harp. Careless she hung
Over the chords; her bright hair flung
L
