146
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she,
"All too sad are your songs for me;
Let me try if the strings will breathe
For minstrel of the aspen wreath."
Lightly the answering prelude fell,
Thus sang the Lady Isabelle.
SONG.
Where do purple bubbles swim,
But upon the goblet's brim?
Drink not deep, howe'er it glow
Sparkles never lie below.
Beautiful the light that flows
From the rich leaves of the rose;
Keep it,—then ask, where hath fled
Summer's gift of morning red?
