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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
It was spell-bound; coldly that flower repress'd
Sweet hopes,—ay, hopes, albeit unconfess'd.
Check'd, vainly check'd, the bitter grief recurs—
That rose flung down because that rose was hers!
And at the thought paleness in blushes fled,
Had he, then, read her heart, and scorn'd when read?
Oh! better perish, than endure that thought.
She started from her couch; when her eye caught
The Virgin's picture. Seem'd it that she took
Part in her votary's suffering; the look
Spoke mild reproof, touch'd with grave tenderness,
Pitying her grief, yet blaming her excess.
Olympia turn'd away, she might not bear
To meet such holy brow, such placid air,
At least not yet; for she must teach her breast
A lesson of submission, if not rest,
