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THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Since the Moorish bard had brought his claim,
'Mid these Northern halls, to the meed of fame.
THE WREATH:
TALE OF THE MOORISH BARD.
The earliest beauty of the rose,
Waking from moonlight repose,
In morning air and dew to steep
The blush of her voluptuous sleep;
This was her cheek: and for her eye,
Gaze thou upon the midnight sky,
And choose its fairest star, the one
Thou deem'st most lovely and most lone:
Her lip, oh! never flower of spring
Had smile of such sweet blandishing.
