218
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
The one like evening crimson bright,
The other fill'd with such clear light,
That, as she bent her o'er the strings,
Catching music's wanderings,
Look'd she well some Peri fair,
Born and being of the air.
Waked the guitar beneath her hand
To ballad of her Spanish land;
Sad, but yet suiting twilight pale,
When surely tenderest thoughts prevail.
SONG.
Maiden, fling from thy braided hair
The red rose-bud that is wreathed there;
For he who planted the parent tree
Is now what soon that blossom will be.
