28
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
And, Mirzala, thy heart can tell
How lasting that which feeds on grief.
'Twas a branch of roses her lover gave
Amid her raven curls to wave,
When they bade farewell, with that gentle sorrow
Of the parting that sighs, "we meet to-morrow;"
Yet the maiden knows not if her tears are shed
Over the faithless or over the dead.
She has not seen his face since that night
When she watch'd his shadow by pale moonlight,
And that branch has been cherish'd as all that was left
To remind her of love and of hope bereft.
She was one summer evening laid
Beneath the tulip tree's green shade,
