60
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
Ah, true for aye will those bodings be
That tell of mortal misery!
I've seen my noble chieftain laid low,
And my harp o'er his grave wail'd its song of woe;
And again it wail'd for the gentle bride
Who with hastening love soon slept by his side.
He pass'd away in the early spring,
And she in the summer, whose sun could bring
Warmth and life, in its genial hour,
To all save the drooping human flower.
I left the land, I could not stay
Where the gallant, the lovely, had pass'd away;
Yet now my spirit is pining to greet
My youthful chief in his parent's seat.
I saw him once in a foreign land,
With plume on head, and with spear in hand;
