62
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
When rising from the mountain wave,
Fresh as the stream its freshness gave;
But gentle eyes, with softness fraught,
As if their tenderness they caught
From gazing on the pallid brow
Whose only light was from them now.
Beautiful it was to see
Such love in early infancy.
Far from the aged steps she led,
Long since the guiding light had fled;
And meek and sad the old man grew,
As nearer life's dark goal he drew;
All solace of such weary hour
Was that child's love, and his own power
O'er music's spirit, and the store
He treasured up of legend lore.
