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THE MARCH VIOLET.

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THE MARCH VIOLET. There wandered far a fallen one Along the empty streets: No arms in mercy stretch to her, No heart in kindness beats. She wandered—oh! she cared not how, That dreary, starless night; Her only wish, that morn might ne'er Arise upon her sight. And still she wandered on and on, Until, from ocean's breast, The sun in mirrored beauty rose, And spread a golden vest O'er tower and temple, and forewarned The world asleep that lav, That now must wake again the toils Of the returning day. And now the ceaseless, busy ham Deepened in that city, And many eyed her with contempt, But none with looks of pity. The rustic wains moved slowly on, Laden with fruit and flowers, To tempt the eity dames to boy, And dream of rural bowers. The wind was hushed, the storm allayed, A gentle breeze astir, Which wafted back the fragrant soenta Of bygone scenes to her. One flower alone dropped to the esrth- The heat her lips did parch; How sweet to press it to her lips, That violet of March Its odour woke a thousand thoughts Of childhood's happy state: Oh, could she then have bat foreseen Her present awful state! The tears stood in their fountains, The flower lay on her lips. Unheeded and alone she sank Upon the cold stone steps. She grasped the flower convulsively, As if they should not part: The memories that its scent aroused, Had burst in twain her heart O. judge her not-O, blame her not; Trace not her future doom She died with holy thoughts at last Of parents and of home. —Hogg'i Weekly Instructor. ♦

THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

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