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Well for thee, if thy lip could tell
If every creature hath won thy love,
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard
It will bring relief to thine aching brow,
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast.
A violet by a mossy stone,
Is shining in the sky.-WORDsworth.
I HAVE found violets! April hath come on,
The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out
Of April and hunt violets, when the rain
It be deem'd too idle, but the young
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven,
And read it, when the fever of the world'
Beautiful Evening! my bewildered brain
With heart enchanted, and undazzled eyes,
Give me to breathe thy fragrance. Where the dews Clasp with their delicate arms the violet-bell.
Give me to wander where the stream doth choose
Its murmuring journey down the dim green dell
With chary dainties. There would I bow
Unto thy silver glories, as before
The Persian worshipped-with a better vow,
Then grant me thy communion. Swell my soul
Of the high land I long for. I shall see
The stirring of the myriad palm-boughs and gleam
Of seraphs pinions. From the boundless throng
Of the unnumbered holy, I shall hear
Faintly, the choral anthem. So the song
Of Ocean's surges falls upon the ear
Of slumbering mariner-and so the bird
That loves the sombre night, o'er the far wave is heard.