O violets, live and grow, That, ere the bright days go, This turf may be with rarest beauty crowned!-- Nay, shrink not from my touch, For these are careful and most loving hands, Fearing and hoping much, Which thus disturb your fair and wondering bands, But to transfer them to more holy ground. Dear violets, bloom and live! To this beloved tomb Your beauty and your bloom Are the most precious tribute we can give. And, oh, if your sweet soul of odor goes, Blended with the clear trills of singing-birds, Farther than my poor speech Or wailing cry can reach Into that realm of shadowy repose Toward which I blindly yearn, Praying in silence, "Oh, my love, return!" Yet dare not try to touch with groping words, So far it seems, and sweet,-- That realm wherein I may not hope to be Until my wayworn feet Put off the shoes of this mortality,-- Oh, let your incense-breath, Laden with all this weight of love and woe For him who went away so long ago, Bridge for me Time and Death! Blow, violets, blow! And tell him in your blooming, o'er and o'er, How in the places which he used to know His name is still breathed fondly as of yore; Tell him how often, in the dear old ways Where bloomed our yesterdays, The radiant days which I shall find no more, My lingering footsteps shake The dew-drops from your leaves, for his dear sake. Wake, blue eyes, wake! The earliest breath of June Blows the white tassels from the cherry-boughs, And in the deepest shadow of the noon The mild-eyed oxen browse. How tranquilly he sleeps, He, whom so bitterly we mourn as dead!-- Although the new month sweeps The over-blossomed spring-flower from his bed, Giving fresh buds therefor,-- Although beside him still Love waits and weeps, And yonder goes the war. Wake, violets, wake! Open your blue eyes wide! Watch faithfully his lonely pillow here; Let no rude foot-fall break Your slender stems, nor crush your leaves aside; See that no harm comes near The dust to me so dear;-- O violets, hear! The clouds hang low and heavy with warm rain,-- And when I come again, Lo, with your blossoms his loved grave shall be Blue as the marvellous sea Laving the borders of his Italy! PAUL BLECKER. PART II.