How can the glintin sun shine bright? How can the wimplin burnie glide? Or flowers adorn the ingle side? Or birdies deign The woods, and streams, and vales to chide? Eliza’s gane! _J. W. H._ * * * * * If she be gone, the world, in my esteem, Is all bare walls; nothing remains in it But dust and feathers. _John Crown._ * * * * * Thus absence dies, and dying proves No absence can subsist with loves That do partake of fair perfection; Since, in the darkest night, they may, By love’s quick motion, find a way To see each other in reflection. _Suckling._ VIOLET.... _Modest Worth_. The Violet has always been a favourite theme of admiration among visitors of Parnassus. Its quiet beauty and love of retired spots have ever made it the emblem of true worth that shrinks from parade. It is one of the first children of spring, and awakens pleasing emotions in the breast of the lover of the beautiful, as he strolls through the meadows in the season of joy. Ion, the Greek name of this flower, is traced by some etymologists to Ia, the daughter of Midas, who was betrothed to Atys, and changed by Diana into a Violet, to hide her from Apollo. * * * * * A woman’s love, deep in the heart, Is like the Violet flower, That lifts its modest head apart In some sequestered bower. _Anon._ * * * * * The maid whose manners are retired, Who, patient, waits to be admired, Though overlooked, perhaps, a while Her modest worth, her modest smile,-- Oh, she will find, or soon, or late, A noble, fond, and faithful mate, Who, when the spring of life is gone, And all its blooming flowers are flown, Will bless old Time, who left behind The graces of a virtuous mind. _Paulding._ * * * * *