by M.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #6 (Apr 1867).
"Violets, sweet violets! all April's in the cry."
LEIGH HUNT.
I.
My Isabel, do you remember
How, in the fitful April weather,
Through squares and terraces suburban
We, plighted lovers, walked together,
While, shrill beneath the changeful sky,
Rang out the violet-seller's cry?
II.
Ah, Love, how bright those hastening hours!
How fair the hopes that shone before us!
For us the Earth put forth her flowers,
For us the blackbirds sang their chorus,
And Spring herself seemed only made
To glad us with her light and shade.
III.
And still I see your sweet face soften
With tender smile and pensive pity,
As in our path we meet a maiden—
A child waif from the seething city;
And still rings out the violet cry,
And still the changing clouds flit by.
IV.
Last week I pass'd you in the Row,
Last night I met you at a soirée;
I watch'd your fair head meekly bent
Above the last chef-d'œuvre by Doré;
But your heart's hidden mystery
'Tis not for mortal eye to see.
V.
Enough that since that bygone spring-time,
When we two lovers walk'd together,
Your heart has caught a trick of changing,
Capricious as that April weather;
And the lorn violet-seller's cry
Sounds like a dirge as I go by.
VI.
Your bouquets now are rare exotics,
Imported from far Southern bowers;
But who shall say those splendid blossoms
Are sweeter than my lowly flowers—
The violets that we stopp'd to buy
Beneath that sunlit April sky?
VII.
Alas! 'twas then our spring-time, dearest,
And o'er life's path there shone a glory,
While all our footfalls went to music,
Like mystic lute in fairy story:
But now youth's glamour shines no more
On the dull earth we wander o'er.
VIII.
Some day perchance, for mere distraction,
You'll ransack a forgotten casket,
And light upon the faded posy
I gave you from the vagrant's basket;
And those poor wither'd flowers shall be
Almost a link 'twixt you and me.