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The Golden Violet. O praise! Dear thou art to the poet's lays. Many a flash from each dark eye pass'd, Many a minstrel's pulse throbb'd fast, As she held forth the flower.

dream is past, hush'd is my lute, At least, to my awaking, mute; Past that fair garden and glad hall, And she the lady queen of all. Leave we her power to those who deign One moment to my idle strain: Let each one at their pleasure set The prize—the Golden Violet. Could I choose where it might belong, Mid phantoms but of mine own song?