Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/248

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When lilies hang their heads and die, Eve's lesson of mortality. Such lute, and with such humble wreath As suits frail string and trembling breath, Such, gentle reader, woos thee now. Oh! o'er it bend with yielding brow: Read thou it when some soften'd mood Is on thy hour of solitude; And tender memory, sadden'd thought, On the world's harsher cares have wrought. Bethink thee, kindly look and word Will fall like sunshine o'er each chord; That, light as is such boon to thee, 'Tis more than summer's noon to me: That, if such meed my suit hath won, I shall not mourn my task is done.