Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/312

Rh

Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers, Its fruits of gold, summer's regality, And sleep and odours float upon the air: At length the subterranean element Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays All waste before it; the red lava stream Sweeps like the pestilence; and that which was A garden in its colours and its breath, Fit for the princess of a fairy tale, Is as a desert, in whose burning sands, And ashy waters, who is there can trace A sign, a memory of its former beauty? It is thus with the heart; love lights it up With hopes like young companions, and with joys Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves.