The Mountain Violet Poem by Charlotte Dacre

Sweet fragile flow'r, that bloom'st unsought,
And bloom'st unseen by many an eye,
Thy charms awake my pensive thought;
And wake reflexion's bitter sigh.

Thy lowly head with patience bent,
Unshelter'd, to the northern blast,
As fiercely by the whirlwinds rent,
Nor deign'd to crush thee as they past;

Expanding wild, thy rich perfume
Impregnates round the unhallow'd air,
That, reckless of thy virgin bloom,
Sweeps not o'er thee more mild or fair.

Now brighten'd by the morning ray,
Luxuriant spreads thy grateful breast;
Now evening comes, with tyrant sway,
And chills thy little form to rest.

Sweet emblem of the soul-fraught mind,
Expos'd life's keenest storms to bear;
Yet, like thee, tenderly refin'd,
And shrinking from ungenial air.

The ray which gilds with lucid gleam
Is innate peace, which none can wrest;
The evening chill that shrouds the beam,
The sad reflexions of the breast.

Like thee, too, from the vulgar eye
The chasten'd mind shall live forlorn;
For though no kindred soul may sigh,
In solitude there's none to scorn.

Dear flow'r, be thou my fav'rite sweet!
I'll rear with care thy drooping head,
Save thy soft breast from heedless feet,
And court young zephyrs to thy bed.

Yet if perchance, in evil hour,
Some lawless hand invade thy shrine,
Or nightly blast, with ruthless pow'r,
Sap the short life which might be thine—

Ah, then, with true regret I'll kneel,
And try thy beauties dimm'd to chear;
When, ah! if vain my hopes I feel,
I'll, dead, embalm thee with a tear.