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"The Violet," by Jane Taylor (1783–1824), is another of those dear old-fashioned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.And yet it was a lovely flower, No colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

Jane Taylor.