# The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/End of The Golden Violet

Sooth to say, the sight was fair, When the lady unbound from her raven hair
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.
The 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?
My task is ended; it may seem But vain regret for morning dream, To say how sad a look is cast Over the line we know the last. The weary hind at setting sun Rejoices over labour done, The hunter at the ended chase, The ship above its anchoring-place The pilgrim o'er his pilgrimage, The reader o'er the closing page; All, for end is to them repose. The poet's lot is not with those: His hour in Paradise is o'er;  He stands on earth, and takes his share Of shallows closing round him more,  The feverish hope, the freezing care;
And he must read in other eyes, Or if his spirit's sacrifice Shall brighten, touch'd with heaven's own fire, Or in its ashes dark expire. Then even worse,—what art thou, fame? A various and doubtful claim One grants and one denies; what none Can wholly quite agree upon. A dubious and uncertain path At least the modern minstrel hath; How may he tell, where none agree, What may fame's actual passport be?
For me, in sooth, not mine the lute  On its own powers to rely; But its chords with all wills to suit,  It were an easier task to try
To blend in one each varying tone The midnight wind hath ever known. One saith that tale of battle brand Is all too rude for my weak hand; Another, too much sorrow flings Its pining cadence o'er my strings. So much to win, so much to lose, No marvel if I fear to choose. How can I tell of battle field, I never listed brand to wield; Or dark ambition's pathway try, In truth I never look'd so high; Or stern revenge, or hatred fell, Of what I know not, can I tell? I soar not on such lofty wings, My lute has not so many strings;
Its dower is but a humble dower,  And I who call upon its aid, My power is but a woman's power,  Of softness and of sadness made. In all its changes my own heart Must give the colour, have its part. If that I know myself what keys Yield to my hand their sympathies, I should say it is those whose tone Is woman's love and sorrow's own; Such notes as float upon the gale, When twilight, tender nurse and pale, Brings soothing airs and silver dew The panting roses to renew; Feelings whose truth is all their worth, Thoughts which have had their pensive birth
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.
END OF THE GOLDEN VIOLET.