To The Daughter Of The Author Of "Violet Keith."

I never looked upon thy face;     I never saw thy dwelling-place;     My home is by Lake Erie's shore,     Beyond Niagara's distant roar;     And thine where ships at anchor ride,     By fair St. Lawrence's rolling tide,     With half a continent between     Its seas of blue, and isles of green,     And many a mountain's nodding crest,     And many a valley's jewelled breast.     Thou in the east, I in the west;     Yet in this book thou hast to me     An individuality;     Something more tangible and fair     Than any dream or shape of air,     With more than an ideal grace,     And sweeter than a pictured face:     For in this book my thought recalls     The garden quaint, the convent walls.     And thou beneath their shadow set,     A blue-eyed fragrant violet.     So for the maiden of the tale,     Whose brave true heart might break, not fail,     Thyself, my Violet I make,     And love thee for thy mother's sake.