There is a flower, a purple flower Sown by the wind, nursed by the shower, O'er which Love has breathed a power and spell The truth of whispering hop… - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

What is the light from yon deep wood flashing —
What the sound on the wild wind borne ?
What the dark ranks that are onwards dashing
To the voice of the pealing horn ?
Who are they that thundering go ? —
It is the Black Hunt of the bold Litzou !

Huge bodies of vapour—a storm in each—were hurrying over a sky, dashed alike with the hues of the tempest and the morning; some of the vapours were of inky blackness, others spread like a scroll of royal purple; some undulated with the light struggling through, others were of transparent whiteness; but those upon the east were of a deep crimson—and the round, red sun had just mounted above an enormous old cedar. Red hues were cast upon everything; even the lilies blushed, and the waters of the little fountain were like melted rubies...

She leant upon her harp, and thousands looked
On her in love and wonder—thousands knelt
And worshipp'd in her presence—burning tears,
And words that died in utterance, and a pause
Of breathless, agitated eagerness,
First gave the full heart's homage: then came forth
A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills,
The distant valleys, all rang with the name
Of the Æolian Sappho—every heart
Found in itself some echo to her song.