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.