FRIENDSHIP'S FORGET-ME-NOT. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. To flourish in my favourite bower, They call Forget-me-not. It springs where Avon gently flows And 'neath my cottage-window grows, This pretty little flow'ret's dye Of soft cerulean blue, Appears as if from Ellen's eye It had received its hue. Though oceans now betwixt us roar, Though distant be our lot, Ellen though we should meet no more, Sweet maid, Forget-me-not. ANON. ON A FORGET-ME-NOT. BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND. FLOWER of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand Robbed of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day; Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way, And bloom, to wither in the stranger's land! Hueless and scentless as thou art, How much that stirs the memory, How much, much more that thrills the heart, Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee! Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade There lives more fragrance, and more fresh ness now; Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade FRANCES ANNE BUTLER. PARTING WORDS. FAREWELL! I must not look again on thee! Thou who hast been what none may tell or know Unto my weary soul, shedding a light of joyA gleam of sunshine, o'er my path below. Farewell! and dream not of the past again- The world-the breathing world of light and flowers, To thee is fair; no darkening shade has passed O'er thy young visions, or no blight of tears Has o'er thy brow a shade of suffering cast. Ah, no-thou art too beautiful by far Thou must be loved by all where'er thou art; By all who feel as I have felt, and know The warmth, the love, of thy young trusting heart. Vain idle words! can any know or feel The love which binds my spirit unto thine! That power which lights and glorifies my way, This vain, yet pure, idolatry of mine! And yet I go-the baseless dream is gone- And as the wings of time glide swiftly on Chide not such thoughts; it will not dim thy brow To linger then on dreams of vanished hours— These free and vernal days when life was young, And every hope was fair as opening flowers. But dream not now-send back each wandering thought, Back to the heart's most lonely hidden cell; They only waken sad and bitter tears,- Bid the sad conflict cease--farewell! farewell! MRS. WARNER. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. NOT on the mountain's shelving side, Where time or sorrow's page of gloom Or swept the record from the tomb, And this is still the loveliest flower, Of all that deck my lady's bower, Or bind her floating hair. LORD FRANCIS I. GOWER. THE ANCIENT TOMBS. THEY rise on isle and ocean shore, B |