FORQET-ME-NOT. 41 



Priz'd from the cradle to the tomb, 

 Prompt us to wreathe thy azure bloom 

 To deck our opening page. 



Here, then, 'mid pointed leaves of green, 

 Be thy cerulean blossoms seen, 



To grace our garden-plot ; 

 Nor would we prouder flowers entwine 

 Round Friendship's or Affection's shrine, 

 Than one which can recall, like thine, 



The words " FORGET ME NOT !" 



LOVE IN A ROSE-BUD. 



A FRAGMENT. 

 BY COLERIDGE. 



As late each flower that sweetest blows 

 I plucked, the garden pride ; 



Within the petals of a rose 

 A sleeping love I spied. 



Around his brows a beamy wreath 



Of many a lucent hue ; 

 All purple glowed his cheek beneath, 



Inebriate with dew. 

 4* 



