The Forget- Me- Not 97 



less charm is wanting which nothing but the absent Dove can 

 impart. 



My Saviour, can it ever be 

 That I should gain by losing thee 1 

 The watchful mother tarries nigh, 

 Though sleep has closed her infant's eye, 

 For should he wake and find her gone, 

 She knows she could not bear his moan. 



But I am weaker than a child, 



And Thou art more than mother dear ; 



Without Thee, Heaven were but a wild, 

 How can I live without Thee here ! 



The days of hope and prayer are past, » 



The day of comfort dawns at last, 

 The everlasting gates again 

 Roll back, and lo ! a royal train 

 From the far depths of light once more 

 The floods of glory outward pour ; 



They part like shower drops in mid air, 

 But ne'er so soft fell noontide shower, 

 Nor evening rainbow gleamed so fair 

 To weary swains in parched bower. 



Keble. 



The Forget. Me- Not. 



We have given this flower again for the sake of showing its 

 beautiful appearance when grouped with others, and in conform- 

 ity with the general request to give some directions for its culti- 

 vation. We extract what follows from the Flora Historica of 

 Henry Phillips. It has become a favorite flower with the Ger- 

 man people, as Goethe's " Lay of the Imprisoned Knight" will 

 evince. 



Ah ! well I know the loveliest flower, 



The fairest of the fair, 

 Of all that deck my lady's bower, 



Or bind her floating hair. 



Not on the mountain's shelving side, 



Nor in the cultivated ground, 

 Nor in the garden's painted pride, 



The flower I seek is found. 

 G 



