WILD FLOWERS. 
41 
And when a tale is beautifully staid, 
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 
When it is moving on luxurious wings, 
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces, 
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; 
O’er-head we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, 
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; 
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 
Charms us at once away from all our troubles. 
Forget-me-not. 
There is a flower, a lovely flower, 
Tinged deep with Faith’s unchanging hue; 
Pure as the ether, in its hour 
Of loveliest and serenest blue. 
The streamlet’s gentle side it seeks, 
The silent fount, the shaded grot ; 
And sweetly to the heart it speaks, 
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not. 
