95 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
’Tis that sweet season’s loveliest prime 
When Spring gives up thé reins of time 
To Summer’s glowing hand. 
And doubting mortals hardly know 
By whose command the breezes blow 
Which fan the smiling land. 
Whitehead. 
It has been remarked of June that for one brief season 
we might almost forget we are in a world of change 
and decay, for where can we discover, amid the 
newness and the perfection of beauty that surrounds 
us, any traces of their power? Every thing seems 
fresh, vigorous, and enduring, and in the length and 
brightness of the day we are apt to lose the remem- 
brance of the closing hours of Autumn and the night 
of Winter. Soon, however, shall the scythe of time 
“ Mow the flowering herb and goodly things.” 
The fervid heat of a July sun shall dry the springs of 
