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For ge t-me-no t. 
Forget me not! ’t is all I ask, 
And though thy hand may be another’s, 
I ’ll wear upon my face a mask 
Of smiles to hide the grief it covers. 
“ Let, then, these wither’d flowers recall 
Each broken link of Mem’ry’s chain ; 
And from the Past’s dim haunted hall 
Those happy hours bring back again. 
Forget me not! mine only love— 
Ah ! would indeed that you were mine! 
Forget me not! my long-lost dove, 
In dreams my heart will beat next thine ! ” 
John Ingram. 
“ It is said,” remarks Miss Pratt, in her “Flowers and their 
Associations, “that after the battle of Waterloo an immense 
quantity of forget-me-nots sprang up upon different parts of 
the soil, enriched by the blood of heroes. . . A poet might 
say,” adds the lady, “ that the appearance of such a flower in 
this memorable spot seemed to ask that we should not soon 
forget those who perished on the field.” 
This little floral pet, which Coleridge aptly calls 
“That blue and bright-eyed flow’ret of the brook, 
Hope’s gentle gem, the sweet forget-me-not,” 
is greatly beloved by the Germans, who are very fond of 
growing it upon the graves of their deceased darlings. When 
it is taken from its native brook, however, and planted in a 
dry situation, its looks alter considerably, but withal it con¬ 
tinues a pretty blossom. 
Tennyson, in his poem of the “ Miller’s Daughter,” when he 
would “ make a garland for the heart,” asks Alice 
“To sing that other song I made, 
Half-anger’d with my happy lot, 
The day when in the chestnut shade 
I found the blue forget-me-not.” 
And Alice sings, 
‘ ‘ Love that hath us in the net, 
Can he pass, and we forget ? 
Many suns arise and set, 
Many a chance the years beget, 
Love the gift is love the debt. 
Even so. 
“ Love is hurt with jar and tret, 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet, 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget! 
Ah ! no, no ! ” 
Agnes Strickland relates that Henry of Lancaster during 
