jForjjjei-nu-ttJot. 
117 
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. 
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom 
Has fixed its envious lot, 
Or swept the record from the tomb, 
It says Forget me not. 
And this is still the loveliest flower, 
The fairest of the fair, 
Of all that deck my lady’s bower, 
Or bind her floating hair. 
Gdthe. 
Together they sate by a river’s side, 
A knight and a lady gay, 
And they watched the deep and eddying tide 
Round a flowery islet stray. 
And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,” 
Said then the lady fair, 
“To grace my neck with the blossoms blue 
And braid my nut-brown hair!” 
The knight has plunged in the whirling wave 
All for his lady’s smile: 
And he swims the stream with courage brave, 
And he gains yon flowery isle. 
And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue, 
And the prize they backward bear; 
To deck his love with the brilliant hue 
And braid her nut-brown hair. 
But the way is long, and the current strong, 
And alas for that gallant knight! 
