92 LANGUAGE AND 
With such a romantic tragedy attached to it^ 
it is not to be wondered at that this little flower 
should have been inundated with poetical tri 
butes. Goethe, in one of his melodious lyrics, 
addresses the forget-me-not as 
“ Still the loveliest flower, 
The fairest of the fair, 
Of all that deck my lady’s bower, 
Or bind her floating hair.” 
In many parts of France this little flower is 
carefully cultivated for transplantation to the 
city markets, where its appealing looks readily 
procure purchasers for it. 
The following verses, entitled “Forget 1 m 
not,” appeared some few years ago: 
“ Dear girl, I send this spray of flowers— 
All withered now, once brightest blue— 
To call to mind those happy hours, 
Those happy hours I passed with you. 
Forget me not! though others win 
The glorious right to call thee ‘ theirs ;’ 
Forget me not! that might have been 
The answer to my fervid prayers. 
“ For I have had thy hand in mine, 
And once our ways in life seemed blended; 
And once I thought our loves might twine, 
But now, alas ! that dream is ended. 
