THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWER’S 
They tell the tale of hapless love, 
And show young Rodolph’s grave; 
And cull the flowers from that sweet spot, 
Still calling them “ Forget-me-Not.” 
THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
ANONYMOUS. 
Farewell ! my true and loyal knight! on yonder battle 
field 
Many a pearl and gem of price will gleam on helm and 
shield: 
But bear thou on thy silver crest this pure and simple 
wreath, 
A token of thy ladye’s love—unchanging to the death. 
They seem, I know, these fragrant flowers, those fairy 
stars of blue, 
As maidens’ eyes had smiled on them, and given them 
that bright hue; 
As only fitting but to bind a lady’s hair or lute, 
And not with war or warrior’s crest in armed field to suit. 
But there’s a charm in every leaf, a deep and mystic spell; 
Then take the wreath, my loyal knight, our Lady shield 
thee well; 
And though still prouder favours deck the gallant knights 
of France, 
Oh, be the first in every field, La Fleur de Souvenance! 
How bland, how still this summer eve, sure never gentler 
hour, 
For lay of love, or sigh of lute, to breathe in lady’s bower; 
