118 THE LANGUA GE OF FL 0 WERE. 
Shone—and no other trace it bore of lineage or of lot 
But Ida’s name, with star-like flowers ensculped Forget 
me not! 
There Ida slept, the desolate, the last of all her name, 
Parted from him who perished for her love ’mid dawn of 
fame; 
But when shall their fond legend die ! or when shall be 
forgot 
The flower that won its name in death, Love’s theme— 
Forget-me-not! 
FORGET ME NOT. 
W. H. HARRISON. 
The star that shines so pure and bright, 
Like a far-off place of bliss, 
And tells the broken-hearted 
There are brighter worlds than this; 
The moon that courses through the sky, 
Like man’s uncertain doom, 
Now shining bright with borrowed light, 
Now wrapt in deepest gloom,— 
Or when eclipsed, a dreary blank, 
A fearful emblem given 
Of a heart shut out by a sinful world 
From the blessed light of heaven;— 
The flower that freely casts it wealth 
Of perfume on the gale; 
The breeze that mourns the summer’s close, 
With melancholy wail; 
