126 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Could I but think you don’t forget, 
Though all my hopes of life should perisi 
I’d pass them by without regret, 
So that that thought I still might cherish. 
Forget me not! ’tis 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 withered flowers recall 
Each broken link of Memory’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 
FORGET ME NOT. 
W. M. PRAED. 
When thy sad Master’s far away, 
Go, happier far than he, 
Go, little flower, with her to stay, 
With whom he may not be : 
There bid her mourn his wayward lot, 
And whisper still, Forget me not. 
