FORGET-ME-NO 7. 
HIS lOvely little flower has a charming legend 
attached to it. We give it in its best poetic form 
at once. 
THE BRIDE OF THE DANUBE. 
MISS PICKERSGILL. 
“ See how yon glittering wave in sportive play, 
Washes the bank, and steals the flowers away. 
And must they thus in bloom and beauty die, 
Without the passing tribute of a sigh ?” 
“ No, Bertha, those young flowerets there 
Shall form a braid for thy sunny hair; 
I yet will save them, if but one 
Soft smile reward me when ; tis done.” 
He said, and plunged into the stream— 
His only light was the moon's pale beam. 
“Stay ! stay !” she cried—but he had caught 
The drooping flowers, and breathless sought 
To place the treasures at the feet 
Of her from whom e’en death were sweet. 
