FORGET-ME-NOT. 
17 
moving mirror of its waters—that a lost angel sat 
down, sad and sorrowful; his face buried in the 
palms of his hands, his long ringlets, which the 
celestial air of heaven had many a time fanned, 
drooped negligently over his rounded shoulders; 
and his broad white wings, which fell folded upon 
his back, looked as if they had borne the brunt of 
many a storm, and shaken from their white plumes 
the blinding rain of many a descending shower. He 
was one of those who had lost heaven through the 
love of woman, and had floated long days in the 
solitary air, his own image the only moving thing 
shadowed in the silent waters that covered the 
earth, while all below, excepting the ark, was buried 
beneath the deep deluge. He had seen the last fair 
face upturned on the high mountain-summit, suppli¬ 
cating Mercy, the last white hands raised and 
clasped, in prayer, the dark locks floating upon the 
boiling foam, where the big rain danced down, and 
had poised himself like a voiceless bird above the 
desolation, for she who loved to watch him alight, 
the merciless eddies had borne far, far away for 
ever. But the waters had now subsided, the green 
hills had bared their tall summits, and the out¬ 
stretched plains at their feet were once more visible. 
The top of many a mountain had now been washed 
away, and the fields which before waved with a 
thousand flowers were deeply covered beneath a 
c 
