I’OF.TRY OF FLOATERS. 
99 
Who hung like thee her pale head through the day, 
Love-sick and pining for the evening ray ; 
And lived a virgin chaste amid the folly 
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy ? 
Oh, tell me where she dwells! 
So on thy mantle bells 
Shall Dian nightly fling 
Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume, 
Her pale night lustre to enhance thy bloom, 
And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing. 
W. S. Roecoe. 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
Where flows the fountain silently, 
It blooms a lovely flower, 
Flue as the beauty of the sky, 
It speaks, like kind fidelity, 
Through fortune’s sun and shower, 
F orget-me-not. 
’Tis like thy starry eyes, more bright 
Than evening’s proudest star; 
Like purity’s own halo light, 
It seems to smile upon thy sight, 
And says to thee from afar—• 
F orget-me-not. 
Each dew-drop on its morning leaves 
Is eloquent as tears 
