The Poetry of Flowers. 
123 
And Cupid, stooping too, to sip, 
The angry insect stung his lip ; 
And, gushing from the ambrosial cell, 
One bright drop on my bosom fell. 
Weeping, to his mother he 
Told the tale of treachery, 
And she, her vengeful boy to please, 
Strung his bow with captive bees, 
But placed upon my slender stem 
The poisoned sting she plucked from them ; 
And none since that eventful morn 
Have found the flower without a thorn. 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
Not on the mountain’s shelving side 
Nor in the cultivated ground, 
Nor in the garden's painted pride, 
The flower I seek is found. 
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom 
Has fixed its envious lot, 
Or swept the record from the tomb, 
It says, Forget me not. 
And this is still the loveliest flower, 
The fairest of the fair, 
Of all that deck my lady's bower, 
Or bind her floating hair. 
