122 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Yet heedless man regards it not, 
But life’s uncertain day 
In idle hopes and vain regrets 
Thus madly wastes away. 
But in his own appointed time 
He will not be forgot; 
Oh ! in that hour of fearful strife, 
Great God, forget me not! 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
There is a little modest flower, 
To friendship ever dear, 
’Tis nourished in her humble bower, 
And watered by her tear. 
If hearts by fond affection tried, 
Should chance to slip away, 
This little flower will gently chide 
The heart that thus would stray. 
All other flowers when once they fade 
Are left alone to die, 
But this e’en when it is decayed, 
Will live in memory’s sigh. 
FORGET ME NOT. 
D. M. MOIR. 
Summer was on the hills when last we parted. 
Now the bright moon is shining 
O’er the gay mountain and the stilly sea, 
As, by the streamlet’s willowy bend reclining 
I pause, remembering thee. 
