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THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
SONG OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
How many bright flowers now around me are glancin 
Each seeking its praise, or its beauty enhancing ! 
The rose-buds are hanging like gems in the air, 
And the lily-bell waves in her fragrance there. 
Alas! I can claim neither fortune nor power, 
Neither beauty nor fragrance are cast in my lot; 
But contented I cling to my lowly bower, 
And smile while I whisper— Forget-me-not! 
FORGET-ME-NOT. 
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. 
I culled each flow’ret for my fair, 
The wild thyme and the heather bell; 
And round them twined a tendril rare— 
She said the posy pleased her well. 
But of the flowers that deck the field, 
Or grace the garden of the cot, 
Though others richer perfumes yield, 
The sweetest is forget-me-not. 
We roamed the mead, we climbed the hill, 
We rambled o’er the breckan brae ; 
The trees that crowned the mossy rill, 
They screened us from the glare of day. 
She said she loved the sylvan bower, 
Was charmed with ev’ry rural spot; 
And when arrived the parting hour, 
Her last words were “ forget-me-not!” 
