142 DEOPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
When 1 earth to earth’ and ‘ dust to dust,’ 
The loved, lamented, we intrust, 
What flower may grace the spot, 
Where sleeps the relics of the dead, 
For whom the frequent tear is shed, 
Like thine —which, from the grave’s cold hed, 
Repeats, ‘forget-me-not.’ 
AEON. 
How many bright flowers around me are glancing, 
Each seeking its praise, or its heauty 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, 
t And smile while I whisper, ‘ forget-me-not. ’ 
