FORGET-ME-NOT. 45 
the hand, and as her sable tresses blew back in the 
morning breeze, her queenly scarf streamed in an arch, 
like a rainbow, “ backward borne,” and she came down 
into the garden with a dancing step, skipping along in 
the very fulness of her love, like a young roe upon the 
mountains. Her lips were like a thread of scarlet, her 
neck like a stately tower, her hair like the floating silk 
of Cashmere ; her teeth white and beautiful as a flock 
of lambs returning from the washing; her eyes, now 
and then hidden by the raven ringlets which blew 
across her queenly brow, were softer than the eyes of 
the dove when it bends over and coos to its young. As 
they walked along, a smell of spikenard, and cinnamon, 
and myrrh, perfumed the air; and as he gathered flow¬ 
ers, and placed them in her hand, he called her his 
garden — his delight: the sweetest blossom that ever 
hung over, or was reflected in the Nile, or opened 
beneath the earliest sunbeam that ever gilded the 
summits of her father’s pyramids. They rambled 
onward through the garden of nuts — through the 
valley covered with myrtles, that evergreen emblem of 
Love, where the tendrils of the vine swayed idly in the 
morning air, and the pomegranates put forth their 
buds; they went far away among the pleasant fields, 
