FORGET-ME-NOT. 47 
one of these relics of forgotten poetry, we find the 
legend of the Forget-me-not. 
It was on the site of one of those old homes of the 
early world — one that had stood beside the banks, 
where as beautiful a river flowed as had ever flashed 
back the golden lines of sunlight from the moving 
mirror of its waters — that a lost angel sat down, sad 
and sorrowful; his face buried in the palms of his 
hands, his long ringlets, which the celestial air of 
heaven had many a time fanned, drooped negligently 
over his roupded shoulders ; and his broad white 
wings, which fell folded upon his back, looked as if 
they had borne the brunt of many a storm, and shaken 
from their white plumes the blind rain of many a de¬ 
scendin'’!' shower. He was one of those who had lost 
heaven through the love of woman, and had floated 
long days through the solitary air, his own image the 
only moving thing shadowed in the silent waters that 
covered the earth, while all below, saving the ark, was 
buried beneath the deep deluge. But the waters had 
now subsided, the green hills had bared their tall sum¬ 
mits, and the outstretched plains at their feet weie once 
more visible. But the top of many a mountain had 
been washed away, and fields which before waved with 
