FORGET-ME-NOT. 
15 
morning breeze, ber queenly scarf streamed in an 
a rcli, 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 re¬ 
turning 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 
flowers, 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, and, throwing aside their regal dignity, rested 
themselves amongst the homely villagers. He told 
ber how Love is stronger than Death—that the 
wide waters which overflow Egypt would be unable 
