■*4 
FLOWERS hr THE POETS. 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT—A LEGEND. 
Two lovers, strolling forth one Sabbath e’en, 
Sought the cool river-side, and smiled and talked 
As lovers do ; 
When, suddenly, upon a ledge of rock 
O’erhanging them, the bright-eyed lady spied 
A floweret blue. 
“ Oh, lovely flower !” ’twas thus Lucille exclaimed— 
u Tinted with ‘heaven’s own peculiar hue,’ 
How sweetly fair ! 
What cat. it be ? Could it be gained with ease, 
I’d dearly love to twine a sprig of it 
Within my hair.” 
It shall be thine,” the daring lover cried, 
And, ere she could prevent the deed, he sprang 
Upon the ledge ; 
Selecting some for the pale, trembling maid, 
Who watched with fear that swaying shelf above 
The water’s edge. 
■“ Alas !” she cried, “ I’ve periled his dear life 
To gratify my fancy for a flower, 
Alas ! I have.” 
In vain he strove to safely overleap 
What destiny before him placed that day, 
A glassy grave. 
