16 
THE POETRY OF FLO VVERS, 
And, Cupid, stooping too, to sip, 
hs an g<T insect stung his lip • 
And, gushing from the ambrosial cell, ' 
One bright drop on my bosom fell 
Weeping, to his mother he 
Told the tale of treachery, 
And she her vengeful boy to please, 
otrung his bow with captive bees, 
But placed upon my slender stem 
The poisoned sting she plucked from them- 
And none since that eventful morn 
Have found the flower without a thorn. » 
THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 
Not on the mountain’s shelving side 
Nor in the cultivated ground, ’ 
Nor in the garden’s painted pride 
'I he flower I seek is found. ’ 
Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom 
Has fix d its env.ous lot, 
Or swept the record from the tomb, 
It says, Forget-me-not. 
And this is still the loveliest flower, 
1 he fairest of the fair, 
Of all that deck my lady’s bower, 
Or bind her floating hair. 
