THE BOUQUET. 


The streamlet’s gentle side it seeks, 
The silent fount, the shaded grot; 
And sweetly to the heart it speaks, 
Forget-me-not, forget-me-not. 
Mild as the azure of thine eyes, 
Soft as the halo-beam above, 
In tender whispers still it sighs, 
Forget-me-not, my life, my love! 
There, where thy last steps turned away, 
Wet eyes shall watch the sacred spot, 
And this sweet flower be heard to say, 
Forget! ah, no! forget-me-not! 
Yet deep its azure leaves within, 
Is seen the blighting hue of care; 
And what that secret grief hath been, 
The drooping stem may well declare. 
The dewdrops on its leaves, are tears, 
That ask, ‘Am Iso soon forgot? ? 
Repeating still, amidst their fears, 
My life, my love! forget-me-not. 
From the German, by F. HaALLEcK. 

