FORGET-ME-NOT, 87 
Jove, in pity of the deed, 
And her loving, luckless speed, 
Turned her to, this plant we call 
Now “ the flower of the wall.” 

FORGET-ME-NOT. 
4 eas lovely little flower has a charming legend at- 
tached to it. We give it in its best poetic form 
at once. 
THE BRIDE OF THE DANUBE. 
MISS PICKERSGILL. 
‘*SEE how yon glittering wave in sportive play 
Washes the bank, and steals the flowers away. 
And must they thus in bloom and beauty die, 
Without the passing tribute of a sigh ?” 
‘““No, Bertha, those young flowerets there 
Shall form a braid for thy sunny hair ; 
I yet will save one, if but one 
Soft smile reward me when ’tis done.” 
He said, and plunged into the stream— 
His only light was the moon’s pale beam. 
“Stay ! stay !”? she cried—but he had caught 
The drooping flowers, and breathless sought 
To place the treasures at the feet 
Of her from whom e’en death were sweet. 



