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On x Forget-AMe-Hot, 
BROUGHT FROM SWITZERLAND. 
Mrs. Kemble. 
Ey of the mountain! by the wanderer’s hand 
Robb’d of thy beauty’s short-lived sunny day ; 
Did’st thou but blow to gem the stranger’s way, 
And bloom to wither in the stranger’s land ? 
Hueless and scentless as thou art, 
How much that stirs the memory, 
How much, much more, that thrills the heart, 
Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee | 
Where is thy beauty? In the grassy blade 
There lives more fragrance and more freshness now; 
Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade 
Are half so dear to memory’s eye as thou. 
The dew that on the mountain lies, 
The breeze that o’er the mountain sighs, 
Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish, 
But thou—not e’en those sunny eyes, 
As bright, as blue as thine own skies, 
Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish. 












