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FORGET-ME-NOT;

OR THE

PHILIP EN A.

FORGET-ME-NOT.

Go where the water glideth gently ever ; Glideth through meadows that the greenest beWander beside our own beloved river,

And think of me.

Wander in forests where the small flower layeth
Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree;
Listen the dim brook, pining as it playeth,

And think of me.

And when the sky is silver pale at even,
And the wind grieveth through the lonely tree,
Go out beneath that solitary heaven,
And think of me.

ETONIAN,

8

FORGET THEE?

FORGET THEE?

Forget thee? If to dream by night, and muse on

thee by dayIf all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can

pay If prayers in absence, breathed for thee to Heaven's

protecting power If winged thoughts that fit to thee, a thousand in an

hourIf busy fancy, blending thee with all my future

lot, If this is called forgetting, thou, indeed, shalt be

forgot!

Forget thee? Bid the forest birds forget their

sweetest tune! Forget thee? Bid the sea forget to swell beneath

the moon ; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re

freshing dew; Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its

“ mountains wild and blue;" Forgot each old familiar face, each long-remem

bered spot; When these things are forgot hy thee, then thou shalt be forgot.

Rev. J. MOULTRIE.

MEMORIES.

9

MEMORIES.

The heart is not forgetful; the bright eye

To-day may gaze, and may forget 10-morrow;

But on the heart's pure tablet, joy and sorrow Are traced in lines that fade not; we may die, But we cannot forget rapture and agony.

The world may pass before our careless sight,

And day may press on day, and our years vanish

Numberless, noiseless, but we cannot banish The phantoms of the past-gloomy or bright, Our life's young morning sees them, and they haunt

our night. Then happy he whose memory is fraught

With virtuous images; his heart ungrieving

Shall muse upon them with a fond believing Of its own bliss. These things have I been taught By suffering, and by sorrow I this wisdom bought.

ANON.

10

THE

WORLD.

THE WORLD.

Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,

Yet, yet, there is bloom on the waste : Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall,

There are honey-drops 100 for the taste.

There are times when the storm-gust may ratllo

around, There are spots where the poison shrub grows; Yet are there not hours when naught else can be

found But the south wind, the sunshine, and rose ?

O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,

And strange is the path that we take, If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,

To soften the thorn and the brake.

Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom;

And the voice of the grateful will tell,
That he who alloiled pain, death, and the tomb,

Gave hope, health, and the bridal as well.

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall;

There is bloom, there is light on the waste; Though the chalice of life hath its acid and gall, There are honey-drops too for the taste.

ELIZA COOK

TO MY

WIFE.

11

TO MY WIFE.

PRESENTED, TOGETHER WITH A KNIFE, ON HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH HAPPENED TO BE HER

BIRTH-DAY AND NEW YEAR'S DAY.

(Written in the last century.)

A KNIFE, my dear, cuts love, they say-
Mere modish love perhaps it may ;
For any tool of any kind
Can separate what was never joined.
The knife that cuts our love in two
Will have much tougher work to do:
Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit
Down to the vulgar size of merit;
To level yours with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store
Clip what would dizen out a score.
The self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgment, sight forever;
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last,
All that makes fourteen years with you
A summer--and a short one too;
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours, without you, seem like years.-

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