FORGET-ME-NOT; OR THE PHILIPENA. FORGET-ME-NOT. Go where the water glideth gently ever; And think of me. Wander in forests where the small flower layeth 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 day If 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 flit to thee, a thousand in an hour If 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 refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its "mountains wild and blue;" Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot; When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot. REV. J. MOULTRIE. MEMORIES. 9 MEMORIES. THE heart is not forgetful; the bright eye The world may pass before our careless sight, 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 too for the taste. There are times when the storm-gust may rattle 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, If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers, Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom; Then say not the world is a desert of thrall; 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- Can separate what was never joined. 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.— |