THE WALLFLOWER.

ANON.

CHEERFUL 'midst desolation's sadness-thou—
Fair flower, art wont to grace the mouldering pile,
And brightly bloom o'er ruin, like a smile
Reposing calm on age's furrowed brow—
Sweet monitor! an emblem sure I see
Of virtue, and of virtue's power, in thee.
For though thou cheerest the dull ruin's gloom,
Still when thou'rt found upon the gay parterre,
There thou art sweetest-fairest of the fair ;-
So virtue, while it robs of dread the tomb,

Shines in the crown that youth and beauty wear,
Being best of all the gems that glitter there.

THE NAMING OF THE WALLFLOWER.

HERRICK.

WHY this flower is now called so,
List, sweet maids, and you shall know.
Understand this firstling was

Once a brisk and bonny lass,
Kept as close as Danaë was,
Who a sprightly springald loved;
And to have it fully proved,
Up she got upon a wall,
'Tempting down to slide withal;
But the silken twist untied,

So she fell, and, bruised, she died.

HIS lovely little flower has a charming legend attached 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 them, 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.

With outstretched arms upon the shore she stood, With tearful eye she gazed upon the flood,

Whose swelling tide now seemed as if 'twould sever Her faithful lover from her arms for ever.

Still through the surge he panting strove to gain The welcome strand-but, ah! he strove in vain !

Yet once the false stream bore him to the spot
Where stood his bride in muteness of despair:
And scarcely had he said, "Forget me not!"
And flung the dearly ransomed flowerets there,
When the dark wave closed o'er him, and no more,
Was seen young Rodolph on the Danube's shore.

Aghast she stood; she saw the tranquil stream
Pass o'er him-could it be a fleeting dream?
Ah, no! the last fond words, "Forget me not!"
Told it was all a sad reality.

With frantic grasp the dripping flowers she prest,
Too dearly purchased, to her aching breast.

Alas! her tears, her sorrows now were vain,
For him she loved she ne'er shall see again!
Is this then a bridal, where, sad in her bower,
The maid weeps alone at the nuptial hour;
Where hushed is the harp, and silent the lute—
Ah! why should their thrilling strains be mute?
And where is young Rodolph? where stays the
bridegroom?

Go, ask the dark waters, for there is his tomb.

Often at eve when maidens rove

Beside the Danube's wave,

They tell the tale of hapless love,
And show young Rodolph's grave;

And cull the flowers from that sweet spot,
Still calling them "Forget-me-Not."

THE LEGEND OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

ANONYMOUS.

FAREWELL! my true and loyal knight! on yonder battle

field

Many a pearl and gem of price will gleam on helm and shield:

But bear thou on thy silver crest this pure and simple wreath,

A token of thy ladye's love-unchanging to the death.

They seem, I know, these fragrant flowers, those fairy stars of blue,

As maidens' eyes had smiled on them, and given them that bright hue;

As only fitting but to bind a lady's hair or lute,

And not with war or warrior's crest in armed field to suit.

But there's a charm in every leaf, a deep and mystic spell; Then take the wreath, my loyal knight, our Lady shield thee well;

And though still prouder favours deck the gallant knights of France,

Oh, be the first in every field, La Fleur de Souvenance !

How bland, how still this summer eve, sure never gentler hour,

For lay of love, or sigh of lute, to breathe in lady's bower;