Part 33

Byron.

FORGET-ME-NOT.

The name of this flower expresses clearly enough the meaning which is given to it. As a remembrancer it is universally received and eulogized. The name is derived from a German tradition, full of melancholy romance. It is related that a young couple, on the eve of being united, while walking along the banks of the Danube, saw a cluster of these flowers, floating on the stream, which was bearing it away. The affianced bride admired the beauty of the flower, and lamented its fatal destiny. The lover plunged into the water to secure it. No sooner had he caught it than he found himself sinking; but, making a last effort, he threw it on the bank at the feet of his betrothed, and, at the moment of disappearing for ever, exclaimed, “Vergiss mein nicht!” Since that event, this flower has been made emblematical of the sentiment, Forget-me-not. Its corollas are of a soft cerulean-blue colour, and it presents an interesting appearance as it grows along the banks of the rivers. The Forget-me-not is found in great perfection on the banks of a small stream near Luxembourg, in France. The stream is called the Fairies’ Bath, and its banks are the favourite resort of festive parties.

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That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, Hope’s gentle gem--the fair Forget-me-not.

Coleridge.

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Not on the mountain’s shelving side, Nor in the cultivated ground, Nor in the garden’s painted pride, The flower I seek is found. Where Time on sorrow’s page of gloom Has fixed its envious lot, Or swept the record from the tomb, It says Forget me not. And this is still the loveliest flower, The fairest of the fair, Of all that deck my lady’s bower, Or bind her floating hair.

Göthe.

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Together they sate by a river’s side, A knight and a lady gay, And they watched the deep and eddying tide Round a flowery islet stray. And, “Oh! for that flower of brilliant hue,” Said then the lady fair, “To grace my neck with the blossoms blue And braid my nut-brown hair!” The knight has plunged in the whirling wave All for his lady’s smile: And he swims the stream with courage brave, And he gains yon flowery isle. And his fingers have cropped the blossoms blue, And the prize they backward bear; To deck his love with the brilliant hue And braid her nut-brown hair. But the way is long, and the current strong, And alas for that gallant knight! For the waves prevail, and his stout arms fail, Though cheered by his lady’s sight. Then the blossoms blue to the bank he threw, Ere he sank in the eddying tide; And “Lady, I’m gone, thine own knight true, Forget me not,” he cried. This farewell pledge the lady caught; And hence, as legends say, The flower is a sign to awaken thought In friends who are far away. For the lady fair of her knight so true, Still remembered the hapless lot: And she cherished the flower of brilliant hue, And she braided her hair with the blossoms blue And then called it “Forget-me-not!”

Mant.

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To flourish in my favourite bower, To blossom round my cot, I cultivate the little flower They call Forget-me-not. This pretty little floweret’s dye Of soft cerulean blue, Appears as if from Ellen’s eye It had received its hue. Though oceans now betwixt us roar, Though distant be our lot, Ellen! though we should meet no more, Sweet maid, Forget me not!

Anon.

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Forget thee, love?--no, not while heaven Spans its starred vault across the sky; Oh, may I never be forgiven, If e’er I cause that heart a sigh! Sooner shall the Forget-me-not Shun the fringed brook by which it grows, And pine for some sequestered spot, Where not a silver ripple flows. By the blue heaven that bends above me, Dearly and fondly do I love thee! They fabled not in days of old That Love neglected soon will perish,-- Throughout all time the truth doth hold That what we love we ever cherish, For when the Sun neglects the Flower, And the sweet pearly dews forsake it, It hangs its head, and from that hour, Prays only unto Death to take it. So may I droop, by all above me, If once this heart doth cease to love thee! The turtle-dove that’s lost its mate, Hides in some gloomy greenwood shade, And there alone mourns o’er its fate, With plumes for ever disarrayed: Alone! alone! it there sits cooing:-- Deem’st thou, my love, what it doth seek? ’Tis Death the mournful bird is wooing, In murmurs through its plaintive beak. So will I mourn, by all above me, If in this world I cease to love thee!

Miller.

ROSEMARY.... Remembrance.

The Rosemary is so often mentioned by our early writers, both in prose, poetry, and our oldest dramas, that a long article, possessing great interest to such as love old-fashioned things, might be written upon it. The Rosemary was used both at their feasts and their funerals,--the christening-cup was stirred with it, and it was worn at their marriage ceremonies. Shakspeare has chosen it for the emblem of Remembrance, and who would attempt to change the meaning of a flower which his genius has hallowed, or disturb a leaf over which he has breathed his holy “superstition?”--in memory of him we use the latter word in all reverence. A few years ago it was customary, in many parts of England, to plant slips of Rosemary over the dead; nor has the practice yet fallen altogether into disuse--rural cemeteries will revive these ancient customs. Shakspeare chose the Rosemary as the emblem of affectionate remembrance, for its flowering in winter,--a very poetic and touching allusion. The sweet maniac, Ophelia, says,

There’s Rosemary, “That for remembrance, I pray you love, remember.”

I loved thee, and must love thee still, In memory of the past Amid whate’er of earthly ill My future lot is cast! E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime, When brightly from the urn of Time Life’s golden moments fell, Thou wert a peri to my eyes, Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise, In my young heart to dwell.

New York Mirror.

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Remember me, I pray; but not In Flora’s gay and blooming hour, When every brake hath found its note, And sunshine smiles in every flower; But when the falling leaf is sere, And withers sadly from the tree, And o’er the ruins of the year Cold autumn weeps,--remember me.

Edward Everett.

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The north wind howls; but, sheltered safe, and warm, Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger: The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”-- A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.” My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years, When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears Broke in upon the usual social chat, “You’ll fire the chimney, son!” The sparks would fly, Like little lumps of lightning up the flue, And snap and crackle as they soared on high, As if they felt some pleasure in it too! That fire is out--that hearth is cold--and they Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away.