BALLADS.

FORGET-ME-NOT.

THERE is a flower, a tiny, modest thing,
That scarce itself could into notice bring,
Yet through the world it has so famous grown,
There blooms, perhaps, no flower better known.

To sentimental boys and girls most dear,
I shudder when its pretty name I hear,
Remembering it was baptized in death,

And christened with a dying man's last breath!

It was in Germany, in days of old,

A pair of lovers by a river strolled,

Indulging, doubtless, much the same day-dreams

That modern lovers dream by modern streams.

The maid all modesty, the youth all love,
Wishing, and not in vain, its strength to prove ;
For suddenly the girl a flower spied,
Growing in clusters by the water-side.

It was enough for her but to admire :

Had she but deigned the bright Sun to desire,
He would have scaled high Heaven for her dower,—
It was an easy thing to pluck a flower.

So down he rushed, and gathered eagerly
The pretty buds; but happening to see
Beneath his feet a group which fairer seem,
He stoops, and slips, and falls into the stream.

The tide was deep and rapid, and in vain
He bravely strove its steep shore to regain;
And still he would not, in his mortal strife,
Let go
the flowers that cost him his dear life!

So he was drowned before his mistress' eyes, Who could not aid, nor bring aid with her cries; And as he sank for ever from the spot,

Waving the flowers, he cried, "Forget me not!"

And ever since, that fatal little flower

Has borne the name bestowed in that dread hour; And, hearing once, I never have forgot

How it was christened the Forget-me-not.

ROLAND.

FROM distant wars, the brave Roland,
The Paladin renowned,

Returns to his dear Rhenish strand,

With well-won honour crowned.

Of all the Peers of Charlemagne,
So valiant in the fight-

Of all the sons of Allemagne,

He is the bravest Knight.

Where strife and battle rage most fierce,

His crest is sure to shine;

His lance is always first to pierce

The foe's deep serried line.

But now he comes with peaceful train,

His harness laid aside,

To tread his native halls again,

And claim his promised bride.

Fair Hildegarde for loveliness
Is famed as wide and far,

In beauty reigns supreme, no less

Than he excels in war.

Her hand the guerdon is, and prize

Of all his knightly deeds;

On love's impatient wings he flies,

And to her presence speeds.

He gains her bow'r; what fearful sight

His eager footstep stays?

Why starts he back in wild affright,

Recoiling in amaze ?