Not sweet to smell, nor fair to sight, Who feasted on continual fasting, Art thou indeed "the Everlasting?" Yes, so indeed, 'tis ever so; 'Tis right that God should only show His goodness for a little while. Brief is the being of a smile, But think not, therefore, that the good He only lets us have a taste Of heavenly good, and then in haste To seek it at the fountain-head ; The idol of the permanent,— A something very like, indeed, But not the same; a worthless weed That hath the form, but not the power, The juice, or fragrance of a flower. THE FORGET-ME-NOT. THERE is a little and a pretty flower, Sweet was the fancy of those antique ages That put a heart in every stirring leaf, Writing deep morals upon Nature's pages, Turning sweet flowers into deathless sages, To calm our joy and sanctify our grief. And gladly would I know the man or child, Fain would I know, and yet I can but guess, How the blue floweret won a name so sweet. Did some fond mother, bending down to bless Her sailing son, with last and fond caress, Give the small plant to guard him through the fleet? Did a kind maid, that thought her lover all By which a maid would fain belovèd be, Make of the flower an am'rous coronal, That still should breathe and whisper, "Think of me?" But were I good and holy as a saint, Or hermit dweller in secluded grot, If e'er the soul in hope and love were faint, Then, like an antidote to mortal taint, I'd give the pretty flower Forget-me-not. |