THE LAY OF THE "FORGET ME NOT."

BY GEORGE WALKER.

LADY! you ask why yonder simple flower,
That blooms so lowly in your favourite bower,
Is call'd" Forget me not!"—and whence the fame
Love and Romance have twined around the name.
While brighter blossoms scent the balmy air,
And sigh to shine in beauty's waving hair,
While the pale lily shakes her silvery bells,
And clust'ring myrtles crown the mossy dells,
-The pride of Flora's many-colour'd band,
In vain they court the Rhenish maiden's hand.
Her bosom heaves with sympathetic sigh,
A gentle smile lights up both lip and eye,
The tear-drop falls adown her ivory cheek,
And thus dear woman's kindliest feelings speak-
She lingers pensive o'er the fragrant spot,
And wreathes her ringlets with Forget me not!

Where Rhine's blue torrents like an arrow rush,
As from a myriad mountain springs they gush
In foaming pride adown the craggy height,
Streaming, like day, from darkness into light,
And onward rolls, impetuous to be

Lost in the calmness of the mighty sea-
Where the tall Linden trees in countless ranks
Wave in their majesty, above the banks,
And flowering shrubs of every beauteous hue
Scent the soft breeze and drink the kindly dew,
Fringing the rapid river's shelving side,
While balmy zephyrs o'er the blossoms glide-
At that soft moment, when the hot sun's blaze
Gives place to clouds of thousand dazzling rays—
Flinging their golden, glowing, beams around,
And calmly stilling every earth-born sound :
Save the small hum of beetle and of bee
Sailing to rest in tower, or in tree;
Save the low murmur of the gliding stream,
Loitering to catch the sun-god's latest beam ;-
Along the path two happy lovers stray'd—
How dear to Conrad was that gentle maid!
And oh! how fondly Ida lov'd to dwell
On each soft word which from her Conrad fell!
They rank'd among the nobles of the land;
And he, who formed by nature's master-hand
The chosen pride of all his country's youth,
Whose honour was the purest soul of truth,

Had look'd in lovely Ida's deep blue eyes

Till heaven's own light seem'd beaming from those skies.
No churlish relatives forbade their bliss;

Warm glowed the hearts which yielded her for his;
-They were affianc'd: troths had long been given,
And holy vows enregister'd in heaven;
Hands fondly plighted for God's sacred ends,
And weighty parchments seal'd by smiling friends.
The time was fix'd. "And soon, my Ida dear,
The church will bless our hallow'd union here;
But three short days! and to our halls with pride
I bear my beautiful, my blushing bride!"

Thus Conrad.-What that smiling lady said
May well be guess'd: as hung her lovely head,
Soft joy was dancing in her dark blue eye,
Bright as the beams of Italy's warm sky.
Yes! she was fair as lofty Jura's snows

When the fierce sun upon their white peak glows;
And she was purer than the purest gold
Dug by mean slaves from Mexico's red mould;
And she had wit, sense, talent,-framed to keep
The chained soul bound fast in love's sweet sleep.
Her swan-like neck, encircled by a host
Of dusky ringlets, in confusion tost,

Her white teeth shining through her damask lips,—
Oh! never Hybla's bee such honey sips

As may thereon be gathered-heart, lie still—
Olympian Jove might bow beneath her will;
But she is Conrad's-pledg'd her every breath.
Conrad's for ever-or in life or death.

*

The lovers linger'd by the river's side, And hung enchanted o'er the storied tide; For clustering flowerets grew thickest there, Adding new odours to the fragrant air; Of every hue and scent they sparkling shine, Like diamonds in dark Golconda's mine, Or like those blooming, amaranthine bowers In which Love, with his Psyche, pass'd their hoursSo beauteous and so brilliant was the throng Of buds which shone Rhine's fairy banks along; Beneath that golden sunset softly sleeping,

Like lambs on Calpe's mount in Hermes' keeping.

O, wondrous workings of the human heart!

O fickle will! how well thou playest thy part;
Give us the hermit's food-dried grapes and bread,—
We pine from daintier dishes to be fed;
Lodged with Lucullus in his halls of state,
We loathe the costly meats which pile our plate;
And when his wines in golden goblets gleam,
Would slake our thirst at some pellucid stream;

So while June's roses fill our garden's mazes,
Child-like, we covet buttercups and daisies.
Ida is mortal-and is woman too,

Perhaps the blossom charms because 'tis blue;
For she has often heard her Conrad swear
Her azure eyes like beaming sapphires were.
-However this may be-one bud she sees
Of pink and blue, amid the roots of trees,

Which spring from out the caverns of the Rhine,

"Dost mark that flower, my Conrad?—would 'twere mine!” -Laugh'd the bold youth-" Oh, may each young desire Of gentle Ida never tax me higher!

Through life, in blessed union as we rove,

Give me but aye to please thee, maid of love,
Flowerets to snatch from mountain torrents' waves,
Or coral wreaths from mermaids' shining caves!"
But Rhine's steep bank forbids to pluck the flower,
And Conrad, in that happy, sportive hour,
Drops carelessly from off the rocky steep,
And nears the azure buds by one light leap
Across the waters-for the wreath he strains-

And hastily the fancied trophy gains;
With arm extended o'er the gliding stream,

He sees the prize beneath his fingers gleam,

Plucks the blue flower, and "Victory! Ida," calls,

-The false stones slip, and now, by Heaven, he falls!
Borne, like a bubble, on the sweeping wave,
Vainly he strives to 'scape so stern a grave:
Shark-like, the river twines around its prey,
And Rhine's strong current carries all away.

Hark, to yon scream of thrilling agony!
He sinks! he sinks! and Ida, helpless, by!
Confounded, chill'd to ice, the maiden stands,
Bound hand, and foot, and soul, in iron bands,-
Quailing beneath that dreadful anguish-stroke,
As the young tree by God's blue lightning broke.
-Conrad is faint-he may not struggle long,
Rapid the waters rush, and deep as strong;
In vain he wrestles with his giant foe,
Slowly he yields-though certainly as slow.
-He drinks in death; but, true to his bright soul,
Scorns, while he drains, the venom of the bowl;

Still proudly battles in the desperate strife,

Firm to his purpose, reckless of his life.
-Waving the fatal flower aloft in air,
Conrad but thinks upon his Ida there.

Clenching the blue small blossoms in his grasp,
(Of earth the latest things his hand may clasp,)
With one strong bound he gains-a moment more,
And in that instant-nearly wins the shore;
On Ida's feet he throws the flowering knot,
And, calmly sinking, cries,-" Forget me not."

SONNET. BY SIDNEY GILES.

Yes, the deep waters close above his head,
And Conrad sleeps among the peaceful dead.
And Ida withers in the world alone,
Like Niobe, Canova-carv'd of stone,-
Love, joy, and Conrad, all for ever gone!

He died for her he lov'd in life so well,
O, wretched Ida! still with us to dwell.
His body lies amid Rhine's rolling water,

His soul is yet with earth's most suffering daughter;
-Oh! let me not profane in rhyme so rude,

That heart's unutterable solitude.

-Sacred the veil-break not dark sorrow's seal,
To probe the wound we cannot hope to heal.

*

HERE Springs the fountain, which of old did slake
The thirst of pilgrims, who in deep distress
Wandered world-wearied through life's wilderness.
Good men in bonds, and martyrs at the stake,
And those whom bigots on the wheel did break,
Here drank, and felt fresh courage to profess
Their faith in Him who came mankind to bless;
Nor bonds, nor tortures, could that courage shake.
They calmly bore, calmly to death did sink,

And such is now their noblest epitaph.
And shall we then from our light suff'rings shrink?
Faint while such living streams are here to quaff?
No! from this fount more frequent will we drink,
Nor fear the worldling's taunt, nor scorner's laugh.
SIDNEY GILES.

SKETCHES OF A SEA LIFE.

PART II.

THE MIDSHIPMAN.

THE time to which we refer our reader, was at that period of the late war when the French government, no doubt emboldened by their fortunate campaigns in various parts of the world, and envious of our successful trade in the West Indies, made several desperate attempts to take from us some of the most flourishing colonies we possessed in those seas upon which many of their ships of war were kept constantly cruizing.

They who have been at St. Vincents, which is one of the most salubrious of the Caribbee islands, are aware that the capital, Kingstown, lies near its south-west extremity, almost a mile along the shore of a deep and beautiful bay, protected by a battery at the south or Cain Garden point, and by Fort Charlotte on the north-west, situated upon a high promontory, commanding the town and bay, and forming, together with the former, the chief defence of the island.

It was a beautiful evening in April, 18-; a welcome and cooling sea breeze played upon the rippling water, which was gratefully hailed by a crowd of curiosity-struck spectators, who were listlessly sauntering upon the beach, awaiting the arrival of a large looming ship that appeared in the offing. On the vessel came, dashing along with the tide, and majestically careening to the power that propelled her through the brine, looking in the distance like some white cloud settled down upon the ocean. Many were the surmises expressed respecting the stranger while out at sea; but not a single doubt remained on the minds of those who were gazing at her, with reference to her character, when they observed the smart and magic-like manner in which she was stripped of her canvas on arriving at the mooring ground in the centre of the bay. Scarcely had the splash made by her anchor falling into the water subsided, scarcely had the tide swung the vessel round with her stern towards the shore, ere the whole of her sails were observed to be furled, her yards squared, her running gear hauled taut, and everything aloft in perfect shipshape order. Such is the expertness and superior discipline that ever prevails on board a king's ship, which by this time the stranger was generally pronounced to be.

Soon a cutter was observed to be shoved from alongside the newly arrived vessel. As the boat was steered towards the landing place she seemed literally to be lifted out of the water by the powerful and well feathered strokes of the six noble looking and black whiskered tars by whom her oars were manned. In the stern sheets of the boat sat a sour visaged man about thirty-five years of age, in the neat full dress uniform of a post-captain in the Royal British Navy; and opposite to him a delicate featured youth of thirteen or fourteen summers, in the uniform of a midshipman in the same service. The latter was acting in the capacity of officer in charge of the cutter.