Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back, I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline!" To a Forget-Me-Not, FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS. Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Didst once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Those tender words--Forget-me-not! Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought,-- And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not! Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought; When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not! That rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, When, yielding to my kiss, she said, "Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!" Alas for love! alas for truth! Alas for man's uncertain lot! Alas for all the hopes of youth That fade like thee--Forget-me-not! Alas for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought! That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering--Forget-me-not! Oh, Memory! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot, And many a cold and altered eye That once did say--Forget-me-not! And I must bow me to thy laws, For--odd although it may be thought-- I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave me this Forget-me-not! The Meeting. Once I lay beside a fountain, Lulled me with its gentle song, And my thoughts o'er dale and mountain With the clouds were borne along. There I saw old castles flinging Shadowy gleams on moveless seas, Saw gigantic forests swinging To and fro without a breeze; And in dusky alleys straying, Many a giant shape of power, Troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, Singing, dancing, hour on hour. I, too, trod these plains Elysian, Heard their ringing tones of mirth, But a brighter, fairer vision Called me back again to earth. From the forest shade advancing, See, where comes a lovely May; The dew, like gems, before her glancing, As she brushes it away! Straight I rose, and ran to meet her, Seized her hand--the heavenly blue Of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, As she asked me--"Who are you?" To that question came another-- What its aim I still must doubt-- And she asked me, "How's your mother? Does she know that you are out?" "No! my mother does not know it, Beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" "Then be off, my handsome poet, And say I sent you with the news!" The Mishap.