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| A LANE of elms in June;—the air | |
| Of eve is cool and calm and sweet. | |
| See! straying here a youthful pair, | |
| With sad and slowly moving feet, | |
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| On hand in hand to yon gray gate, | 5 |
| O’er which the rosy apples swing; | |
| And there they vow a mingled fate, | |
| One day when George the Third is king. | |
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| The ring scarce clasped her finger fair, | |
| When, tossing in their ivied tower, | 10 |
| The distant bells made all the air | |
| Melodious with that golden hour. | |
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| Then sank the sun out o’er the sea, | |
| Sweet day of courtship fond,… the last! | |
| The holy hours of twilight flee | 15 |
| And speed to join the sacred Past. | |
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| The house-dove on the moss-grown thatch | |
| Is murmuring love-songs to his mate, | |
| As lovely Nell now lifts the latch | |
| Beneath the apples at the gate. | 20 |
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| A plighted maid she nears her home, | |
| Those gentle eyes with weeping red; | |
| Too soon her swain must breast the foam, | |
| Alas! with that last hour he fled. | |
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| And, ah! that dust-cloud on the road, | 25 |
| Yon heartless coach-guard’s blaring horn; | |
| But naught beside, that spoke or showed | |
| Her sailor to poor Nell forlorn. | |
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| She dreams; and lo! a ship that ploughs | |
| A foamy furrow through the seas, | 30 |
| As, plunging gaily, from her bows | |
| She scatters diamonds on the breeze. | |
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| Swift, homeward bound, with flags displayed | |
| In pennoned pomp, with drum and fife, | |
| And all the proud old-world parade | 35 |
| That marks the man-o’-war man’s life. | |
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| She dreams and dreams; her heart’s at sea; | |
| Dreams while she wears the golden ring; | |
| Her spirit follows lovingly | |
| One humble servant of the king. | 40 |
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| And thus for years, since Hope survives | |
| To cheer the maid and nerve the youth. | |
| “Forget-me-not!”—how fair it thrives | |
| Where planted in the soil of Truth! | |
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| The skies are changed; and o’er the sea, | 45 |
| Within a calm, sequestered nook, | |
| Rests at her anchor thankfully | |
| The tall-sterned ship of gallant Cook. | |
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| The emerald shores ablaze with flowers, | |
| The sea reflects the smiling sky, | 50 |
| Soft breathes the air of perfumed bowers— | |
| How sad to leave it all, and die! | |
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| To die, when all around is fair | |
| And steeped in beauty;—ah! ’t is hard | |
| When ease and joy succeed to care, | 55 |
| And rest, to “watch” and “mounted guard.” | |
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| But harder still, when one dear plan, | |
| The end of all his life and cares, | |
| Hangs by a thread; the dying man | |
| Most needs our sympathy and prayers! | 60 |
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| ’T was thus with Forby as he lay | |
| Wan in his narrow canvas cot; | |
| Sole tenant of the lone “sick bay,” | |
| Though “mates” came round, he heard them not. | |
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| For days his spirit strove and fought, | 65 |
| But, ah! the frame was all too weak. | |
| Some phantom strange it seemed he sought, | |
| And vainly tried to rise and speak. | |
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| At last he smiled and brightened up, | |
| The noonday bugle went; and he | 70 |
| Drained (’t was his last) the cooling cup | |
| A messmate offered helpfully. | |
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| His tongue was loosed—“I hear the horn! | |
| Ah, Nell! my number ’s flying. See!— | |
| The horses too;—they ’ve had their corn. | 75 |
| Alas, dear love!… I part from thee!” | |
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| He waved his wasted hand, and cried, | |
| “Sweet Nell! Dear maid! My own true Nell! | |
| The coach won’t wait for me!”… and died— | |
| And this was Forby’s strange farewell. | 80 |
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| Next morn the barge, with muffled oars, | |
| Pulls slowly forth, and leaves the slip | |
| With flags half-mast, and gains the shores, | |
| While silence seals each comrade’s lip. | |
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| They bury him beneath a tree, | 85 |
| His treasure in his bosom hid. | |
| What was that treasure? Go and see! | |
| Long since it burst his coffin-lid! | |
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| Nell gave to Forby, once in play, | |
| Some hips of roses, with the seeds | 90 |
| Of hedgerow plants, and flowerets gay | |
| (In England such might count for weeds). | |
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| “Take these,” cries smiling Nell, “to sow | |
| In foreign lands; and when folk see | |
| The English roses bloom and grow, | 95 |
| Some one may bless an unknown me.” | |
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| The turf lies green on Forby’s bed, | |
| A hundred years have passed, and more, | |
| But twining over Forby’s head | |
| Are Nell’s sweet roses on that shore. | 100 |
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| The violet and the eglantine, | |
| With sweet-breathed cowslips, deck the spot, | |
| And nestling ’mid them in the shine, | |
| The meek, blue-eyed “Forget-me-not!” | |
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