In the bosom of his blouse

Puts some, others in his shoes.

Valued not, as down he stooped
From his breast the blue flower drooped,
And fell upon the glittering soil,
All unheeded midst the spoil.
Then, encumbered with his store,
Powerless quite to carry more,
Back towards the light of day
Walter slowly bent his way.

Hark! he heard a feeble sigh,

And a low imploring cry:

'Forget me not! Forget me not!

Ah! what spake he little knew,
It was the magic flowret blue;
But he turned again and took
Round that mighty vault a look.
Misconstrued the voice that spoke,
From the side two gems he broke-

Diamond drops like frozen tears—

And (filled each pocket, pouch and poke) Thrust the jewels in his ears.

Once again the feeble sigh,

Once again the entreating cry,

'Forget me not! Forget me not!'

But, the voice no more discerned,

Towards the gate again he turned.

Then a rumble, roar, a shock,
Bowed and reeled the living rock.
In his terror Walter fled,

Stones were falling round his head,
Right and left the gems he threw
As he towards the entrance flew,
Cast each diamond padded shoe,
Reached the gate, was nearly through—

Hark! a boom and burst of thunder,

Reels the mountain with a crash,

Then the sides together clash,

And the youth is cut asunder.

Friend! some little flower may lie

In hollows of thy memory,

That pleads to thee with earnest cry,—

'Forget me not! Forget me not!'

Some little flower, not long to last,

Would mysteries ope long bolted fast,
If firmly to thy bosom claspt;

Some flower whose touch would open hurl
The heavenly gates of lucid pearl ;

Some little flower, that ne'er again,
Though sought in penitence and pain,
Once lost, thou ever canst regain—
Forget it not! Forget it not!

THE THREE CROWNS.

[LABATA, Thesaurus Moralis. Colon. 1652.]

'WHEN the morning breaketh,

Summon me for Prime; When the white light waketh, Boy! the church-bell chime ;'

Said the Priest, and wended,
Weary, to his bed;

Laid upon his pillow

Low his heavy head.

Sideways set Orion,

Louting on one knee,

Holding up his cudgel,

Dipping in the sea.

Slowly o'er the pine-tops
Wheeled about the Bear;

All night long the water

Whispered on the weir.

As the eyelid fluttered
Of arousing dawn,

O'er the jagged horizon

Threads of light were drawn,

Peering 'twixt the fir-boles

Plastered with the snow,

Wan and white, uncoloured,

Eastward, lying low.

Harshly from the tower

Clamoured forth the bell,

Making morning slumbers

Chequered where it fell.

Then the Friar, waking,

Turned upon his side:

'Keenly cold is biting,'

Muttered he, and sighed.