SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER

“Sweetheart, take this,” a soldier said,

“And bid me brave good-by;

It may befall we ne'er shall wed,

But love can never die.

Be steadfast in thy troth to me,

And then, whate'er my lot,

‘ My soul to God, my heart to thee,’ —

Sweetheart, forget me not!”

The maiden took the tiny flower

And nursed it with her tears:

Lo! he who left her in that hour

Came not in after years.

Unto a hero's death he rode

‘ Mid shower of fire and shot;

But in the maiden's heart abode

The flower, forget-me-not.

And when he came not with the rest

From out the years of blood,

Closely unto her widowed breast

She pressed a faded bud;

Oh, there is love and there is pain,

And there is peace, God wot,—

And these dear three do live again

In sweet forget-me-not.

‘ T is to an unmarked grave to-day

That I should love to go,—

Whether he wore the blue or gray,

What need that we should know?

“He loved a woman,” let us say,

And on that sacred spot,

To woman's love, that lives for aye,

We'll strew forget-me-not.