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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396281" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Forby Sutherland</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A LANE of elms in June;—the air <br> Of eve is cool and calm and sweet. <br>See! straying here a youthful pair, <br> With sad and slowly moving feet, <br> <br>On hand in hand to yon gray gate, <br> O’er which the rosy apples swing; <br>And there they vow a mingled fate, <br> One day when George the Third is king. <br> <br>The ring scarce clasped her finger fair, <br> When, tossing in their ivied tower, <br>The distant bells made all the air <br> Melodious with that golden hour. <br> <br>Then sank the sun out o’er the sea, <br> Sweet day of courtship fond,… the last! <br>The holy hours of twilight flee <br> And speed to join the sacred Past. <br> <br>The house-dove on the moss-grown thatch <br> Is murmuring love-songs to his mate, <br>As lovely Nell now lifts the latch <br> Beneath the apples at the gate. <br> <br>A plighted maid she nears her home, <br> Those gentle eyes with weeping red; <br>Too soon her swain must breast the foam, <br> Alas! with that last hour he fled. <br> <br>And, ah! that dust-cloud on the road, <br> Yon heartless coach-guard’s blaring horn; <br>But naught beside, that spoke or showed <br> Her sailor to poor Nell forlorn. <br> <br>She dreams; and lo! a ship that ploughs <br> A foamy furrow through the seas, <br>As, plunging gaily, from her bows <br> She scatters diamonds on the breeze. <br> <br>Swift, homeward bound, with flags displayed <br> In pennoned pomp, with drum and fife, <br>And all the proud old-world parade <br> That marks the man-o’-war man’s life. <br> <br>She dreams and dreams; her heart’s at sea; <br> Dreams while she wears the golden ring; <br>Her spirit follows lovingly <br> One humble servant of the king. <br> <br>And thus for years, since Hope survives <br> To cheer the maid and nerve the youth. <br>“Forget-me-not!”—how fair it thrives <br> Where planted in the soil of Truth! <br> <br>The skies are changed; and o’er the sea, <br> Within a calm, sequestered nook, <br>Rests at her anchor thankfully <br> The tall-sterned ship of gallant Cook. <br> <br>The emerald shores ablaze with flowers, <br> The sea reflects the smiling sky, <br>Soft breathes the air of perfumed bowers— <br> How sad to leave it all, and die! <br> <br>To die, when all around is fair <br> And steeped in beauty;—ah! ’t is hard <br>When ease and joy succeed to care, <br> And rest, to “watch” and “mounted guard.” <br> <br>But harder still, when one dear plan, <br> The end of all his life and cares, <br>Hangs by a thread; the dying man <br> Most needs our sympathy and prayers! <br> <br>’T was thus with Forby as he lay <br> Wan in his narrow canvas cot; <br>Sole tenant of the lone “sick bay,” <br> Though “mates” came round, he heard them not. <br> <br>For days his spirit strove and fought, <br> But, ah! the frame was all too weak. <br>Some phantom strange it seemed he sought, <br> And vainly tried to rise and speak. <br> <br>At last he smiled and brightened up, <br> The noonday bugle went; and he <br>Drained (’t was his last) the cooling cup <br> A messmate offered helpfully. <br> <br>His tongue was loosed—“I hear the horn! <br> Ah, Nell! my number ’s flying. See!— <br>The horses too;—they ’ve had their corn. <br> Alas, dear love!… I part from thee!” <br> <br>He waved his wasted hand, and cried, <br> “Sweet Nell! Dear maid! My own true Nell! <br>The coach won’t wait for me!”… and died— <br> And this was Forby’s strange farewell. <br> <br>Next morn the barge, with muffled oars, <br> Pulls slowly forth, and leaves the slip <br>With flags half-mast, and gains the shores, <br> While silence seals each comrade’s lip. <br> <br>They bury him beneath a tree, <br> His treasure in his bosom hid. <br>What was that treasure? Go and see! <br> Long since it burst his coffin-lid! <br> <br>Nell gave to Forby, once in play, <br> Some hips of roses, with the seeds <br>Of hedgerow plants, and flowerets gay <br> (In England such might count for weeds). <br> <br>“Take these,” cries smiling Nell, “to sow <br> In foreign lands; and when folk see <br>The English roses bloom and grow, <br> Some one may bless an unknown me.” <br> <br>The turf lies green on Forby’s bed, <br> A hundred years have passed, and more, <br>But twining over Forby’s head <br> Are Nell’s sweet roses on that shore. <br> <br>The violet and the eglantine, <br> With sweet-breathed cowslips, deck the spot, <br>And nestling ’mid them in the shine, <br> The meek, blue-eyed “Forget-me-not!” </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Gordon+McCrae">George Gordon McCrae</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396281" data-title="Forby Sutherland de George Gordon McCrae" data-description="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, 
 
On hand in hand to yon gray gate, 
 O’er which the rosy apples swing; 
And there they vow a mingled..."></div>
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