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THE HEART’S MOTTO.
The sailor, tost on stormy seas,Though far his bark may roam,Still hears a voice in every breezeThat wakens thoughts of home.He thinks upon his distant friends,His wife, his humble cot;And from his inmost heart ascendsThe prayer—"Forget me not!"
The sculptor, painter, while they traceOn canvas, or in stone,Another's figure, form, or face,Our motto's spirit own;Each thus would like to leave behindHis semblance and for what?But that the thought which fills his mindIs this—"Forget me not!"
The poet too, who, borne alongIn thought to distant time,Pours forth his inmost soul in song,Holds fast this hope sublime!He would a glorious name bequeath,Oblivion shall not blot,And round that name his thoughts enwreathThe words—"Forget me not!"
Our motto is, in truth, the voiceOf nature in the heart;For who from mortal life, by choice,Forgotten would depart?
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