And long have I wanted the hand that might save, My tempest-bowed form from a snow-covered grave. Thou art come!-thou art come!-ay, I know thee now, By the silent step, and the thoughtful brow, By the calm, sweet smile on the lip, which tells By the tenderness glassed in the depths of thine eye, LINES TO A BELLE. FOR THE ORCHIS. 0. W. HOLMES. YES, lady! I can ne'er forget Thine eye had other forms to seek - With other tones thy heart was stirred - We parted, lady! all night long Thine ear to thrill with dance and song; A thing thou scarce would deign to scorn. And, lady, now that years have past, My barque has reached the shore at last; Thy lip is smoothed, thy voice is sweet, Nay, lady! 't is not now for me Oh, changing youth! that evening hour Looked down on ours, the bud, the flower; One faded in its virgin soil, And one was nursed in tears and toil; Which now can meet the cold, the storm, Ay, lady, that once haughty glance A CLUMP OF DAISIES. RICHARD DANA. YE daisies gay, This fresh spring day, Close gathered here together, To play in the light, To sleep all night, To abide through the sullen weather. Ye creatures bland, A simple band, Ye free ones linked in pleasure, And linked when your forms Stoop low in the storms, And the rain comes down without measure. When wild clouds fly Athwart the sky, And ghostly shadows glancing, Are darkening the gleam Of the hurrying stream, And your close, bright heads gayly dancing. Though dull awhile, Again ye smile, For, see, the warm sun breaking, There's nothing sad, And the small bird his song is waking. The dew-drop sip With dainty lip, The sun is low descended, And Moon, softly fall On troop true and small, Sky and earth in one kindly blended. And Morning, spread Their jewelled bed With lights in the east sky springing, And Brook, breathe around Thy low murmured sound, May they move, ye birds, to your singing, For in thy play, I hear them say, Here, man, thy wisdom borrow, In heart be a child, In word, true and mild, Hold by faith, come joy, or come sorrow. INVOCATION TO A WREATH OF TRANSATLANTIC FLOWERS. MRS. M. BALMANNO. YE flowers that o'er the dark dread sea, Like faded mourners come, By your past beauty, tell to me A tale of mine own home. What of my Father, hardy leaf Of Albion's bulwark tree? He lives-unharmed by age or grief, His emblem I to thee; His step is firm, his eye is bright, As when, thy childhood to delight, What of my Mother, lovely rose, Speak for my tears are nigh? Look on the stream that placid flows, And the unclouded sky: For these in heaven's own language show |