GARDENS, WREATHS, &c. &3 



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 

 Of a soul that in peace and purity dwells, 

 By the tenderness glassed in the depths of thine eye 

 I know thou wilt not pass the last Violet by. 



LINES TO A BELLE. 



FOR THE ORCHIS. 

 0. W. HOLMES. 



Yes, lady! I can ne'er forget 

 That once in other years we met ; 

 Thy memory may perchance recall 

 A festal eve — a rose-wreathed hall. 

 Its taper's blaze — its mirror's glance — 

 Its melting song — its ringing dance — 

 Why in thy dream of virgin joy, 

 Shouldst thou recall a pallid boyl 



Thine eye had other forms to seek — 

 Why rest upon his bashful cheek 1 

 With other tones thy heart was stirred 

 Why waste on him a gentle word % 



