S3 
GARDENS, WREATHS, See. 
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. 
TOR THE ORCHIS. 
0. W. HOLMES. 
STes, 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 — rta mirror’s glance — 
Its melting song — its ringing dance — 
Why in thy dream of virgin joy, 
Shouldst thou recall a pallid boy % 
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! 
