GIFT FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

A Love Song.

GIVE me but thy heart, though cold;
I ask no more!

Give to others gems and gold,

But leave me poor.

Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles;
Cast o'er others all thy wiles;

But let thy tears flow fast and free,
For me, with me!

Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart?

A word-no more?

It is Music's sweetest part,

When lips run o'er!

"Tis a part I fain would learn,

So pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn,
And teach me, to the close,

All Love's pleasures-all its woes!

PROCTOR.

113

Lines sent with a Bouquet.

FLOWERS are Love's paper pictured o'er
With gentle hopes and fears;
Their blushes are the smiles of Love,
And their soft dew his tears!
Ah! more than poet's pen can write,
Or poet's tongue reveal,
Is hidden by their folded buds
And by their rosy seal.

Mute letters! yet how eloquent!
Expressive silence dwells

In every blossom heaven creates,
Like sound in ocean shells.
Press to my flowers thy lips, beloved,
And then thy heart will see
Inscribed upon their leaves the words

I dare not breathe to thee.

PARK BENJAMIN.

Stanzas.

I OFFER thee no pledge! I ask for none
To bind thy love in endless constancy;
I only know that what affection won,
Will keep my heart still faithful unto thee.

I ask thee not when brighter eyes are near, And lips more lovely gently smile on thee, To turn unconscious, from the young and fair, And give thine undivided thoughts to me!

Free as the eagle by the spirit's wing,

Upward and onward its unwearied flight; No cloud-no fetter, would my proud heart bring,

To check its progress to the realms of light.

But oh! should sorrow dim the bright'ning scene,

Or disappointment's shade upon thee fall; Then think what fond devotion mine hath been,

And still, beloved one! on its fervor call.

Mine the dear privilege, where'er thou goeth,
To mark thy course, and glory in thy fame,
While love's deep tide continually o'erfloweth
From my full heart in blessings on thy name.
MRS. A. P. DINNIES.

Mother and Child.

My heart grew softer as I gazed upon

That youthful mother as she soothed to rest With a low song her loved and cherished oneThe bud of promise on her gentle breast; For 'tis a sight that angel ones above

May stoop to gaze on from their bowers of bliss, When Innocence upon the breast of Love Is cradled, in a sinful world like this.

MRS. A. B. WELBY.

Be Doing.

WE were not meant to struggle from our birth, To skulk and creep, and in mean pathway!

range;

Act! with stern truth, large faith, and lovin

will!

Up and be doing! God is with us still.

LOWELL.