GIFT FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

We are Growing Old.

WE are growing old-how the thought will rise
When a glance is backward cast
On some long-remembered spot that lies
In the silence of the past:

It may be the shrine of our early vows,
Or the tomb of early tears;

But it seems like a far-off isle to us,

In the stormy sea of years.

Oh! wide and wild are the waves that part
Our steps from its greenness now,
And we miss the joy of many a heart,
And the light of many a brow;

For deep o'er many a stately bark

Have the whelming billows rolled

That steered with us from that early mark,— Oh, friends! we are growing old!

A Friend.

ANONYMOUS.

POOR is the friendless master of a world;
A world in purchase for a friend is gain.

YOUNG.

The Two Oceans.

Two seas amid the night,

In the moonshine roll and sparkle,
Now spread in the silver light,
Now sadden, and wail, and darkle.

The one has a billowy motion,

And from land to land it gleams;
The other is sleep's wide ocean,
And its glimmering waves are dreams.

The one with murmur and roar

Bears fleets round coast and islet;

The other, without a shore,

Ne'er knew the track of a pilot.

STERLING.

Lobe's Sympathy.

THERE is a secret sympathy in love;

The powerful loadstone cannot move a straw,

No more than jet the trembling needle draw.

SEDLEY.

The Streamlet.

How silently yon streamlet slides
From out the twilight-shaded bowers!
How, soft as sleep, it onward glides

In sunshine through its dreaming flowers!

That tranquil wave, now turned to gold
Beneath the slowly westering sun,
back on the wold,
Whose foam this morn we gazed upon!

It is the same,

The leaden sky-the barren waste-
The torrent we this morning knew,
How changed are all !-as now we haste
To bid them, with the day, adieu!

Ah thus, should Life and Love at last
Grow bright and sweet when Death is near;

May we, our course of trial passed,

Thus bathed in beauty, pass from here.

C. F. HOFFMAN.

Lines to a Lady.

MAIDEN! with the fair brown tresses
Shading o'er thy dreamy eye,
Floating on thy thoughtful forehead
Cloud wreaths of its sky.

Youthful years and maiden beauty,
Joy with them should still abide
Instinct take the place of duty-
Love, not Reason, guide.

Ever in the New rejoicing,
Kindly beckoning back the Old,
Turning, with a power like Midas,
All things into gold.

And the passing shades of sadness
Wearing even a welcome guise,
As when some bright lake lies open
To the sunny skies ;-

Every wing of bird above it,
Every light cloud floating on,
Glitters like that flashing mirror
In the self-same sun.

WHITTIER.

My Sister.

SUNNY and golden be

The lot in store for thee;

Peace smile upon thy path where'er thou goest; Health freshen on thy cheek

Its vermil to bespeak

How full and rich to thee each joy thou knowest.

Blest, sister, be thy love-
Blest here, and blest above!
Oh! be thy warm affections not in vain ;
But deep, and pure, and true,

Yield pleasures young and new,
To glad thy breast, like angel's, free from stain.

Thine, sister, be for aye,
That hope which springs on high;
Thine be the task to guard its sacred light,
With vestal's holy care;

Thy faith, this duty rare,

Wilt prove, and, proving, turn to day all night.

J. S. JENKINS.