Gives signal sweet through the old hall
Of" hands across," and "down the middle."
L.-Nothing is so easy for a lady as to introduce herself -but recollect that nothing is more difficult than to do it gracefully, and without offending the rules of modesty and propriety. D. M. A.
G.-If you would wish to shine in the "beau monde"
And gain the good opinion of the fair,
No conjuration in this world is found
So good as flattery's enticing air;
I've seen it often tried, and never yet
Have seen it fail to catch them in the net.
L.-Try flattery-few men can stand the proof,
If properly applied, and strong enough.
G.-I think there is a rival in the case,
A very rich, and very stupid fellow.
L.-The bee thro' many a garden roves,.
And hums the lay of courtship o'er,
But, when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and sings no more.
G. She loves the invisible lutes of the air,
The chords that vibrate to the hands of the fair,
Where minstrelsy brightens the midnight of care,
And steals to the heart like a dove;
But even in melody there is a choice,
And though she in all its sweet forms may rejoice,
There's none thrills her soul like the tones of the voice
When breathed by the one she doth love.
L.-He longs not for the cherries on the trees,
So much as those which on a lip he sees;
And more affection bears he to the rose
That in a cheek than in a garden grows.
'Twill range and ramble wherever it will,
And as it lists, be fierce or still—
Gentle and mild with the morning light,
Yet growl like a fettered fiend ere night;
'Twill love, and cherish, and bless to-day
What to-morrow it ruthlessly rends away.
G.-To have a breast at sorrow's call
To tremble like her own;
If from her eyes the tear-drops fall,
They should not fall alone;
With soul, like heaven's aerial bow,
To blend each light within its glow
Of joy, or sorrow known.
Albany Advertiser.
L. That he may have an eye to gaze in his,
An ear to listen for his coming step
A voice of love, with tones like joy's own bells,
To ring their silver changes on his ear!
A yielding hand to thrill within his own,
And lips of melting sweetress, full and warm,
To tell him that the precious boon of love
Shall bless his heart till earthly life shall end.
Grace Greenwood.
G.-Trust her not-her words, though sweet,
Seldom with her heart do meet;
All her practice is deceit ;
Every gift, it is a bait;
Not a kiss but poison bears,
And most treason in her tears.
L.-They told you when you knew him first
He was not made for loving,
That next St. Valentine's would see
His truant heart gone roving;
That he would weary of your love,
Turn from you, and forever!
That you would meekly bow and weep,
But chide the rover never.
Ah! those were mournful prophecies,
To cloud the sky of youth,
And you and he but little thought
So soon to test their truth!
You have those sad truths witnesses,
Proofs manifold, and living,
He is for-getting your poor heart,
And you are still for-giving!
G.-If to treasure every token,
Every look, and every sign,
Every light word thou hast spoken,
Be to love thee-she is thine.
L. He loves thee-not because thy brow
Is bright and beautiful as day,
Nor that, on thy sweet lip, the glow
Is joyous as the sunny ray;
No-though he saw thee fairest far,
The sun, that hid each meaner star,
Yet 'twas not this that taught him first
The love that silent tears have nursed.
could every beauty wane,
Till not one noble trace remain;
Could genius sink in dull decay,
And wisdom cease to lend her ray;
Should all that he has worshipped, change,
E'en this would not his heart estrange;
Thou still would'st be the first, the first,
That taught the love sad tears have nursed.
Mrs. Embury.
G. Call in the evening, or call in the morning,
Call when you're looked for, or call without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find there before you;
And the oftener you call there, the more she'll adore
Light is her heart since the day you were plighted,
Red is her cheek that they told you was blighted;
The green of the tree looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!'
O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer.
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor.
She'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above her,
Then, wandering, she'll wish you, in silence, to love her.
You'll look on the stars, and you'll list to the river,
'Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeable beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
And our souls flow in one down eternity's river
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