TO MISS M

BY FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

I KNOW that thou art beautiful,—
In dreams I see thy face,

I see its dimples come and go
Like light in frolic grace.

Thy rich eyes steal before mine own
'Neath lashes long and dark,
And on thy softly rounded cheek,
The maiden bloom I mark.

And why is this? what wizard spell
Hath touched with prophet power
My fancy thus? a simple thing—

A tone-a word-a flower!

I heard thy voice-so gayly sweet—

I could not choose to guess,

The mouth that breath'd it wreath'd with smiles

Of playful loveliness.

It spoke to one whose tiny lips

To lisp thy name shall learn,
Though now they can but murmur soft
And answering smiles return.

In gentle words of love they spoke,

And I was very sure,

That all thy looks were eloquent,
With feeling high and pure.

I know that thou art beautiful,—
For thou hast told me so,

In a sweet language that I learned
Of Flora long ago.

Thou'st sent me from thy garden bower
The latest rosebud there,

Its blush was eloquent, its leaves
Were rife with meaning rare;
It told of virgin bloom and hope,
And modesty and truth:

Ah! what so fit as fragrant flowers
To emblem sunny youth?

It touched a weary stranger's heart,
That one she had not known,
Could give a kindly thought to her

In sadness and alone;

It minded her of days gone by,

When Love's untiring hand

Wove blossoms for her youthful brow,

That heart still warmly beats ith something of its olden joy, When such as thou she meets! d oft in future dreams shall rise The eye and glossy curl,

e soft rose-bloom and dimple Of the sweet-voiced English girl!

LOVE UNCHANGEABLE.

BY RUFUS DAWES.

YES! Still I love thee :-Time, who sets

His signet on my brow,

And dims my sunken eye, forgets

The heart he could not bow ;Where love, that cannot perish, grows For one, alas! that little knows

How love may sometimes last;

Like sunshine wasting in the skies,
When clouds are overcast.

The dew-drop hanging o'er the rose,
Within its robe of light,

Can never touch a leaf that blows,

Though seeming to the sight;

And yet it still will linger there,

Like hopeless love without despair,—

A snow-drop in the sun!

A moment finely exquisite,

Alas! but only one.