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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



A SONG OF THE SUNBEAM. 



The sunbeam, oh, the sunbeam 



It is beautiful to see, 

 As it danceth in the ocean's breast, 



Or sleepeth on the lea; ' 



As it crowns with gold the forest trees, 

 . And tills the vale with light, 

 And maketh glorious appear 



Rude crag and rocky height. 



'Tis beautiful at early morn, 



When pearly drops of dew 

 Emit, like sparkling gems, their rays 



Of iridescent hue; 

 When froin the east it stealeth down 



Upon the fresh green earth, 

 And waketh all her living things 



To melody and mirth. 



'Tis beautiful at noontide, when 



Each sound hath died away, 

 And Nature slumbers, like a child 



Quite wearied out with play; 

 When glanceth every stream and rill 



As it were molten glass, 

 And light is in each woodland glade, 



And narrow mountain pass. 



And beautiful at eventide, 



When in the sapphire sky 

 The clouds unfold their banners broad 



Of gold and crimson dye ; 

 When every vapory wreath that floats 



Amid the gorgeous west, 

 Is like a proud pavilion where 



A monarch takes his rest. 



'Tis beautiful at spring-time, 



When flowers begin to peep, 

 The birds to chant their madrigals, 



The lambs to skip and leap ; 

 When thawing winter's icy chains 



It sets the waters free, 

 And calleth herbage from the ground. 



And blossoms from the tree. 



'Tis beautiful in summer-time, 



When in the meadows green 

 The daisy and the buttercup, 



And the daffodil are seen ; 

 When swallows skim the glassy pool, 



And trout rise in the stream, 

 And dragon-flies, like winged gems, 



Amid the rushes gleam. 



'Tis beautiful in autumn, too, 



When all the fertile plain 

 Is covered o'er with blushing fruits 



And yellow waving grain ; 

 When withered leaves and thistle-seed 



Come floating down the rills, 

 And gossamers their shining webs 



Weave o'er the vales and hills. 



And beautiful in winter, 'tis, 



When earth is all bedight, 

 E'en like a lovely virgin bride 



In pure and spotless white ; 

 When glittering icicles hang down 



Like jewel-pendants rare ; 

 And feathery frost work silvers o'er 



The boughs, of foliage bare. 



The sunbeam, oh, the sunbeam ! 



How it glads the heart of man, 

 How bright it makes this world appear 



To those who share it can. 

 The infant in the nurse's arms, 



The weak and tottering sire, 

 The eager youth — all, all alike 



To bask therein desire. 



And, oh. the beauteous sunbeam ! 



It shineth upon all, 

 The dwellers in the humble cot 



And in the stately hall ; 

 No difference the sunbeam makes 



Between the rich and poor, 

 But streams through lofty portico 



And lowly cabin door. 



The brown bee and the butterfly, 



And all the insect race 

 That spread abroad their gauzy wings, 



And flit from place to place — 

 Oh, in the genial sunbeam, 



How these delight to piay, 

 And in a round of merriment 



To pass their lives away ! 



The linnet, blackbird, and the thrush, 



And every bird of song, 

 With gladness hail the sunbeam 



When summer days are long ; 

 But most of all the singing lark, 



Who spreads his speckled wings, 

 And mounts, and mounts, as he would reach 



The point from whence it springs. 



And those rejoicing creatures 



That neither toil nor spin, 

 That nothing know of pain or care, 



Of sorrow nor of sin ; 

 The many-hued and scented flowers, 



To them the sunbeam is 

 A source of life and loveliness, 



And never-cloying bliss. 



The cowslip and the violet, 



The rose, the lily green, 

 Alike their perfume leaves unfurl 



That it may steal between. 

 They love to feel the genial warmth, 



And tremble with delight, 

 As round about you quivering floats 



The radiance, golden bright. 



Then give unto the sunbeam praise, 



That source of light and mirth ; 

 But more unto the gracious Lord 



Who sendeth it on earth, — 

 To comfort us, to gladden us, 



And cause sweet herbs to spring, 

 With fruits and life-sustaining grain — 



For ever praises sing. 



And let it ne'er forgotten be, 



That unto Him above 

 Our thanks and gratitude are due 



For His paternal love, — 

 Which sheddeth on us balmy showers 



And sunbeams bright and waim, 

 And breezes to invigorate 



Each weak and fragile form. 



H. G. Adams. 



