160 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



hand. His family was assured that recovery 

 from the attack was improbable, but hope 

 was held out that he would not be soon 

 taken away. 



About a fortnight after the seizure he 

 ceased to take food, except in the very 

 smallest quantities, giving his attendants the 

 impression that in so doing he was acting on 

 some principle which he had accepted in his 

 own mind, though he had no longer the 

 power to explain the why and wherefore. 

 Nothing could induce him to change this 

 system of rigid abstinence, and the conse- 

 quence was, that nature received inefficient 

 sustenance, and he gradually sank until Jan. 

 the 17 th, when he ceased to breathe about 

 six in the evening. Up to within an hour 

 of his death he was conscious, and appeared 

 to suffer no pain. His mind kept its tone, 

 and his hand its power to the last. He was 

 working on pictures illustrative of the Last 

 Judgment within a few weeks of his death — 

 the "Judgment," the " Day of Wrath," and 

 the " Plains of Heaven." On these large 

 works he had been employed for the last four 

 years, and he may be said to have spent on 

 them the last efforts of his genius. He was 

 painting on the " Plains of Heaven" within 

 an hour of his starting for the little island 

 where he breathed his last. Of course these 

 works are left unfinished: 



He has left several children — all of them 

 grown up. His brother will be remembered 

 as having set fire to York Minster some years 

 ago, in a fit of mental derangement. Mr. 

 Martin was painter to King Leopold and 

 other sovereigns on the Continent ; but there 

 is no picture by his hand in the National 

 Gallery, or in any of our public Collections. 



THE MOSNING OF LIFE. 



A LOVER'S COMPLIMENT. 



Though my heart feels delight at the soft balmy 

 breeze 

 That comes wafting its perfume to thee, 

 And the sweet rushing sound, as it sighs through 

 the trees, 

 Seems to give us a sense of the free ; 

 Yet it still doth the source of the raptures invade 



That, belong to thy lover alone, 

 For the kiss that it steals should be mine, dearest 

 maid, 

 And the wealth of thy cheek all my own. 



They say that the flow'rs' tender blossoms impart 



To the zephyrs the fragrance they hear — 

 They are Nature's bright dewdrops that speak to 

 the heart, 



So divinely, so silently fair ! 

 But if earth were a desert, dark, barren, and bleak, 



On which the bright sun could not shine, 

 Yet still would the air become balmy and sweet 



From its contact with lips such as thine ! 



W. H. 



'Tis pleasant, at the young day's birth, 

 When first the sunlight gilds the earth, 

 To stand and paint, with Fancy's aid, 

 The joys for which the day is made ; — 



To muse on happiness and health — 

 Of love and pleasure — honor, wealth, 

 Which must, to our fond hearts, be found 

 Amid the glorious scenes around. 



We higher climb ; the scene grows bright, 

 Enchanting visions meet our sight ; 

 The air, like voiceless spirit, seems 

 To breathe into our souls sweet dreams — 



Dreams of true friendships — loves, which ne'er 

 Shall cause a pang, or cost a tear ; 

 Of joys serene — of bliss secure — 

 Of fame unsullied, lasting, pure. 



This is the dewy hour of life, 

 The hour with morning fragrance rife, 

 When lofty hope and high desire, 

 The expanding mind with ardor fire ; 



And souls from beauty draw delight, 

 Like stars from yonder sun, their light ; 

 And, basking in the radiance given, 

 Shed back the light of their own Heaven. 



The sun is up within the soul, 

 And, though light clouds may sometimes roll, 

 And dim awhile the sunshine there, 

 They chill no hope, and wake no fear. 



They see that some around are gay, 

 And mark the scant locks, shiv'ring, play 

 O'er the pale brow — that hands are weak, 

 And eyes of coming darkness speak. 



But what age means, young hearts wot not — 

 Theirs is a bright and sunny spot, 

 Besprent with flowers, which Hope's fair hand 

 Still scatters richly o'er the land. 



And still they haste, with joyous feet, 

 The upland scenes of life to greet ; 

 Where Love spreads fair his kindling beams, 

 And gilds young Passion's gushing streams. 



WOMAN'S FAITHFULNESS. 



Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, 

 And her lip has lost all its faint perfume ; 

 And the gloss has dropped from her golden hair, 

 And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair. 



And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye 

 Is struck with cold mortality; 

 And the smile that played round her lip has fled, 

 And every charm has now left the dead. 



Like slaves they obeyed her in height of power, 

 But left her all in her wintry hour ; 

 And the crowds that swore for her love to die, 

 Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh, — , 

 And this is man's fidelity ! 



'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart, 

 Can see all these idols of love depart, 

 And love the more, and smile and bless 

 Man in his uttermost wretchedness. 



Barky Cornwall. 



