KIDD'S OWN JOUENAL. 



229 



DAISIES. 



BY ELIZA CRAVEN GREEN. 



Green leaves are on the Lilac tree, 

 And May-buds on the briar ; 



The daflodil and crocuses 

 Light up their golden fire. 



The Pansies in the garden plot 



Lift up their starry eyes 

 And velvet blooms, as painted by 



Moonlight and purple skies. 



The Linden in the dim court-yard 

 Shakes out its silvery greeD : 



Thus even in the busy town 

 The Beautiful is seen. 



The children gambol in the streets ; 



I bless them in their glee ; 

 But daisies on a little grave 



Are all Spring gives to me ! 



OUR MIRROR OF THE MONTHS. 

 MAY. 



the 



Now apple-trees in blossom are, 

 And cherries of a silken white ; 

 And k ng-cups deck the meadows fair, 

 And daffodils in brooks delight. 

 Now golden wallflowers bloom around, 

 And purple violets scent the ground, 

 The lilac shows her lovely bloom, — 

 And all proclaim that May is come. 



Were it not our wont, and a pleasure 

 in addition, to gossip a little with our readers 

 upon the progress of the Months, — we 

 should assuredly be dumb on the present 

 occasion. To sing of May, and its endless 

 attractions, requires a more powerful pen 

 than ours ; albeit we imagine a more tender 

 heart to feel all its beauties, could not easily 

 be found. 



This is just the time of year to test w r hat 

 material we are all made of; and if any- 

 thing good be in us, — however torpid, out 

 it must come. The whole world is now full 

 of beauty : — 



Beaut}*, immortal and undying ! thou 

 Hast ever filled the living world — as now. 

 The universal face of Nature seems 

 Flushed with the glory of thy summer dreams ; 

 Headland and valley, tree, and herb, and flower, 

 Feel evermore thy mastering, quickening power. 

 The insect floating in the listless air ; 

 The monster crouching in his ci-feel lair; 

 The scaly dweller of the fickle sea, — 

 All that has life owes life itself to thee. 

 Beauty is love ! each creature in its kind 

 Sees fair proportion with its being twined; 

 And pants for fellowship with what it sees, 

 And yields to its o'ermastering sympathies. 

 Where is not beauty ? where not crowning love ? 

 Go, ask the eagle or the gentle dove : 

 The one sails upward to his mountain nest ; 

 The other trembles to a trembling breast. 



Birds, flowers, beasts, insects, — one and all 

 are loud in praise of their Creator ; and now 



if ever, our harp is in tune to sing to 

 glory of the God of the whole earth : 



All the earth is gay ; 



Land and sea 



Give themselves up to jollity ; 



And with the heart of May, 



Doth every beast keep holiday. 



It is in May that strong contrasts oppose 

 themselves. London is now full of eccentric 

 Meetings ; whilst Nature's children seek the 

 quiet shade. It is now that the eloquent 

 orator shines in our Modern Babylon, and 

 that people rush from all parts in countless 

 numbers to applaud him to the echo. 

 Enthusiasm and excitement quite get the 

 better of discretion ; wdiilst the kernel is lost 

 among the shells. Fiery zeal now crushes 

 meekness under foot ; gentleness is displaced 

 by noisy egotism ; bigotry rides rough-shod 

 over childish simplicity ; whilst superstition 

 overlays innocence, and practical virtues are 

 considered a blot. Verily, we " Protes- 

 tants " are a paradox.* 



We are always glad when the performances 

 of May are over. The annual return of 

 that army of pale-faced, misguided young 

 men, in dirty-white expansive chokers,hurry- 

 ing down the Strand to join the mixed mul- 

 titude, liketh us not. Careworn are they, 

 and half crazy. The mania, however (thank 

 God), is not of long duration. Men, women, 

 and children, regularly go mad for about a 

 month; and " something new" then leads 

 them forth to a more wholesome amusement. 

 Man and his Maker ! The sweet relation- 

 ship, — how little understood ! 



But let us away into the fields. 



cuckoo is here, singing merrily. 



swallows are here, skimming the air. 



i nightingales are here, full of love ; and the 



1 joyous blackcaps are here. The two last 



■ were over on the second of April. Re- 



j markably early, this. Other Spring visitors, 



too, are daily arriving ; and the woods are 



becoming quite vocal. We listen to these 



well-known sounds w T ith perfect rapture. 



We have had many a delightful walk 

 during the past month, among birds, flowers, 

 and insect life ; and, in our rambles, not 

 few have been our cogitations touching the 

 future interests of Our Journal. About 

 this, ere long, we shall have a word or tw^o 

 to say. The " machinery " by which it is 

 worked, is beginning to wear out fast ; and 

 mental exertion cannot much longer keep 



* We would not be misunderstood. We love 

 devotion to a good cause ; and we also love 

 those who labor in it righteously. It is cant that 

 we hate. Fulsome adulation on the one hand, 

 and loathsome self-glorification on the other, 

 never can (so we think) be an acceptable service 

 to God. Whether these " Great Exhibitions " 

 effect any present or permanent good, remains 

 yet to be seen. 



The 

 The 

 The 



