KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



271 



CHARMS OF THE COUNTRY. 



Go forth into the country, 



From a world of care and guile ; 

 Go forth to the untainted air, 



And the sunshine's open smile. 

 It shall clear thy clouded brow — 



It shall loose the worldly ceil 

 That binds thy heart too closely up, 



Thou man of care and toil ! 



Go forth into the country, 



Where gladsome sights and sounds 

 Make the heart's pulses thrill and leap 



With fresher, quicker bounds. 

 They shall wake fresh life within 



The mind's enchanted bower ; 

 Go, student of the midnight lamp, 



And try their magic power. 



Go forth into the country, 



With its songs of happy birds, 

 Its fertile vales, its grassy hills, 



Alive with flocks and herds. 

 Against the power of sadness 



Is its magic all arrayed — 

 Go forth, aud dream no idle dreams, 



visionary maid ! 



Go forth into the country, 



Where the nuts' rich clusters grow; 

 Where the strawberry nestles 'mid the furze, 



And the holly-berries glow. 

 Each season hath its treasures, 



Like thee, all free and wild — 

 Who would keep thee from the country, 



Thou happy, artless child ? 



Go forth into the country ; 



It hath many a solemn grove, 

 And many an altar on its hills, 



Sacred to peace and love. 

 And whilst with grateful fervor 



Thine eyes its glories scan, 

 Worship the God who made it all, 



And also thee, man ! 



Dublin Univ. Mag. 



PROSE AND POETRY. 



There is a plain line of demarcation 

 between Prose and Poetry. Nature is here 

 the teacher. Man can go no higher than 

 first principles, and nature is their fountain. 

 But this line of demarcation is more a matter 

 of feeling than of demonstration. The 

 passionless philosopher, inured to the rigid 

 discipline of geometry, will be apt to regret 

 this. And why so? Are not all those 

 theorems which so well indicate the elevation 

 of the Grecian genius based on axioms which 

 derive their value from mankind's universal 

 perception of them? Why not, also, that 

 the line of demarcation between prose and 

 poetry should be for ever denned by the 

 universal feeling of mankind ? 



It is said, however, that different men have 

 different feelings ; that an object strikes one 

 man as poetical, and another as prosaic. To 

 this it is obvious to reply, that almost every 



object may be viewed in a poetical or prosaic 

 light, according to the will of the spectator. 

 A steam-engine, considered as a machine for 

 the more easily attaining certain ends, is a 

 prosaic object ; but considered as the child 

 of human genius, and multiplying the 

 blessings of the human race, it borrows, for 

 a moment, a poetical character, because in 

 this view it awakens an elevated emotion. 

 But objects are classed into poetical -or 

 prosaic according to their tendency to 

 awaken emotion : for instance, a beautiful 

 sunset, or an old ruined school-house, is a 

 poetical object ; a cotton manufactory is a 

 prosaic object. 



Poetry addresses itself to the passions : 

 prose to the reason. Poetry, in her lighter 

 walks, is adorned with the graces of fancy ; 

 in her higher flights, she is exalted by the 

 creations of the imagination. Prose is 

 attended by fancy, only that the understand- 

 ing may be assisted and conducted more 

 rapidly through thought. Prose enlightens 

 the human mind ; tills it with facts, dates, 

 precepts, and principles. Poetry fills it with 

 images of beauty and goodness, touches the 

 soul with sympathy, and tires it with emu- 

 lation ; and the moral nature of man is thus 

 rendered more worthy of his intellectual. 



If we were to make our lives more strictly 

 poetical, we should be infinitely happier than 

 we now are. We worship gold as the one 

 great good ; hence our mental degradation. 

 There is very little chance, we fear, of a rapid 

 advance in the right direction. For one 

 intelligent, poetical, and natural mind, we 

 find thousands of an opposite cast. We 

 express our wonder at their obtuseness, and 

 they regard us as a madman who should be 

 placed under restraint. 



The world is indeed mad. All profess to 

 be in search of happiness, and yet nearly 

 everybody takes the, road leading directly 

 from the very object he seeks ! 



Thus are poetry and prose kept at a cold, 

 respectful, chilling distance from each other. 

 Let poetry, however, be the standard of our 

 ambition, whilst the world generally choose 

 for themselves ! 



SUMMER. 



Now to the uplands gentle Spring withdraws; 

 And ardent Summer, with a youthful band 

 Of sylvan nymphs, by soft Favonius fanu'd, 

 Comes on reluctant, making frequent pause. 

 Attired in robes of gossamer-like gauze, 

 Holding a snow -white, lily in her baud, 

 Slowly she comes, with which, as with a wand, 

 The ruffian winds afar she charms or awes. 

 Chaplets of roses rouna her head are wreathed, 

 And softest airs by tuneful flutes are breathed. 

 Smiling she comes with all her sylvan charge, 

 Graceful and girlish, yet mature the while, ; 

 Like Cleopatra in her gorgeous barge 

 Skimming the dreamy waters of the Nile. 



