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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



That earth breathes ever upwards unto Heaven. 



Here, as upon this mossy hank I sit, 



Me thinks love sings to me from every leaf 



And flower I gaze upon. Its gentlest tones 



Make echoes in my heart, and I rejoice, 



Because all other things are full of joy. 



Ah ! surely feeling is not ours alone, 



But circulates through all this mighty world, 



As life-blood through the heart. Such is the 



faith 

 I hold, believing in my inmost soul 

 That nothing lives, or moves in Heaven or earth, 

 But is a throb of that Almighty heart, 

 Whose strong pulsations stir the universe. 

 The soft low wind, that, like a child at play, 

 Toys with the thick-leaved boughs above my head, 

 And kisses every leaflet in its sport, 

 Is eloquent with feeling fresh from God ; 

 And this bright stream, that over moss-green 



stones 

 Glides at my feet, how like a living joy 

 Throughout the livelong summer day it sings, — 

 Aye ! dancing to the music of its song ! 



MY SISTER'S GRAVE. 



The shadow of the ancient church 



Is sleeping on her grave. 

 A blithe bird sings among the boughs 



That slowly o'er her wave. 



Sing on, sing on, thou merry bird ; 



Thy notes sweet mem'ries bring ; 

 And though I cannot choose but weep, 



I love to hear thee sing. 



The summer sun unclouded shines 



Afar off in the west ; 

 Its golden light sleeps tranquilly 



Here, where the dead have rest. 



And, hark ! a dreamy sound, that breathes 



Deep quiet o'er the scene, 

 Is floating from yon aged elms 



That guard the village green. 



Methinks it is as if that sound 

 Were earth's last prayerful sigh ; 



As if the music of the bird 

 Were joyous hope's reply. 



All happy sights and sounds are rife 



Where my loved sister lies : — 

 Below, how greenly waves the grass ! 



Above, how pure the skies ! 



Dear sister ! on thy grave I strew 



These wild-flowers, ere we part ; 

 Soon will they fade upon the ground ; 



But never from my heart. 



For I shall see them them far away 



In grove or tangled brake ; 

 And, oh, shall I not love them there, — 



Not bless them for thy sake ? 



Would that every sister had such a brother ! 



The Sweet South, or A Month at 

 Algiers; with a Few Short Lyrics, 

 By Eleanor Darby. 8vo. Hope & Co. 



This is an attempt by a lady, to set forth 

 in verse her reminiscences of a month passed 



in Algiers. She sings, she says, because she 

 cannot help it. Her subjects are very varied. 

 The volume exhibits great versatility of 

 talent ; and, amidst some crude expressions, 

 we find here and there sentiments that do 

 honor to the writer's heart. For instance, 

 in a " Lover's Address to his Absent Mis- 

 tress," he says in the final stanza : — 



No, dear ! we are not parted, 

 Though seas between us roll ; 



E'en sever'd, the true-hearted 

 Still mingle soul with soul. 



This is true poetical feeling, and it redeems 

 many faults on which we could be critically 

 severe. 



To become an accomplished writer, Mrs. 

 Darby must be more guarded in her expres- 

 sions ; for instance, speaking of the beautiful 

 stillness of night, she breaks out with — 

 " 0, Heavens ! how sweetly the nightingales 



smg 



i " 



This is neither poetical nor elegant. It 

 grates harshly on the ear. A very little care 

 would obviate this. We must not always 

 write as we speak. Vulgarity looks awk- 

 ward in print. 



No doubt, among Mrs. Darby's own 

 private friends, this effort of her genius will 

 find a welcome. She has a heart which is 

 evidently alive to the passing beauties of 

 Nature ; and if her poesy lack polish, that 

 may be attained by study and practice. 



We give one parting specimen of her muse 

 that does her heart infinite honor. It is 

 quite in unison with the sentiments ever 

 breathed in the columns of Our Own : — 



The human heart which tremblingly 



In Woman's bosom beats, 

 Rich as the rose should also be — 



As lavish of its sweets ! 

 Pure as that child of Nature fair, 



And tender as the dove ; 

 With many a leaf for Friendship there, 



But only one for Love. 



We hope to meet Mrs. Darby again in the 

 literary ranks. In her lighter efforts, she is 

 at home. The Christian Virtues are themes 

 on which her pen might be profitably em- 

 ployed. 



THE VALUE OF " THINKING." 



Thought engenders thought. Place one idea 

 upon paper; another will follow it, and still another, 

 until you have written a page. You cannot 

 fathom your mind. There is a well of " thought" 

 there which has no bottom. The more you draw 

 from it, the more clear and fruitful it will be. If 

 you neglect to " think" yourself, and use other 

 people's thoughts — giving them utterance only, 

 you will never know what you can do. At first, 

 your ideas may come in lumps — homely and 

 shapeless. Time and perseverance will arrange 

 and refine these. Learn to " think," and you will 

 learn to write. The more you " think," the better 

 you will express your ideas. Try this, good folk. 



