16 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



branches torn off — small boughs broken— and 

 dry leaves whirled along, or quivering in the 

 air like birds. 



Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 



Blasts of the night ! ye how], as now 



My shuddering casement loud 



With fitful force ye beat. 



Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, — 

 The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 



And when the pausing gale 



Poured deep the hollow dirge. 



Once more I listen ; sadly communing 

 Within me, — once more mark, storm- clothed, 



The moon, as the dark cloud 



Glides rapidly away. 



I, deeming that the voice of spirits dwells 



In these mysterious moans, in solemn thought 



Muse on the choral dance, 



The dead man's jubilee. 



Hark ! how the spirit knocks, — how loud 

 Even at my window knocks, — again ; — 



I cannot — dare not sleep, — 



Tt is a boisterous night. 



I would not, at this moment, be 

 In the drear forest groves, to hear 



This uproar and rude song 



King o'er the arched aisles. 



The ear doth shudder at such sounds ; 

 As the unbodied winds, in their disport, 



Wake in the hollow woods, 



When man is gone to sleep. 



Towards the end of the month, we are 

 gladdened with symptoms of approaching 

 spring. On warm banks, the commencement 

 of vegetation is perceptible. The sap is 

 stirring in the trees, swelling and feeding the 

 buds ; and, in gardens, a variety of green 

 things are peeping from the earth, and snow- 

 drops, hepaticas, &c, are actually in bloom. 

 In towns, it is a cheering sight, even while 

 all without is wintry and frosty, to see as we 

 pass, in cottage windows, tufts of crocuses 

 and snowdrops flowering in pots : — 



The snowdrop, rising to its infant height, 



Looks like a sickly child upon the spot 



Of young nativity, regarding not 

 The air's caress of melody and light 

 Beamed from the east, and softened by the bright 



Effusive flash of gold — the willow stoops 

 And muses, like a bride without her love, 



On her own shade, which lies on waves, and 

 droops 

 Beside the natal trunk, nor looks above : — 

 The precipice, that torrents cannot move, 



Leans o'er the sea, and steadfast as a rock, 

 Of dash and cloud unconscious, bears the rude 



Continuous surge, the sounds and echoes mock : 

 Thus Mental Thought enduring, wears in solitude . 



Also ; to see in those of wealthier dwellings, 

 hyacinths, narcissus, &c, in glasses display- 

 ing their bulbs, and long, white, fibrous roots, 



in the clear water below, and the verdure 

 and flowery freshness of summer above. If 

 we are to believe travellers, in no country is 

 the domestic culture of flowers so much 

 attended to as in our own. We trust this 

 will always be a prevailing taste with us. 

 There is something pure and refreshing in the 

 appearance of plants in a room ; and watched 

 and waited on, as they generally are, by the 

 gentle sex, they are links in many pleasant 

 associations. They are the cherished favo- 

 rites of our mothers, wives, sisters, and 

 friends not less dear ; and connect themselves, 

 in our minds, with their feminine delicacy, 

 loveliness, and affectionate habits and senti- 

 ments. 



Sweet lady fair : — 



With tender vine-leaves wreathe thy brow ; 



And I shall fancy that I see, 

 In the bright eye that laughs below; 

 The dark grape on its parent tree. 



'Tis but a whim — but, oh ! entwine 



Thy brow with this green wreath of mine ! 



Weave of the clover-leaves a wreath, 



Fresh sparkling with a summer-shower, 

 And I shall, in my fair one's breath, 

 Find the soft fragrance of the flower. 

 'Tis but a whim — but, oh ! do thou 

 'TwineJJ&fr dark leaves around thy brow ! 



Oh, let sweet-leaved geranium be 



Entwined amidst thy clustering hair, 

 Whilst thy red lips shall paint to me 

 How bright its scarlet blossoms are. 



'Tis but a whim — but, oh ! do thou 

 Crown with my wreath thy. -blushing brow ! 



Oh, twine young rose-leaves round thy head, 

 And I shall deem the flowers are there, — 

 The red rose on thy rich oheek spread, 

 The white upon thy forehead fair. 



'Tis but a whim— but, oh ! entwine 



My wreath round that dear brow of 



THIXE ! 



REMEMBRANCE. 



Though the spring of our youth has departed, 



And withered its earliest bloom ; 

 Though earth's tenants still, broken-hearted 



We close o'er our kindred the tomb ; 

 There's a solace that never can perish, 



Faint record of long-faded joy, 

 While fondly remembrance we cherish 



Of pleasure no anguish can cloy. 



When the heart with kind feelings o'erflowing, 



To life's coming troubles is kind ; 

 When time and regard, without knowing, 



Have fostered young love in the mind ; 

 Oh ! 'tis sweet when adversity lours, 



And youth's merry sunshine is past, 

 In mem'ry to dwell on those hours, 



Ere sorrow our gladness o'ercast ! 



Motley. 



