9G 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



A SONG OF THE MOONBEAM. 



The soft, the silver moonbeam ! 



How silently it falls 

 Upon the time-rent battlement, 



And ivy-mantled walls ! 

 And on the turret hoary, 



That proudly 'mid decay 

 Still speakcth of a splendor dimmed, 



And glory passed away ! 



A placid smile it seemeth 



Upon a nigged face, 

 Where age hath ploughed his furrows, 



And grief left many a trace ; 

 A smile of resignation, 



Of hope, and calm content ; 

 Triumphant over hot desires, 



And passions turbulent. 



The mild, the gentle moonbeam ! 



Upon the stream it sleeps ; 

 Where o'er the gliding waters 



The pensile willow weeps ; 

 E'en like a radiant spirit, 



With pinions snowy white, 

 That maketh all its crystal couch 



A perfect flood of light. 



Amid the trembling alders, 



How soft the breezes sigh ! 

 How bend with graceful motion 



The reeds that grow thereby ! 

 What quietude prevaileth, 



Around, below, above; 

 How filled is nature's mighty heart 



With peace and boundless love ! 



The kind, the pitying moonbeam ! 



How tenderly it steeps 

 The green sod of the lone church-yard, 



Where oft the mourner weeps ! 

 And round the couch of sickness, 



How noiselessly it steals, 

 And to the sufferer's aching eyea 



Each object loved reveals ! 



E'en like a guardian angel, 



It watches by my tomb ; 

 And softly smiles to dissipate 



The dreariness and gloom. 

 E'en like a ministering spirit, 



It hovers round the bed ; 

 And breathes of Him by whose command 



Its light abroad is shed. 



H. G. Adams. 



ILL THINK ON THEE ! " 



"I'll think on thee," love, when I pray 

 At morning's dawn to God on high ; 



I'll think of thee at evening's grey, 



And breathe thy name with many a sigh. 



I'll think on thee, when midnight sleep 

 Shall bid all thoughts but mine be free ; 



And if perchance, love, I should " weep," 

 Still, tho' in tears, " I'll think on thee. 



Q. 



ENGLAND— DEAR ENGLAND! 



BY HELEN HETHERIXGTON. 



England, dear England ! my heart is with thee, 

 Land of the beautiful, happy, and free ! 

 Thy bulwarks are mighty, thy warriors brave, 

 And the right hand of power is ready to save. 

 Thy meadows are fertile, thy forests abound ; 

 The heart's dearest treasure in thee may be 



found ; 

 A smile seems to cheer us wherever we roam, — 

 Oh, why did I leave thee, — my bright, happy 



home? 



England, dear England ! my heart is with thee, 

 My thoughts picture scenes fondly treasured by 



me ; 

 In my day-dreams I wander again on thy shore, 

 With the friends who perhaps I may never see 



more. 

 The gay larks with food to their nestlings re- 

 turn, 

 And the deer madly start from their wild bed 



of fern ; 

 The busy mole burrows its nest in the loam, — 

 Oh, fair are the joys of my bright, happy home ! 



England, dear England ! my heart is with thee ; 



Land of my birth, thou art dearest to me ! 



Nor absence, nor distance, my love shall destroy, 



Harbour of happiness ! haven of joy ! 



I have roam'd far from thee, o'er the deep bound- 

 less seas, 



My sighs echo'd back with the light summer 

 breeze ; 



And I pray'd as we fearlessly dash'd through tho 

 foam, 



I might yet live to see thee, — my bright, happy 

 home ! 



England, dear England ! my heart is with thee ; 

 Are there yet gentle ones who are mourning for 



me? 

 My mother ! oh yes, there is care on her brow, 

 And a bitter sigh rends her kind heart even now ; 

 Oh, would I could cheer her ! but joy seems to be 

 A stranger to those who are weeping for me. 

 She prays God to bless me wherever I roam, 

 And to guide me in peace to my bright, happy 



home. 



England, dear England ! my heart is with thee, 

 My thoughts wander wildly across the deep sea ; 

 'Midst the roar of the tempest, undaunted by 



fear, 

 The voice of my brother I listen to hear ; 

 And I fancy my sweet sister leads mo again, 

 To the dear little cottage that stands in the glen. 

 But my pale cheek, now wet by the wild dashing 



foam, 

 Reminds me I'm far from my bright, happy 



home ! 



SUBDIVISION OF TIME. 



How beautiful are all the subdivisions of time 

 — diversifying the dream of human life, as it 

 n-lides away between earth and heaven ! 



