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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



THE ENGLISH GIRL. 



She laughs and runs, a cherub thing ; 



And proud is the doating sire 

 To see her pluck the buds of Spring, 



Or play by the winter fire. 

 Her golden hair falls thick and fair, 



In many a wavy curl ; 

 And freshly sleek is the ruddy cheek 



Of the infant English girl. 



The years steal on — and, day by day, 



Her native charms expand ; 

 Till her round face beams in the summer ray 



Like the rose of our own blest land. 

 There's music in her laughing tone, 



A darker shade on the curl ; 

 And beauty makes her chosen throne 



On the brow of the English girl. 



She is standing now, a happy bride, 



At the holy altar's rail ; 

 While the sacred blush of maiden pride 



Gives a tinge to the snowy veil. 

 Her eye of light is the diamond bright, 



Her innocence, — the pearl ; 

 And these are ever the bridal gems 



That are worn by the English girl. 



THE BRIDE. 



Oh, take her ! but be faithful still ; 



And may the bridal vow 

 Be sacred held in after years, 



And warmly breath'd as now ! 



Remember — 'tis no common tie 

 That binds her youthful heart ; 



'Tis one that only Truth should weave, 

 And only Death can part. 



The paradise of childhood's hour, 



The home of riper years, 

 The treasur'd scenes of early youth, 



In sunshine and in tears. 



The purest hopes her bosom knew, 

 When her young heart was free ; 



All these and more she now resigns, 

 To brave the world with thee. 



Her lot in life is fix'd, with thine 



Its good and ill to share ; 

 And well I know 'twill be her pride 



To soothe each sorrow there. 



Then take her ; and may fleeting Time 



Mark only Joy's increase ! 

 And may your days glide sweetly on 



In happiness aid peace ! 



INNOCENCE AND ITS CHAKMS. 



Innocence and Happiness are twins, — xever to 

 be found apart. Where one lives, there lives the 

 other. Try and separate them, if you will ; yet 

 might you as easily remove the spots from a 

 leopard's skin : — 

 Look at that happy girl*s enchanting face ; 



So lovely, yet so arch — so full of mirth ! 

 Her every movement's mark'd with winning grace, 



For Ixxocexce gave all her virtues birth. 



GEANT ME THY BLESSING. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



Hope in the bud is often blasted, 



And Beauty on the desert wasted ; 



And Joy, a primrose early gay, 



Care's lightest footfall treads away. 



But Lovk shall live — aye, live forever, 



And chance and change shall reach it never ! 



Cold is the friendship of the World, 



Ceaseless its bitter strife ! 

 Its pity grates upon the ear, 

 Its sympathy e'en fails to cheer 



The dreary hours of life. 



Craft and hvpocrisy lay hid 



Beneath the garb of praise ; 

 With caution, flattery conceals 

 The bitter enmity she feels ; 



And " art" its power displays. 



Harsh is its mercy, stern its law, 



Feebly its blessing flows ; 

 One kind approving smile from thee 

 Is better, dearer far to me 



Than all the world bestows ! 



Grant me thy blessing ; with my tears 



I crave thy sympathy. 

 Hope's brightest banners are unfurl'd ; 

 (I hate the friendship of the world,) 



May I not live for thee ? 



The joy thus kindled in my heart, 



Shall cheer me whilst I live ; 

 Shall strew the path of life with flow'rs, 

 And make a richer treasure ours 

 Than this cold world can give. 



Oh ! what a bliss it is to know 

 That " this is not our rest ;" 



We've no abiding city here, 

 u Our home" is in a brighter sphere, 



For ever with the blest ! 



We have a Friend who cannot err, 



Whose power alone can save ; 

 He sends His blessings from above, 

 Crowns us with mercy, peace, and love, 

 And "hope" beyond the grave ! 



THE BOUQTJET. 



One Summer's morn, fair Flora's shrino 



A beauteous maiden sought ; 

 A faultless bouquet to combine, 



Was what she would be taught. 

 11 Choose, maiden, from the flowery race, 



Thy favorites with care," 

 Said Flora, " and I'll show the place 



Where each will seem most fair." 



A half-blown rose, with sunny 6mile, 



Won first the fair maid's heart ; 

 She raised it to her lips, the while, — 

 The twins were loth to part. 

 " The work is done," the goddess cries, 

 " The bouquet's faultless now; 

 The flower, the lip, the world defies 

 For sweetness, I will trow." 



