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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



BROTHER, COME HOME! 



AN INVOCATION, BY A FOND SISTER. 



Come home ! 

 Would I could Bend my spirit o'er the deep, 

 Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 

 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 

 With these unwearying words of melody — 

 Brother, come home ! 



Come home ! 

 Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes 

 That beam in brightness but to gladden thine ; 

 Come, where fond thoughts, like holiest incense 

 rise, 

 Where cherish 'd memory rears her altar's 

 shrine — 



Brother, come home ! 



Come home ! 

 Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, 



Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove ; 

 Come, with the sun-light of thy heart's warm 

 rays, 

 Come to the fire-side circle of thy love — 



Brother, come home ! 



Come home ! 

 It is not home without thee — the lone seat 



Is still unclaim'd where thou wert wont to be ; 

 In every echo of returning feet, 



In vain we list for what should herald thee — 

 Brother, come home ! 



Come home ! 

 We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, 

 Watch'd every germ a full-blown iiow'ret 

 rear ; 

 Saw o'er their bloom the chilly winter fling 

 Its icy garlands, and thou art not here — 



Brother, come home ! 



Come home ! 

 Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, 



Would I could wing it like a bird to thee, 

 To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep 

 With these unwearying words of melody — 

 Brother, come home ! 



THE LITTLE BLIND BOY. 



LAVENDER, SWEET LAVENDER! 



BY ELIZA COOK. 



Oh ! tell me the form of the soft Summer Air, 

 That tosses so gently the curls of my hair ; 

 It breathes on my lips, and it fans my warm cheek, 

 But it gives me no answer, tho' often I speak. 

 I feel it play o'er me, refreshing and light, 

 And yet cannot catch it — because I've no sight ! 



And Music, what is it? and where does it dwell? 

 I sink and I mount with it's cadence and swell. 

 I am thrill'd to the heart with the ravishing strain, 

 Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain. 

 Now what the bright colors of music maybe, 

 Will any one tell me ? — for I cannot see ! 



The odors of flowers, now hovering nigh — 

 What are they ? on what kind of wings do they fly ? 

 Are they bright shining angelf/hat come to delight 

 A poor little child that knows nothing of sight ? 

 The face of the Sun never comes to my mind — 

 Oh ! tell me what light is ? — alas ! I am blind ! 



" Lavender, sweet Lavender ! " 

 With " Cherry Ripe ! " is coming ; 



While the droning beetles whirr, 

 And merry bees are humming. 



" Lavender, sweet Lavender ! " 



Oh, pleasant is the crying ; 

 Wliile the rose-leaves scarcely stir, 



And downy moths are flying. 



Oh, dearly do I love " old cries,' ' 



Your " Lilies all a-blowing ! " 

 Your blossoms blue still wet with dew, 



" Sweet Violets all a-growing ! " 



Oh, happy were the days, methinks, 



In truth the best of any, 

 When " Perriwinkles, w T inkle, winks ! " 



Allured my last lone penny. 



Oh, what had I to do with cares, 

 That bring the frown and furrow, 



When " Walnuts," and " Fine mellow pears," 

 Beat Catalani thorough ? 



Full dearly do I love <{ old cries," 



And always turn to hear them ; 

 And though they cause me some few sighs, 



Those sighs do but endear them. 



My heart is like the fair sea-shell, 



There's music ever in it ; 

 Though bleak the shore where it may dwell, 



Some power still lives to w T in it. 



When music fills the shell no more, 

 'Twill be all crushed and scattered ; 



And when this heart's wild tone is o'er, 

 'Twill be all cold and shattered. 



Oh, vain will be the hope to break 

 Its last and dreamless slumbers, 



When " old cries" come, and fail to wake 

 Its deep and fairy numbers ! 



WHAT SAY THE FLOWERS? 



BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 



What do they say, sweet girl ? 1 know no tongue 



No mystic art those gentle things declare ; 

 I ne'er could trace the schoolman's trick among 



Created things, so delicate and rare ! 

 What say they? Pry 'thee ! why they are themselves 



But bright thoughts syllabled to shape and hue, 

 The tongue that erst was spoken by the elves, 



When tenderness as yet within the world was new. 



And oh, do not their soft and starry eyes — 



Now bent to earth, to Heaven now meekly 

 pleading, 

 Their incense fainting as it seeks the skies, 



Yet still from earth with freshening hope re- 

 ceding — 

 Say, do not these to every heart declare, 



With all the silent eloquence of truth, 

 The language that they speak is Nature's prayer, 



To give her back those spotless days of youth ? 



