220 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



plates." There appears now, too, a regular 

 succession of lovely flowers, to replace some 

 of our earlier pet favorites that are on the 

 eve of taking their departure. Whilst we 

 Avrite, the short, tender grass, — 



Glowing, 

 Just as from a gentle mowing, 

 Asking a fair foot to press 

 On its springing mossiness, 



is covered with marguerites, thick as the 

 stars in a summer's night, — a thousand dew- 

 drops, almost imperceptible on a close inspec- 

 tion, throwing up their dazzling long rays 

 against the eyes, and twinkling in and out, like 

 fiery diamond-sparks set round an Eastern 

 emerald. 



We have already hinted, that to write much 

 about the glories of the country, is "a liberty" 

 that we ought to avail ourself of as little as 

 possible. We believe it to be even so, and 

 shall therefore merely remind our good 

 friends that — 



The May is on the hedges white as snow, 

 Or maiden-dresses on a Sabbath noon ; 



And flowers by thousands 'neath their shadows 

 grow, 

 Blue-bell and cuckoo ! — 



That all Nature is clad in her most witching- 

 garb ; and that joys innumerable await all 

 who will seek them with a pure and loving 

 heart. Up, then, good people, — 



Up with the morning and up with the sun ! 

 Night, with its dreams and its shadows, is done. 

 The lilac's small stars in their thousands arise, 

 While the garden is filled with their languishing 



sighs, 

 I must away with the earliest hours, 

 To gather the May-dew that lies in the flowers. 



The yellow laburnum, the spendthrift of spring, 

 How lavish the wealth which its bright branches 



fling ! 

 Is rich as the bough which the sibyl of yore 

 To chase the dark spirits of Acheron bore ; 

 How soon, at the sight of its gladness, depart 

 The shadows that gather in gloom o'er the heart ! 



The violets open their eyes in the grass, 

 Each one has a dew-drop to serve as a glass ; 

 Last night in their shelter the Fairy Queen 



slept , 

 And to thank the sweet watch o'er her sleep which 



they kept, 

 The look which she gave them at parting left 



there 

 The blue of her eyes and the scent of her hair. 



With his wings filled with music, the bee is 



abroad, 

 He seeks the wild thyme-beds of which he is lord. 

 The lark starts from slumber, and up-soaring 



flings, 

 The night-tears the clover has shed on his wings; 

 The chirp of the grasshopper gladdens the field, 

 For all things their mirth or their melody yield. 



The glory of Spring, and the glory of mom, 

 O'er all the wide world in their beauty are borne ; 

 For the Winter is gone to the snows of the north, 

 And the promise of Summer in green leaves looks 



forth. 

 The red rose has summoned her sisters from rest, 

 And earth with the sight of the lovely is blest. 



I, too, will go forth — I, too, will renew 

 My bloom and my spirits in sunshine and dew. 

 I hear the birds singing, and feel that their song 

 Bears my own heart, that shareth their gladness, 



along. 

 Ah, let me away with the earliest hours 

 To gather the May-dew that lies in the flowers ! 



(l. e. l.) 



TO A GLOBE OF GOLD FISH. 



Bestless forms of living light 

 Quivering on your lucid wings, , 

 Cheating still the curious sight 

 With a thousand shadowings , — 

 Various as the tints of even, 

 Gorgeous as the hues of Heaven, 

 Reflected on your native streams 

 In flitting, flashing, billowy g'eams ! 

 Harmless warriors, clad in mail 

 Of silver breostplate, golden scale ; — 

 Mail of Nature's own bestowing, 

 With peaceful radiance mildly glowing, — 

 Fleet are ye as fleetest galley 

 Or pirate rover sent from Sallee : 

 Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 

 Sport ye in your sea so narrow. 



Was the Sun himself } r our sire ? 

 Were ye born of vital fire ? 

 Or of the shade of golden flowers, 

 Such as we fetch from Eastern bowers, 

 To mock this murky clime of ours ? 

 Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 

 Weaving many a mazy dance ; 

 Seeming still to grow in size 

 When ye would elude our eyes — 

 Pretty creatures ! we might deem 

 Ye were happy as ye seem, — 

 As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 

 As light, as loving, and as lithe, 

 As gladly earnest, in your play, 

 As when ye gleam'd in far Cathay. 



And yet, since on this hapless earth 



There's small sincerity in mirth, 



And laughter oft is but an art 



To drown the outcry of the heart ; 



It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, 



Your wheeiings, dartings, divings, rambles, 



Your restless roving round and round 



The circuit of your crystal bound, — 



Is but the task of weary pain, 



An endless labor, dull and vain ; 



And while your forms are gaily shining, 



Your little lives are inly pining ! 



Nay — but still I fain would dream 



That ye arc happy as ye seem ; 



Deck'd in oriental pride, 



By homely British fire-side. 



Hartley Coleridge. 



