128 



KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



I shall never forget the delight I felt on 

 entering my own house, after enduring her 

 thraldom for two months. I absolutely re 

 veiled in disorder, and gloried in my litters. 

 I tossed my hat one way, my gloves another ; 

 pushed all the chairs into the middle of the 

 room, and narrowly escaped kicking my 

 faithful Christopher, for offering to put it 

 " in order " again. That fearful " spirit of 

 order !" I am sure it is a spirit of evil 



omen to . For my own part, I do so 



execrate the phrase, that if I were a member 

 of the House of Commons, and the order, of 

 the day were called for, I should make it a 

 rule to walk out. 



Since my return home, I have positively 

 prohibited the use of the word in my house ; 

 and nearly quarrelled with an honest trades- 

 man, who has served me for the last ten 

 years, because he has a rascally shopman, 

 who will persist in snuffling at my door (I 

 hear him now from my parlor window), 

 " Any order this morning?" 



Confound the fellow ! that is his knock. 

 I will offer him half-a-crown to change his 

 phrase ! 



SELECT POETRF. 



THE FIRST SORROW. 



BY ALARIC A. WATTS. 



Suggested by a Statue, by Patrick MacDowell, Esq.R.A., 

 in the "Exhibition of the Industry of all Nations." 



'Tis her first sorrow ; but to her as deep 



As the great griefs maturer hearts that wring, 



When some strong wrench, undreamed of, bids 

 us weep 

 O'er the lost hope to which we loved to cling ! 



The Bird is dead; — the nursling of her hand, 

 That from her cup the honied dew would sip, — 



That on her ringer used to take his stand, 

 And peck the mimic cherry on her lip. 



The willing captive that her eye could chain, 

 Her voice arrest, howe'er inclined to roam, — 



The household god (worshipped, alas! in vain), 

 Whose radiant wings flashed sunshine through 

 her home, — 



Pressed to her bosom, now can feel no more 

 The genial warmth of old he used to love ; 



His sportive wiles and truant flights aie o'er: — 

 When was the falcon tender to the dove? 



" 'Twas but a bird ;" but when life's years are few, 

 How slight a thing may make our sum of bliss! 



Cold is the heart that needs be taught anew, 

 Trifles oft form the joys that most we miss ! 



The soft, pure wax of Childhood's ductile breast, 

 Will yield an impress to the gentlest touch; 



They err who make its little griefs their jest, 

 Slight ills are sorrows still, if felt as such. 



" 'Twas but a bird," the world's stern stoic cries, 

 " And myriad birds survive as fair to see ; " 



" 'Twas but a bird to some" her heart replies, 

 " But playmate, friend, companion — all to me J" 



'Tis her first sorrow — and she feels the more 

 That sorrow's name she scarce hath known 

 till now; 



But the full burst of keener anguish o'er, 

 A softer shade hath settled on her brow. 



The bitter tears that would not be repressed, 

 Are dried, like dew-drops on the sunyfouched 

 leaf; 



The deep, wild sobs that lately stirred her breast, 

 At length have yielded to a tenderer grief. 



She weeps no more, — her very sighs are stilled. — 

 A tranquil sadness breathes from her sweet 

 face; 

 As though her mind, with soothing memories 

 filled, 

 Had nothing left of sorrow — but its grace I 



The Sculptor marked the change with earnest 

 eyes; 

 He knew the phase whence fame might best be 

 won; 

 And when her grief assumed its loveliest guise, 

 He struck her chastened beauty into stone ! 



There let it live, 'till Love and Hope decay ; 



The type of sorrow, unallied to sin ; 

 To test this truth, through many an after day, — 



" One touch of nature makes the whole 

 world kin! " 



ORIGINAL POETRY. 

 LOVE AID FRIENDSHIP. 



"Love is strong as death." 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



When fortune frowns, and worldly cares 



Press heavily on every side, 

 How sweet to know we claim the prayers 



Of one in whom we can confide ! 



Yes! in affliction's darkest days, 

 When sorrow claims us as its own, 



One tear of sympathy repays 



The fears, the anguish we have known. 



When joy and pleasure fill our hearts, 

 Pure as the light that shines above, 



How soon each shade of doubt departs 

 When memory dwells on those we love ! 



And oh, what happiness is ours, 



When passing through this world of care, 

 To find our path is strew'd with flowers, — 



To bless the hand that strew'd them there ! 

 E'en in the trying hour of death, 



The purest joy to us is given — 

 In yielding up our latest breath, 



We meet with those we " love," — in Heaven! 



Wealth, Honor, Power, I resign; 



If this my highest joy must end, 

 Oh, be the bliss for ever mine 



To know I have " one" faithful friend! 



London : Published for William Kidd, by William 

 Spooner, 379, Strand, (to whom all Letters, Parcels, 

 and Communications,. Addressed to "the Editor," 

 and Books for Review, are to be forwarded) ; and 

 Procurable, by order, of every Bookseller and News- 

 vendor in the Kingdom. Agents. Dublin, John Wise- 

 heart; Edinburgh, John Menzies; Glasgow, John 

 M'Leod. 



London. M. S. Myers, Printer, 22, Tavistock Street, Cogent Garden. 



