KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



SELECT POETRY. 



HO PLACE LIKE HOME. 



BY JOHN CLARE. 



Like a thing of the desert, alone in its glee, 

 I make a small home seem an empire to me, 

 Like a bird in the forest, whose world is its nest, 

 My home is my all, and the centre of rest. 

 Let Ambition stretch over the world at a stride, 

 Let the restless go rolling away with the tide; 

 I look on life's pleasures as follies at best, 

 And, like sunset, feel calm when I'm going to 

 rest. 



I sit by the fire, in the dark winter's night, 

 While the cat cleans her face with her foot in 



delight ; 

 And the winds all a-cold, with loud clatter and 



din, 

 Shake the windows, — like robbers who want to 



come in. 

 Or else, from the cold to be hid and away, 

 Ey the bright burning fire see my children at 



Play- 

 Making houses of cards, or a coach of a chair, 

 While I sit enjoying their happiness there. 



I walk round the orchard, on sweet summer eves, 

 And rub the perfume from the black-currant 



leaves, 

 Which, like the geranium, when touched, leave 



a smell 

 That lad's-love and sweet-briar can hardly excel. 

 I watch the plants grow, all begemmed with the 



shower, 

 That glitters like pearls in a sun-shiny hour; 

 And hear the pert robin just whistle a tune, 

 To cheer the lone hedger when labor is done. 



Joys come like the grass in the fields springing 



there, 

 Without the mere toil of attention or care ; 

 They come of themselves, like a star in the sky, 

 And much brighter they shine when the cloud 



passes by. 

 I wish but for little ; and find it all there, 

 Where peace gives its faith to the home of the 



hare, 

 Who would, else, overcome by her fears, run 



away 

 From the shade of the flower, and the breeze of 



the clay. 



O, the out-of-door blessings of leisure for me! 

 Health, riches, and joy! — it includes them all 



three. 

 There Peace comes to me — I have faith in her 



smile — 

 She's my playmate in leisure, my comfort in toil; 

 There the short pasture-grass hides the lark on 



its nest, 

 Though scarcely so high as the grasshopper's 



breast ; 

 And there its moss-ball hides the wild honey-bee, 

 And there joy in plenty grows riches for me. 



Far away from the world, its delusions, and 



snares — 

 Whose words are but breath, and its breathing 



but cares, — 



Where trouble's sown thick as the dews of the 



morn, 

 One can scarce set a foot without meeting a 



thorn — 

 There are some view the world as a lightly-thrown 



ball, 

 There are some look on cities like stones in a 



wall — 

 Nothing more. There are others, Ambition's 



proud heirs, 

 Of whom I have neither the courage nor cares. 



So I sit on my bench, or enjoy in the shade 

 My toil as a pastime, while using the spade; 

 My fancy is free in her pleasure to stray, 

 Making voyages round the whole world in a day. 

 I gather home comforts where cares never grew, 

 Like manna, the heavens rain down with the 



dew, 

 Till I see the tired hedger bend wearily by, 

 Then like a tired bird to my corner I fly. ' 



ORIGINAL POETRY. 

 TO THE WINTER ROBIN. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



How sweet to dwell where the blushing rose 

 Peeps out from its modest bed — 



The Woodbine, Myrtle, and Jasmin blows, 

 And the Blue-bell hangs its head ! 



How sweet to sit in the Hawthorn bow'r, 

 When the mind from care is free — 



In the calm and peaceful ev'ning hour, 

 List'ning, sweet Robin, to thee ! 



When snow fills the vale, and frost less kind, 

 Nips the buds off thy fav'rite tree, 



Come to my window, and thou shalt find 

 Home, and a shelter for thee. 



Yes, I will give thee my fondest care, 

 And feed thee, my own sweet bird ; 



And when Spring comes with its flow'rets fair. 

 Again make thy vespers heard ! 



HYPOCRISY AND TRUTH. 



What a vast, pompous pretension there is ; what a 

 deal of smoke and empty noise, about the farcical religions 

 which men make for God! How generous, gentle, and 

 blessed, is the religion which God makes for man ! ! 



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