KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



343 



HONEY FROM A NEIGHBOR'S HIVE. 



A CHILD'S FIKST LETTEE. 



To write to papa, 'tis an enterprise bold 



For the fairy-like maiden, scarce seven years old; 



And see what excitement the purpose hath 



wrought, 

 In eyes that when gravest seem " playing at 



thought!" 



The light little figure, surprised into rest — 

 The smiles that im// come, so demurely repressed: — 

 The long-pausing hand on the paper that lies — 

 The sweet puzzled look in the pretty blue eyes ! 



'Tis a beautiful picture of childhood in calm ; 

 One cheek swelling soft, o'er the white dimpled 



palm, 

 Sunk deep in its crimson; and just the clear tip 

 Of an ivory tooth on the full under lip. 



How the smooth forehead knits ! With her arm 



round his neck, 

 It were easier, far, than on paper to speak ; ■* 

 We must loop up those ringlets: their rich falling 



gold 

 "Would blot out the story as fast as 'twas told. 



And she meant to have made it in bed ; but it 



seems 

 Sleep melted, too soon, all her thoughts into 



dreams; 

 Yet, hush ! by that sudden expansion of brow, 

 Some fairy familiar has whispered it now. 



How she labors, exactly each letter to sign, 

 Goes over the whole, at the end of each line ! 

 And lays down the pen, to clap hands with 



delight, 

 When she finds an idea especially bright ! 



At last, the small fingers have crept to an end: 

 No statesman his letter 'twixt nations hath 



penned 

 With more sense of its serious importance, and 



few 

 In a spirit so loving, — so earnest, and true, 



She smiles at a feat so unwonted and grand ; 

 Draws a very long breath, rubs the cramped little 



hand : 

 May we read it? Oh, yes! my sweet maiden, 



may be — 

 One day you will write what one only must see ! 



" But no one must change it ! " No, truly it ought 

 To keep the fresh bloom on each natural thought. 

 Who would shake off the dew to the rose-leaf 



that clings? — 

 Or the delicate dust from the butterfly's wings? 



Is it surely a letter? So bashfully lies 

 Uncertainty, yet, in those beautiful eyes; 

 And the parted lips' coral is deepening in glow, 

 And the eager flush mounts to the forehead of 



snow. 



'Tis informal, and slightly discursive, we fear; 

 Not a line without love, but the love is sincere. 

 Unchanged, papa said he would have it depart, 

 Like a bright leaf dropp'd out of her innocent 

 heart. 



Great news of her garden, her lamb, and her 



bird, 

 Of mamma, and of baby's last wonderful word: 

 With an ardent assurance — they neither can plaj r , 

 Nor learn, nor be happy, while he is away. 



Will he like it? Aye, will he! what letter could 



seem, 

 Though an angel indited, so charming to him ? 

 How the fortunate poem to honor would rise 

 That should never be read by more critical eyes! 

 Ah, would for poor rhymsters such favor could be 



AS WAITS, MY FAIR CHILD, ON THY LETTER AND 

 THEE !* 



* "Household Words," ls T o. 138. 



LINES 



ON THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN. 



A cairn of stones, and rocks around are there; 

 The sky clear blue, with dark-form'd floating 



clouds. 

 The crags (for e'en the faultless-stepping goat 

 A fearful chasm !) strike our gazing front 

 With awe unceasing. To our right, a ridge* 

 Whose sharp-edg'd summit often there withholds 

 A warning to the hasty, careless soul, 

 Not oft to tread without a mind prepared, 

 And robust heart, so strong that nought of fear 

 Should lead it once astray upon those heights — 

 Here herb-scant sheep on frozen tracks do ream, 

 With only hoofs to guide their changing path, 

 And the kind bleating winter's welcome given 

 By other comrades through the mountain mist. 

 Lo! deep beneath, lies solitary Tarn;f 

 Not by itself so much, but still alone: 

 For how can craggy heights, huge rocks their 



, boundaries, 

 Tell to the sister lake that there's a form 

 So like its own in round Keppel's waters ;| 

 For walls (a barrier fearful, and so stern) 

 Present an enemy, as convent walls — 

 Which tell not what a sister's breath has been. 

 Here follows some sly whisper now and then, 

 It touches the calm breast of Red Tarn's waters ; 

 Gives rippling kisses, by rock channels borne, 

 To a young sister in the Keppel cove; 

 Then, 'mongst mighty heights and sullen depths, 

 Breathes forth aloud, "Peace in silent Love." 

 So there is near a sister that's a Tarn, 

 A little mimic lake, in fact a pool. 

 Thus living in the mountains as two gems, 

 Two pearls might softly glimmer in the chain, 

 When cast upon the breast which loved them 



well. 

 Yea, 'tis upon the top of sire Helvellyn, 

 A noble sight for all men once to see — 

 The little Twins reclining in his arms, 

 And far beyond, all round a perfect scene 

 Of endless landscape, mountains, lakes, the sea 

 And vales, which seem to run so far away, 

 To other fells, § which lastly end in skies! 



Keswick, Nov. 8. 



C. W, R. 



* Striding Edge. 

 X Keppel Cove Tarn. 



t A small lake. 

 § Mountains. 



