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KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



ORIGINAL POETRY. 



A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 



How boundless is a mother's love, — 



Unquenchable her zeal! 

 Who can its vast dimensions prove, 



Its height or depth reveal? 



Sad is the heart that never felt 

 Her dear and fostering care ; 



Or at her feet in childhood knelt, 

 To lisp its evening prayer. 



Years pass away ; with them ave change. 



Friends, too, oft faithless prove : 

 But time can ne'er her heart estrange, 



Or damp her ardent love. 



A mother's voice so soft and kind, 

 Speaks with a double power; 



It has a charm that calms the mind, 

 In sorrow's saddest hour. 



Her spirit, gentle as a dove, 



Willi pity soothes our woes; 

 It savors of that holy love 



Which God on man bestows. 



A mother's smiles our hearts sustain, 



AVhen torn by wild despair ; 

 Her loving hand can ease our pain 



And banish all our care. 



We trace that smile in every scene, 



W T here'er our footsteps rove; 

 Oh, sad indeed this life had been 



Without a mother's love ! 



THE HUMAN HEAD AND EIGUEE. 



A lovely object is a woman's head! It is a 

 sight on which we could fondly gaze for hours and 

 hours. Addison, in his " Treatise on Ladies' 

 Head Dresses," thus speaks of it: — "The head 

 has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the 

 highest station, in a human figure. Nature has 

 laid out all her art in beautifying the face. She 

 has touched it with vermillion; planted in it a 

 double row of ivory ; made it the seat of smiles 

 and blushes: lighted it up and enlivened it with 

 the brightness of the eyes; hung it on each side 

 with curious organs of sense; given it airs and 

 graces that cannot be described; and surrounded 

 it with such a flowing shade of hair, as sets all 

 its beauties in the most agreeable light. In short, 

 she seems to have designed the head as the 

 cupola to the most glorious of her works. When, 

 therefore, we load it with a pile of supernumerary 

 ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of the 

 human figure, and foolishly contrive to call off 

 the eye from great and real beauties, to childish 

 gewgaws, ribands, and bone-lace." — If Addison 

 were living now, and were to see some of our 

 modern fashions, we imagine he would faint 

 outright. If Woman's form be beautiful, — and 

 we maintain that it is most beautiful — why, we 

 ask, do they take such elaborate pains to deform 

 both themselves and their children? 



DOMESTIC LAYS— No. IT. 



TO A WIFE,— SLEEPING. 



Sleei? on, dear love; the midnight hour 

 Brings rest to every folded flower; 

 And twilight's gloom, or morning's air, 

 Came never yet on bed more fair 

 Than that o'er which my eyes now keep 

 A vigil far more blest than sleep. 



Upon thy smooth and drooping brow, 

 The night-lamp sheds its trembling glow; 

 Thy lips like rose-buds lie apart, 

 And smiles, such smiles as chain the heart, 

 Elit o'er thy cheek like passing showers 

 Of sunlight over beds of flowers. 



Still as those honied lips I seek, 

 Their balmy breath plays o'er my cheek; 

 And as I drink each murmured tone 

 That makes thy very dreams mine own, 

 A silent joy pervades my breast, — 

 Too deep to let my spirit rest. 



Dream on ; thy very sleep reveals 

 Whate'er thy gentle bosom feels; 

 Love's herald blazons on thy cheek 

 His blushing crest, in hues which speak 

 Of hopes and joys from sorrows free. 

 Tears were not made for such as thee. 



Smile on; oh! never may'st thou know 

 The darken'd spirit's dream of woe. 

 God's own pure gift to me, I bless 

 The Giver, and the gift no less; 

 As well I may, — for thou hast been 

 The shield betwixt my heart and sin. 



To thee, my gentle bride, I owe 



A heaven of happiness below. 



I live within a world of bliss; 



A quiet world, most dear in this, — 



That thou art still the one pure star 



Whence all its light and pleasures are. 



Yet, oft I fear the vast excess 

 Of my unbounded happiness; 

 And as I fold thee to my heart, 

 And feel how very dear thou art, 

 1 tremble lest my love should be 

 The cause op deep idolatry! 



NOTICE TO OUR SUBSCRIBERS. 



Stamped Covers for Volume I. of Our Journal, price 

 Is. 2d., also a copious Index, Title, and Preface to 

 Volume I„ pric 3d., are now ready, and. may be had 

 of our Publisher, Also Volume I., price 5s. cloth ; 

 Post-free, 5s. Gd. ; and. Vol. II., Part 1, price 4s. 6d. cloth. 



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 

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