KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



407 



Do you know there's a Friend whose compassions 



ne'er cease, — 

 A friend, whom to love brings a heaven of peace? 

 Once a man of sore sorrows, acquainted with 



grief, 

 His joy now sustains, and His arm brings relief. 

 Yes; that Friend ever lives though you lose 



every other, 

 A friend far more faithful is He than a brother ! 

 J. A. Nisbitt McEvoy. 

 Rusholme, near Manchester. 



[This is a "Christmas Carol, " which it gives us 

 real pleasure to insert. We are always for 

 looking up," like the lark ; and we love to give 

 all glory to the God who made us — " in whom we 

 live, move, and have our being." Haters of cant 

 to the very last degree, and uncompromising 

 enemies of demure faces and hypocritical observ- 

 ances, founded in pride — yet do we avow our 

 unceasing affection for Faith, Hope, and Char- 

 ity, the very essence of all Christian virtues.] 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



BY ELIZA COOK. 



Hail to the night when we gather once more 



All the forms we love to meet; 

 When we've many a guest that's dear to our breast, 



And the household dog at our feet. 

 Who would not be in the circle of glee 



When heart to heart is yearning — 

 When joy breathes out in the laughing shout 



While the Christmas log is burning? 



Tis one of the fairy hours of life, 



When the world seems all of light ; 

 For the thought of woe, or the name of a foe, 



Ne'er darkens the festive night. 

 When bursting mirth rings round the hearth, 



Oh! where is the spirit that's mourning, 

 While merry bells chime with the carol rhyme, 



And the Christmas log is burning? 



Then is the time when the grey old man 



Leaps back to the days of youth ; 

 When brows and eyes bear no disguise, 



But flush and gleam with truth. 

 Oh! then is the time when the soul exults, 



And seems right heavenward turning; 

 When we love and bless the hands we press, 



While the Christmas log is burning. 



TO WINTER. 



and, 



with 



Earth is again in fetters at thy shrine, 

 Again, thou conquering Winter! 



veins 

 By thy enchantment frozen into chains, 



Owns in still patience, King, that she is thine. 



There while she lies, expectant of the sign 

 Of freedom, 'tis her children's nobler part 

 To mock thy magic. Now, should every heart 



Beat warmer, kindlier. Pour the festive wine, 



And spread the glittering board— all mindful still 

 To help liie helpless. Strive, as in you lies, 

 The feeble spirit with strong hope to buoy. 



Control with sterner hand the oppressor's will; 

 Rescue the erring, dry the orphan's eyes, 

 And cause the widow's heart to sing for joy. 



SONNET TO DECEMBER. 



BY JACOB JONES, ESQ., OF THE INNER TEMPLE. 



Crown'd with Chrysanthemums that, on his brow, 



Smile lonesomely, like Duty tending Age, 

 December, to fulfil his annual Vow, 



O'er moor and mountain toils in pilgrimage, 

 See! with the stinging sleet, or driving blast, 



He buffets; or with mist his path is cross'd; 

 Now, a white world, bewild'ring, sets him fast, 



The trees all cover'd, and the tracks all lost, 

 Save where the peasants keep the farm-ways clear; 



Or robins on the berries' boughs alight; 

 Qr madcap youths, in holiday career, 



Snowball each other to their hearts' delight, 

 Till driv'n to troop — from ghosts and darkness 



round — 

 Where fireside romps and cheer, for Christmas 

 folk abound. 



[We printed in our journal, No. 49, a Son- 

 net, headed "December," which Mr. Jones, the 

 author of " Rural Sonnets," has written to inform 

 us is from his pen. We found it, printed anony- 

 mously, in a Manchester paper; and we copied it 

 as a selection. The author, Mr. Jones, tells us it 

 originally appeared in the " Times" of October 30, 

 1844. The Sonnet has, it seems, in its progress, 

 been appropriated to December, instead of " No- 

 vember." The word death (see line 8) should be 

 dearth ; and the letter s should be added to the 

 word Jlood (in line 1 1). We copied it literatim, 

 but we feel bound, nevertheless, to humor the 

 author in the correction, although so trivial. — 

 Ed. K. J.] 



"THE CHRISTMAS-TREE." • 



BY AN INVALID CHILD. 



You say—" I do not look so pale to-day, 



But in my cheek 

 A rose-leaf tint begins to bloom and play, 



And I am not so weak." 

 It is because I see you all 

 So happy at the feast — the ball-— 

 The merry-making in the hall. 



And Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, to me 



Are very dear; 

 They bring a bright and wondering memory 



Of one delightful year. 

 I look back through my little span, — 

 And, thinking how its joys began, 

 Forget how thin and changed I am. 



They led me — I was then a little child- 

 Through a dark door, 

 Into a room all hung with branches wild, 



With lights upon the floor; 

 And lights above — in front — behind — 

 So bright they almost made me blind, 

 While other sights confused my mind. 



It was the splendor of a Christmas Tree! 



With fruits thick hung; 

 And glittering pictures, lights, and spanglery, 



The dark fir boughs among. 

 While soft-toned music came — and went — 

 I cried in joy's bewilderment, 

 " This Tree I'm sure from heaven was sent!" 

 Household Words. 



