11*2 



KIDD'S LONDON JOURNAL. 



WINTER. 



There's a sound of " going" among the trees, 



The tread of departed summer; 

 While on the hills, and across the seas, 



Rings the blast of a warlike comer; 

 And the glad earth crouches, as though in fear, 

 As his martial clarion draweth near. 



His ruthless hand on the flow'rs he'll lay, 



And bid them to their rest; 

 At his icy touch they'll shrink away 



To hide in their mother's breast ; 

 And sleep, as bound by a wizard's chain, 

 Till Spring shall bid them forth again. 



His voice will stay the merry streams, 



As they leap and dance along; 

 And the murmur of bees, in their mid-day dreams 



Shall cease, and the wild-bird's song; 

 And the bounding gush of the waterfal 

 Change to the roof of his crystal hall. 



And the mighty forest trees shall stand, 



With leafless arms and grey ; 

 In aspect gaunt, like a warrior band, 



Despoil' d of its proud array; 

 While in patience stern they wait to hear 

 The first fresh note of Summer near. 



Yet we welcome the monarch, — with fond fare- 

 well 



To the queen of the woods and rills, 

 While we pause to catch the lingering swell 



Of her music upon the hills ; 

 Yet we welcome him, spite of the joy departed, 

 As king of the glad and merry-hearted. 



But not to all comes the Winter's voice 



With a burden of joyful strain ; 

 The merry heart may well rejoice 



That knows no want or pain: 

 But how shall they his presence hail, 

 To whom the means of life may fail? 



Where shall the homeless hide his head 



From the chill and bitter blast? 

 Whence shall the starving crowd be fed, 



'Till want is overpast? 

 Oh! pause, thou merry heart, and think; 

 Nor from thy neighbor proudly shrink ! 



L. 



JEALOUSY. 



Our very zealous contemporary, the Family 

 Herald, a "great authority" on such matters, 

 thus gallops in with commendable and furious 

 rage upon that green-eyed monster — jealousy. 

 This arch-fiend, found in Man or Woman, ought 

 we sav, to be " hung by the neck till it is dead ! 

 dead ! ! dead ! ! ! The Editor of the Family Herald 

 is replying to a correspondent bearing the eupho- 

 nious designation of Lota. " Lota's grievance " 

 says he, ''is the green-eyed monster, Jealousy. 

 Her fiance carries it as far as it will go ; that is, 

 he carries it up or down to jealousy of the oppo- 

 site sex to his own. If he sees Lota even walk- 

 ing with another lady, he is indignant; and when 



Lota reasons with him on the folly of such 

 jealousy, he replies, If you loved me as I love 

 you, you would not even smile on any one else ! If 

 this be love, it deserves to be drummed out of 

 human society. A man who will not smile on 

 any human being but one, ought to be banished 

 to a desert island. Such love is not only de- 

 testable, but it is not to be depended on. It is a 

 selfish fever : and, like a fever, it has its cold re- 

 action. This reaction is sure to come, and love 

 will then be translated into hatred. Such a 

 lover is more likely to hate than to love his wife, 

 twelvemonths after marriage; unless perhaps the 

 youth is in delicate health, and nervously sus- 

 ceptible through physical disease. Poor Lota 

 says she is willing ' not to smile on any gentle- 

 man ;' but she rebels at any further obedience to 

 the tyrant's order. Even that is too much. She 

 is in duty bound to obey God rather than man ; 

 and what law of religion or morals ever forbade 

 man or woman to treat one another with the smile 

 of friendship ? No wonder ' engaged ' young people 

 are so generally unsocial, and even disliked, when 

 such a mortcloth of selfishness is wrapping up their 

 hearts and their generous affections." — Well done, 

 Mr. Editor! we trust our Brethren of the Broad- 

 sheet will bear your sentiments over the whole 

 surface of the globe. Then will the name of 

 "Lota" be immortalised among generations 

 yet to come. 



THE MOTHER'S PETITION. 



By E. V. Sankey. 



Oh! lady, fair lady, the night- winds are chill; 

 And I and my baby scarce know where to 

 rest : 

 Eor our cottage stands far on the brow of the hill, 

 And long since the day-star has sunk in the 

 West. 

 'Tis not for myself that I fear the rude blast, 

 I would traverse the sea, were the waves 

 dark and wild ; 

 Alone, amid tempests, the mountains I've 

 pass'd, 

 And now I but fear for the sake of mv 

 Child. 



Then lady, fair lady, ah ! seek not to blame, 



But grant us a shelter till morning shall rise; 

 I ask and implore it, in pity's sweet name, 

 And by all that you love, and my poor in- 

 fant's cries. 

 'Tis not for myself that I fear the rude blast, 

 I would traverse the sea, were the waves 

 dark and wild; 

 Alone, amid tempests, the mountains I've 

 pass'd, 

 And now I but fear for the sake of my 

 Child! 



London : Published bv George Berger, 19, Holywell 

 Street, Strand (to whom all Letters and Communica- 

 tions, Sealed and Addressedto" the Editor," and Books 

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

 by order, of every Bookseller and Newsvendor in the 

 Kingdom. 



London : Myers & Co., Printers, 22, Tavistock Street, Covent Garden. 



