
12 KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 
SCHOOL AND SUMMER. 

Stupy to-day! those children twain 
Bend o’er the unlearn’d task in vain ; 
But only with their eyes— 
Each little heart is out of doors, 
Bounds o’er the blooming earth, or soars 
To yon rejoicing skies. 
Hard to sit still, while thus around 
Motion and sparkle so abound, 
To charm the childish sight. 
Soft music floats through dell and green, 
Even the very floor is seen 
To undulate with light. 
While, like a welcome from the woods 
Streams the fresh smell of bursting buds 
The open windows through ; 
And on the sea—that lies asleep, 
Yet dreams of motion—light waves leap 
Distractingly in view. 
And who o’er musty rules could pore— 
While waving boughs of sycamore 
Drip sunshine on the book ? 
Catch now and then on each dull word 
The flitting shadow of a bird— 
Without a rueful look ! 
Not there they seem constrained to talk 
Of flower and fount, and forest walk: 
And oh! if they could dwell 
(Like pretty Maia in the wood) 
Beneath a leaf, and drink their food 
From each wild blossoms bell ! 
Come let the weary lessons end ; 
The fair young Summer must not spend 
Her holiday alone ; 
And once beneath the summer skies 
Surely those chang’d, uplifted eyes, 
The same bright hue have won. 
Oh, happy creatures! scarce they pass 
A daisy, pink, or flowering grass, 
Without a burst of joy. 
A smooth grey pebble is a prize ; 
The glancing of the butterflies 
Enchants them, girl and boy. 
What deep delight to stand and hear 
The linnet, tremulously clear, 
The droning of the bee ; 
That sound of waves, so soft in swell, 
As loud might issue from a shell 
That whispers of the sea! 
To gather in the deep green lane 
The hawthorn blossoms that remain, 
Last month’s delicious boon; 
And feel it as the perfumed breath, 
The shade of May that lingereth 
Upon the skirts of June! 
See the wild rosebuds crimsoning ; 
It is the blushing of the Spring 
"Neath Summer’s earliest kiss ; 
The children’s voice seems wildly fit, 
The thrill of life is exquisite 
On such a day as this. 
At last we reach a still retreat, 
Cushioned with moss, and scented sweet, 
A forest parlor, fair ; 
Soft jets of sunshine pouring through 
Its emerald roof, and Heaven’s pale blue 
Just glimpsing here and there. 
While each a wild-wood garland weaves 
Beneath the flickering of the leaves,— 
How fair they seem and still! 
A moment more, both laughing stand, 
And shake, for sport, from hand to hand, 
The silver of the rill. 
And now a fairy measure tread ; 
Anon the tiny feast is spread, 
And while the day goes by,— 
The echoed voice of each gay elf 
Returns, as though e’en Silence’ self 
Laughed back for sympathy ! 
Say’st thou this day was idly spent ; 
Its beauty not ineloquent, 
Good lessons to impart ?— 
That, looking at the unfathomed sky, 
No holy sense of mystery 
Would settle round the heart ? 
Or will they love each other less 
For seeing Nature’s lovingness; 
Or more ungrateful prove 
For having joined a childish lay 
With her thanksgiving psalm to-day, 
To her great King above ? 
Nay; but whate’er their future lot, 
The memory of that verdant spot, 
The coolness and the calm, 
Upon worn spirits tired of life, 
Or through the fever of the strife, 
Will fall as soft as balm. 
Oh! we should steep our senses dull 
In all the pure and beautiful 
That God for them hath given ; 
Creep into Nature’s heart, and thence 
Look out with gratitude intense 
ON LIFE, AND up TO Haven. 
From Household Words. 
PEOPLE WHO DO NOT LIKE POETRY. 

Ws have “said our say” about the poetry of life, 
and shown how “ poor” those are whose minds 
cannot rise superior to the common jog-trot of the 
world’s vulgar feeling. At this season of the year, 
it is sad to listen to the remarks of the million, 
whose whole pleasure seems concentrated in eating, 
drinking, smoking, and rioting. They talk about 
fresh air, and poison it. ‘They ramble in the 
country, only to give loose to excess of gluttony. 
“Oh! these people who do not like poetry,” 
says Eliza Cook; “they are sad thorns in the side 
of refined humanity! They may be useful, but 
we honestly confess, if we have one prejudice 
stronger than another, it exists against such ani- 
mated: fossils.”” How heartily do we join in this 
sentiment! We fear we shall not live to see much 
improvement in this matter. At all events, we 
progress very slowly. Sensuality and excess 
seem, particularly in the summer, to banish all 
feelings of refinement amongst “the people.” 


