



TO THE GOSSAMER. 
BY HELEN HETHERINGTON. 
Beavtirut Gossamer! cheerfully weaving 
Festoons for fairy-land, brilliant and gay ; 
Artthou here toremindus that summer is leaving— 
That earth’s sweetest treasures are passing 
away ? 






I hear thy soft whisper of joys, yet beguiling 
Our sorrow at bidding sweet summer adieu ; 
I see the bright sun on thy lov’d labor smiling, 
And Nature has gilded thy garments with dew, 



I’ve roam’d through the forest, and welcomed 
with pleasure 
Thy light silv’ry thread as it danced on the 
breeze ; 
And sought ’midst the leaves for thy wreaths as a 
treasure, 
That Nature bestows on her favorite trees. 






Dost thou think the bright leaves are ere long 
doom’d to sever, 
That thou bindest around them affection’s soft 
thread— 
Or the cold blast of winter will waft them for ever 
Where summer’s sweet flowers lie withered and 
dead ? 





Or, wouldst thou retain them awhile, to remind us 
That we too must wither, and fade as a leaf? 
That when time shall sever the strong ties that 
bind us, 
Affection still lives for the mourner’s relief ? 




Thy presence I trace on the trees’ lofty spire, 
And mark thy fantastic designs on the sod ; 
Whilst Nature invites us to gaze and admire 
The work of a creature whose maker is Gop. 





FUGITIVE THOUGHTS, 
THE BLIND. 




How sweet, how placid, how amiable, is the 
disposition of the gentle blind! Though dark to 
external nature, how obvious are the evidences 
of a serene spirit within them! Who ever knew 
their passions to flow in any other current than 
that which was smooth, and calm, and peaceful ? 
On the countenances of those who have been 
early blind, or blind from their birth, are depicted 
none of the deep or startling traces of crime—few 







God seems in pity to have almost remoyed them 
from the contagion of human depravity, and if 
the glories of nature and the thousand inlets to 
enjoyment which they open are withheld from 
their hearts, so also are the innumerable temp- 
tations which come in along with them. God, in 
depriving them of the good, has mercifully removed 
the corresponding evil; and as those temptations 
of life which would render sight necessary, are 
wisely kept back, so will it be found that a queru- 
lous perception of their loss, and an impatience 
under their condition, are not among the number 
of their afflictions. 
There is, to a man who can feel the philosophy 
of a humane heart, much that is not only touching 












a ss, 
even of the haggard furrows of care or suffering. | 

160 KIDD’S OWN JOURNAL. 

| but dignified in the veiled grandeur of their cha- 
racter, as a class. Affliction, whether they feel 
it or not, elevates them in our eyes, and the un- 
| assuming simplicity that distinguishes beings so 
_ utterly helpless, presents them to us in an aspect 
so meek and affecting, that they cannot fail in 
gaining an immediate passport to the better part 
of our nature. In their patience they teach us 
| both humility and fortitude. In their cheerful- 
ness we may learn how easy is the task of being 
satisfied with our own condition. And in their 
| blameless lives, how much depends the secret of 
controlling our passions, upon the necessity of 
looking less to the external actions of men, and 
‘more into our own hearts. 
The human face only is theirs; but though 
| the light which stamps it with the glory of divinity, 
breaks not from the eye, it shines in the heart, 
| and emanates from the whole countenance. Wh 
| otherwise is it that the habitual smile of a blind 
man is so ineffably radiant and serene? and why 
is it that it zs habitual? Because the lustre of 
a pure mind, and the meekness of an inoffensive 
heart, communicate at all times to the features 
an expression of more touching grace than could 
the beauty of the most lustrous eye without them, 
W.C. 
THE SPEED OF TIME. 
Fry where we will, age will overtake us. 
Moments, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, 
years,—pass away like a flitting cloud. If man 
must fade, so must woman. Beauty tarries not 
very long. Neither rouge, artificial ringlets, nor 
all the resources of the toilet, can retard the re- 
lentless progress of that terrible foe to beauty, 
Time. But every one must have noticed how 
lightly his hand rests upon some, how heavily 
upon others. Whenever you see in an old person 
a smooth unwrinkled forehead, a clear eye, and 
a pleasing cheerful expression, be sure her life has 
been passed in that comparative tranquillity of 
mind, which depends less upon outward vicis- 
situdes than internal peace of mind. 
A good conscience is the greatest preservative 
of beauty. Whenever we see pinched-up features, 
full of lines, and thin curling lips,—we may judge 
| of petty passions, envy, and ambition, which have 
| worn out their owner. High and noble thoughts 
| leave behind them noble and beautiful traces. 
| Meanness of thought, and selfishness of feeling, 
| league with Time to unite age and ugliness to- 
| gether. Fresh air, pure simple food, and exer- 
| cise, mental and bodily, with an elevated ambi- 
| tion,—will confer on the greatest age a dignified 
_ beauty, in which youth is deficient. 
There are many men and women, at sixty, 
younger in appearanee and feeling than others at 
forty. They are neither fidgetty nor fretful; 
and they are good company to the very last. 
When once decay has seized upon the brain, 
and memory totters, then have we lost all that 
renders life supportable, 


THE POETRY OF YOUTH AND AGE. 

“Wuen I am aman,” is the poetry of Child- 
hood. ‘ When I was young,” is the poetry of 
Old Age. 



