Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1857-04-29
For the "Raftsman's Journal
NEWSPAPERS AND POETRY.

Il N
What variety of taste and style do we meet
with in the journals of the day. Some give us
the news; others are filled with dry discussions
Of political questions some contain little else
than advertisements; others again are devoted
to manures and guano, potatoes and hemp
some are concerned about what they call sci
cntifc discoveries, and others about theology
and abstruse morals, forgetting that ssGod is
love, and that he that dwelleth in love, dwell
leth in God"
Mr.. Editor: Why cannot we have in the
same journal, what We ought to have in the
same life, if that life is a harmonious one As
we ought to be religious, cannot we have some
theology, something devotional as we ought
to be honest, cannot we have something on
morals as it is our duty to be progressive,
cannot we have something science and
something too, on agriculture and domestic e.
economy, as we have both stomachs and backs
to support. As we are inquistive creatures,
let us have the news of the day. Let us have
too, good portion of politics, for in this coun-
try we all belong to the nobility, we are all
kings and queens. And last, don't deprive us
of poetry, for our natures require this too.--
We have hearts to be educated, we have affec-
tions and sympathies to be developed, we have
tastes to be refined, and poetry, with children
and female society, are the means of doing it.
No journal should be without its sspoet's cor
ner.' l would as soon see an old bachelor,
shut himself out from the beautiful and lovely
of earth, as journal without poetry. No per-
sonal illusions, Mr.Editor, but without poetry,
| children and female society, the world would
! be only one great Sahara.
Why, Mr.. Editor, newspaper without poe
| try, is like family without children, or gar
den without flowers. What would the world be
without children? 1t would soon grow saw
| age and barbarous, then old and sour, and die
| at last with the ague of the heart. know
some persons never read what is i'm the poets
corner; but there are also some strange non
descripts who are equally displeased with what
they are pleased to call the membranes of
life. Those who can call children by this name
ought to be hung at once to save them from
| committing a crime worthy of this death. 1t
is true, you cannot talk theology philoso-
| ply to children, but they can talk these things
| to you. And you have heart, and children
can draw out and educate that heart as no 9TH
ers can. AS the dews refresh rature, as we'll
as the showers and the sun, do the prattle
| and merry laugh of children cultivate the heart,
| and draw out its amiabilities. So it is, Mr..
Editor, with poetry. 1t speaks to the heart,
as sunlight to the flowers; it comforts the
soul, as dew the wIthered grass; it melows and
refines nature like the smiles and kisses of
infants. Those who dislike poetry and chill
dren, look down upon the world like marble
statues, with their eyes of stone; having just
as little heart of flesh, as these their stony
prototypes.
They don't read poetry Well they ought
to read it to thaw out their icy natures, to hu
manize their savage heart. They don't read
poetry! And for the same reason, too, that
the sick don't eat food their whole moral ma
ture is diseased, the fountain of human SYM
pathy is dried up, their humanity has given
place to the selfish propensities of the brute.
Women and children read poetry, and ever
will. There is nature in them that sends
back an echo to every stroke of poetic beauty,
and a chord in their hearts that vibrates to ey-
cry touch of poetic tenderness. Bless God
for this oasis in the sandy deserts of life. The
selfish propensities have not dried out of their
hearts all the holier sympathies of nature, nor
have they rendered them incapable of partici-
pating in the joys and sorrows, in the emotions
and tastes Of others.
Mr.. Editor, have sent you several letters
from ssJohn,'' which you were pleased to pub
lish. The above train of thought was sugges-
ted by reading letter from ssJohn" to a little
girl, named Florence, or Floy, daughter OF
G. w. M'Culy. / transcribe the verses, and
send them to you for publication. / know
they will be enjoyed by your readers, and es-
pecially by those who know eJohn," for ssnone
know him, but to love him, none name him
but to praise"
LINES ADDRESSED TO FLoY,
BY JOHN n. C-R, OF KANSAS TERRITORY.
Green hills around us. stretching far away,
Bask in the sunlight while the breeEes play
Slightly, or harshly, in their airy tread,
AS Stwere the sound Of angels overhead
And when our heart fills with strange delight,
And ev'ry pulse beats quicker at the sight,
The mirage waters, mockng they flow,
Warn us to keep our spirits pure below.
When spring arrays the fulness of her bloom
Around us. thus to smile away our gloom,
Thy laughing face shall sport amidst her flowers
Among the playmates of my childhood hours.
Then shall my heart, in memory wandering back
Along the SUMMER portions of life's track
With hopes renewed ,castof each dragging chain,
And be in thought a little child again.
For in those hopes, which thus my heart beguile,
Eternal spring, eternal childhood smile.
o Florence, seek the hope of heaven to share,
And in youth Is freshness set thy treasure there;
For timo flies fast Good bye, my little friend;
Sweet thoughts around me throng, to thee extend,
And sh all feel their thrilling gush of 10y