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FEBRUARY 1, 1853.

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H.

This work is designed to form a collection of the choicest Poetry in the English language. Nothing but what is really good will be admitted.

London:

JOHN CROCKFORD, 29, ESSEX STREET,

STRAND.

We shall be obliged by communications of passages of really "beautiful poetry," which any of our readers may have stored in their own collections, or may discover in their readings, especially those flashes of genius which we gather together under the title of "Brilliants." No original poetry will be inserted.

J.M. (Tivoli.)-His views are precisely in accordance with our own. We shall give place to good translations of fine passages of foreign poets.

W. E. R.-In blank verse it is often a beauty to give the word unabbreviated, although it makes a syllable too much according to measure. HEDERACEUS.-We shall be obliged by transmission of the poems he describes.

JUVENIS.-A collected edition of Mrs. Hemans' Poems has been published, we believe, by Longman & Co.

ROSALINDA.-Talfourd's Ion can be had in a neat pocket volume, published, we think, by Mr. Moxon.

66

We have to acknowledge the receipt of various "Beauties" of poetry from "A Reader," "M. M." "Bristol," "A Celt," Lady L.," "M. P.," "D. (Newcastle)," "Cantab," "B. A.," "The Rev. S. I." "The Rev. G. L. T.," "A Lawyer," "Rev. E. C.," "A Parent;" and many others, some of which will be used, and for all which we thank the contributors.

To Readers.

We were not prepared for the very cordial reception that has been given to this little work, and we have been already obliged to go to press with it three times; hence the delay in the transmission of some of the orders.

In compliance with a desire expressed by many subscribers, this Work will, in future, be issued fortnightly, with The Critic, on the 1st and 15th of each month. No. 3 will be published on February 15.

Some copies are stamped for transmission by post, price 4d. To persons paying for not less than 12 Numbers in advance it will be sup. plied stamped, by post, on the day of publication, on transmission of 38. 6d., which may be sent in postage stamps.

Wit and Humour.

In pursuance of the design originally announced, a collection of the true WIT AND HUMOUR in the English language, giving only the best, and however familiar, provided it be good, will be published in like form and price with Beautiful Poetry on the 1st of each month; and stamped copies will be supplied to Subscribers on the same terms as above. The 1st number appears to-day.

THE ELMS OF NEW HAVEN.

N. P. WILLIS is an American who has distinguished himself by a little very beautiful poetry and a great deal of very coxcombical prose. His later works have not fulfilled the promise of his earlier ones. His first efforts were his best, and among them are to be found many poems which will take a permanent place in the literature of the English language. Like almost all the poetry yet produced by America, that of WILLIS is wanting in nationality. It might have been written in any country; it breathes nothing of the spirit of a new world; it belongs essentially to Europe and its associations. Thus it is even with the following, which is extracted from a poem delivered by the author before the Linonian Society of Gala College, in New Haven. But it is characterized by a charming delicacy, both of sentiment and of expression.

THE leaves we knew

Are gone these many summers, and the winds
Have scatter'd them all roughly through the world;
But still, in calm and venerable strength,
The old stems lift their burdens up to Heaven,
And the young leaves, to the same pleasant tune,
Drink in the light, and strengthen, and grow fair.
The shadows have the same cool, emerald air;
And prodigal as ever is the breeze,

Distributing the verdure's temperate balm.
The trees are sweet to us. The outcry strong
Of the long-wandering and returning heart
Is for the thing least changed. A stone unturn'd
Is sweeter than a strange or alter'd face;

A tree, that flings its shadow as of yore,

Will make the blood stir, sometimes, when the words
Of a long-look'd-for lip fall icy cold.

Ye who, in this Academy of shade,

Dreamt out the scholar's dream, and then away
On troubled seas went voyaging with Care,
But hail to-day the well-remember'd haven-
Ye, who at Memory's trumpet-call have stay'd
The struggling foot of life, the warring hand,
And, weary of the strife, come back to see
The green tent where your harness was put on—
Say-When you trod the shadowy street this morn,
Leapt not your heart up to the glorious trees?
Say-Was it only to my sleep they came-
The angels, who to these remember'd trees

C

Brought me back ever? I have come in dream
From many a far land, many a brighter sky,
And trod these dappled shadows till the morn.
From every Gothic aisle my heart fled home,
From every groined roof, and pointed arch,
To find its type in emerald beauty here.

The moon we worshipp'd through this trembling veil
In other heavens seem'd garish and unclad.

The stars that burn'd to us through whispering leaves
Stood cold and silently in other skies.

Stiller seem'd always here the holy dawn,
Hush'd by the breathless silence of the trees;
And who that ever, on a Sabbath morn,

Sent through this leafy roof a prayer to Heaven,
And when the sweet bells burst upon the air
Saw the leaves quiver and the flecks of light
Leap, like caressing angels, to the feet
Of the church-going multitude, but felt
That here God's day was holier that the trees,
Pierced by these shining spires, and echoing ever
"To prayer!" ""to prayer!" were but the lofty roof
Of an unhewn cathedral, in whose choirs
Breezes, and storm-winds, and the many birds,
Join'd in the varied anthem; and that so,
Resting their breasts upon these bending limbs,
Closer and readier to our need they lay-
The spirits who keep watch 'twixt us and Heaven!

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT.

An American poet, who rejoices in the truly Yankee name of PEABODY, has, in spite of his name, published some very sweet poetry, and our readers will feel that the following, from his pen, is the production of no mean genius. It is in excellent taste, having an unaffected solemnity of tone and thought, and may worthily be treasured among our selections.

AND this is death! how cold and still,
And yet how lovely it appears;
Too cold to let the gazer smile,
But far too beautiful for tears.

The sparkling eye no more is bright,
The cheek hath lost its rose-like red;
And yet it is with strange delight
I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,
Half shaded by the silken hair,
That never look'd so fair as now,
When life and health were laughing there,
I wonder not that grief should swell
So wildly upward in the breast,

And that strong passion once rebel That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,
In gazing thus grow cold and dim,
That burning tears and aching sighs
Are blended with the funeral hymn;
The spirit hath an earthly part,
That weeps when earthly pleasure flies,
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart,
That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet why mourn? that deep repose
Shall never more be broke by pain;
Those lips no more in sighs unclose,
Those eyes shall never weep again.
For think not that the blushing flower
Shall wither in the church-yard sod,
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower
Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze—and swift and far
The clouds of death in sorrow fly;
I see thee, like a new-born star,
Move up thy pathway in the sky.

The star hath rays serene and bright,
But cold and pale compared with thine;
For thy orb shines with heavenly light,
With beams unfailing and divine.

Then let the burthen'd heart be free,
The tears of sorrow all be shed,
And parents calmly bend to see
The mournful beauty of the dead;

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