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النشر الإلكتروني

Grimly retired, as up th' ethereal steep
The heavenly coursers mounted of the sun
And bade the stars withdraw.



'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the west
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shook trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven.


She was a form of life and light

That seen, became a part of sight,

And rose where'er I turn'd my eye,
The morning star of memory.




Among the ruin'd temples there,
Stupendous columns, and wild images

Of more than man, where marble demons watch
The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men
Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around.



No tear

Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Press'd on his soul too busily: his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force,
As if it fear'd to break its being's law,
And falter'd into music: when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live,

In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud
In righteous indignation, he hath heard

With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein
of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd,
Struck sunlight o'er it: so his life hath flow'd
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirror'd; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.



Let music

Charm with her excellent voice an awful silence
Through all this building, that her sphery soul
May (on the wings of air) in thousand forms
Invisibly fly, yet be enjoy'd.



'Tis a ditty

Not of these days; but long ago 'twas told
By a cavern wind unto a forest old:

And then the forest told it in a dream

To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam
A poet caught as he was journeying

To Phoebus' shrine.



Graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still
As the mute swan that floats adown the stream,
And on the waters of th' unruffled lake

Anchors her quiet beauty.



Never was known a noise of such distraction!
Noise so confused and dreadful; justling crowds
That run and know not whither; torches gliding,
Like meteors, by each other in the street.


Price 3d.

FEBRUARY 1, 1853.

for post, 4d.

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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.




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.

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)," "6 Cantab," 66 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.


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


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