« PreviousContinue »
for post, 4d.
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. No original poetry will find a place.
The following will appear: “ Henry G. (Loughborough),” “N. R. I.," “Emma (Ayr),” “S. (Swansea),” “ Littlejohn (Durham)," " Rev. J. K.," “ Dr. B.” “Oxoniensis,” “Č. W. L. (Lincoln),” “S.,”_"Q. Q.," “M. P. (Belgravia),” “ A Reader,” “A Tyburnian," “J. K. (Cork),” “P. Q. (Dublin),” “A Poetaster,” “L. L. D. (Edinburgh.)"
The following are not up to the standard of BEAUTIFUL POETRY: “F. W.," “Delta (Clare),". “Inez (Dublin),” “Q. in the Corner,” "S. T. (Dundee),” “Cantab,” “Rev. I. S.,” “M. D. (Dublin),” “R. K. (Camberwell),” “D. I. T. (Reading),” “Hon. J. G.”
“L. M. T.” We do not insert original poetry.
“W. Y.” The volume will comprise five parts, and be published at 58. 6d. in boards. Some copies will be handsomely bound for drawingroom table-books.
Our correspondent at New York should request some bookseller there to procure for him the numbers as published.
"N. (Malta.)" The Publisher will forward the parts to any of the Colonies on payment in advance of Is. 6d. for each part; which will cover the postage.
Parts I. and II, have been reprinted and may now be had, as also may all the back numbers.
No. VII. of WIT AND HUMOUR is now ready. Also Part I., price 1s.
No. III. of SACRED POETRY, to comprise the best pieces of Sacred Poetry in our language. Price 3d. monthly.
ANOTHER NEW POET. THE CRITIC, of this day, introduces to the world another New Poet, of extraordinary promise. A copy sent to any person enclosing seven postage stamps to THE CRITIC Office, 29, Essex Street, Strand.
ADVERTISEMENTS. As BEAUTIFUL POETRY is a good medium for Advertisements, and as only a few can be inserted, the following will be the Scale of Charges :
Under 40 words
CAN YOU FORGET ME ? There is a deep feeling and an originality in the conception and structure of this poem that entitle it to a place here. It was contributed hy Miss LANDON (L. E. L.) to one of the Annuals. CAN you forget me? I, who have so cherish'd
The veriest trifle that was memory's link ;
Were precious in my sight: they made me think ;
From the warm shelter of the garden wall: Autumn, while into languid winter drooping, Gave its last blossoms, opening but to fall.
Can you forget them ? Can you forget me? I am not relying
On plighted vows-alas ! I know their worth. Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying
Upon the very breath that gave it birth. But I remember hours of quiet gladness,
When, if the heart had truth, it spoke it then, When thoughts would sometimes take a tone of sadness And then unconsciously grow glad again.
Can you forget them?
At least it sought to blend itself with thine :
Thou wert my heart's sweet home, my spirit's shrine. Can you forget me? When the fire-light burning
Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, How would thy words, to long-past moments turning, Trust me with thoughts soft as the shadowy gloom.
you forget them? There is no truth in love, whate'er its seeming,
And heaven itself could scarcely seem more true; Sadly have I awaken'd from the dreaming,
Whose charmed slumber— false one-was of you. I gave mine inmost being to thy keeping
I had no thought I did not seek to share ; Feelings that hush'd within my soul were sleeping Waked into voice to trust them to thy care.
Can you forget them ?
Can you forget me? This is vainly tasking
The faithless heart where I, alas! am not.
The misery of why am I forgot ?
Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face.
You have forgotten me.
By LORD BYRON. One of the most passionate effusions in the whole range of poetry. They tell me 'tis decided; you depart:
'Tis wise—'tis well, but not the less a pain ; I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again :
I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain
I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,
So dear is still the memory of that dream ;
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem :
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange
And few there are whom these can not estrange ;
Beloved, and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core !
The passion which still rages as before,—
mind; My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind ;
To all, except one image, madly blind ;
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet, And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life to love and pray for you!
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
By LONGFELLOW. L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement dans le silence des tombeaux: “ Toujours ! jamais! Jamais! toujours!”—JACQUES BRIDAINE.
SOMEWHAT back from the village street
" Forever--never !
Halfway up the stairs it stands,