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.

London:

JOHN CROCKFORD, 29, ESSEX STREET,
STRAND.

The following will appear: "Henry G. (Loughborough)," "N. R. I.,” "Emma (Ayr)," "S. (Swansea)," "Littlejohn (Durham)," ""Rev. J. K.,”

66

"Dr. B.," "Oxoniensis," "C. 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 5s. 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 ls. 6d. for each part; which will cover the postage.

NOTICE S.

Part III. of BEAUTIFUL POETRY, price 1s., is now ready.

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 Is. 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:

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 by 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;
The roses that you gave me, although perish'd,
Were precious in my sight: they made me think;
You took them in their scentless beauty stooping
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?

Can you forget me? My whole soul was blended,
At least it sought to blend itself with thine:
My life's whole purpose, winning thee, seemed ended:
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.
Can 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?

P

Can you forget me? This is vainly tasking
The faithless heart where I, alas! am not.
Too well I know the idleness of asking—
The misery of why am I forgot?

The happy hours that I have pass'd while kneeling
Half slave, half child, to gaze upon thy face.
But what to thee this passionate appealing-
Let my heart break--it is a common case.
You have forgotten me.

JULIA'S LETTER.

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 : To love too much has been the only art

I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears;

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

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;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast;

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem :
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest-
I've nothing to reproach, or to request.

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart;

And few there are whom these can not estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one,

To love again, and be again undone.

You will proceed in pleasure and in pride,
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 !
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

The passion which still rages as before,—
And so farewell-forgive me, love me--No,
That word is idle now, but let it go.

My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;
But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,
As roll the waves before the settled wind;
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.

I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

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
Stands the old-fashion'd country seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall

An ancient timepiece says to all,—

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!

Halfway up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands