The following will appear: "J. L. (Dublin)," "E. G.," "Ada S.," "Loman," "N. B. (Chester)," "Rev. R. A.," "F. (Attleborough)," George (Edinburgh)," Reader," "Admirer (Belfast)," "M. N.

(Exeter.)"

66

The following do not suit our design: "L. M. T.," "Barrington,” "John Harris (Dublin)," "J.," "Rev. M. K.," "D. T. (Manchester)," "Francis (York)," "Lavinia."

We shall be glad to receive the choicest of the gleanings of "J. L. (Dublin.)"

NOTICE S.

Vol. I. of BEAUTIFUL POETRY, price 5s. 6d. cloth, or 7s. 6d. very handsomely bound, with gilded leaves, &c. for Christmas Presents or School Prizes.

No. X. of WIT AND HUMOUR, price 3d., and Parts I. and II., price 1s. each.

SACRED POETRY, Part I. price 18.

FRENCH LITERATURE (translated), with Memoirs, complete in one part, price 1s. 6d. only.

BEAUTIFUL PROSE is in the press.

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.

Beautiful Poetry.

THE MAGIC CAVE.

A luxuriously descriptive passage from SHELLEY'S Witch of Atlas.
THE deep recesses of her odorous dwelling
Were stored with magic treasures-sounds of air,
Which had the power all spirits of compelling,
Folded in cells of crystal silence there;
Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling
Will never die--yet ere we are aware,
The feeling and the sound are fled and gone,
And the regret they leave remains alone.

And there lay visions swift, and sweet, and quaint,
Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis ;
Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint
With the soft burthen of intensest bliss:

It is its work to bear t (many a saint

Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love's-and others white, green, grey, and black, And of all shapes—and each was at her beck.

And odours in a kind of aviary

Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, Clipt in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy

Ĥad woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept ;

As bats at the wired window of a dairy,

They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and mission'd, making wings of winds, To stir sweet thoughts, or sad, in destined minds.

B

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
By Mrs. HEMANS.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one house with glee-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea!

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight—
Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid:

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep :
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd
Above the noble slain,

He wrapp'd his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ;
She faded, midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus-they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth—

Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond on earth!

THE RETURN OF RODERICK.

ROBERT SOUTHEY was born August 12, 1774, at Bristol, where his father carried on business as a linen-draper. He was educated at a school at Corston, and afterwards at Westminster School, where he took part in a rebellion against the master, Dr. Vincent, excited by his extreme severities. In 1792 he went to Baliol College, Oxford, intending to enter the Church. But his religious and political opinions underwent a change. He became a Unitarian and a warm advocate of the Revolution. In 1795 he married Miss Fricker, and soon afterwards accompanied his uncle to Spain. In 1801 he was appointed Secretary to the Irish Chancellor of the Exchequer, and on his retirement from office, Southey, who had now become a zealous Churchman and a Tory, went to reside at Keswick, where he remained until his death, devoting himself to literature and producing a continual stream of great books, his prose works vastly excelling his poems, none of which are likely to survive him long. They are tedious and heavy, but contain some fine passages, well worthy of preservation, which it will be our duty to collect in these pages. The following is from his epic poem, Roderick, the Last of the Goths.

'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard;
Instead thereof, on her polluted towers,

Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer,
The crier stood, and with sonorous voice

Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds

Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, the sight Of turban, girdle, robe, and scimitar,

And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts

Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth;

The unaccustom'd face of human-kind

Confused him now, and through the streets he went
With haggard mien, and countenance like one
Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd,
And wonder'd as he past. One stopt him short,
Put alms into his hand, and then desired,
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man
To bless him. With a look of vacancy
Roderick received the alms; his wandering eye
Fell on the money, and the fallen king,
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece,
Broke out into a quick convulsive voice,
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon
In hollow groans supprest: the Mussulman
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified
The name of Allah as he hasten'd on.

A Christian woman spinning at her door
Beheld him, and with sudden pity touch'd,
She laid her spindle by, and running in
Took bread, and following after call'd him back,
And placing in his passive hands the loaf,
She said, Christ Jesus for his Mother's sake
Have mercy on thee! With a look that seem'd
Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still,
Staring awhile; then bursting into tears
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart,
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts.
So through the streets, and through the northern gate,
Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place,
With feeble yet with hurried step, pursue
His agitated way; and when he reach'd
The open fields, and found himself alone
Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven,
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late,
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopt
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf;

And shedding o'er that unaccustom'd food

Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul

He breathed thanksgiving forth; then made his bed
On heath and myrtle.

THE FORLORN.

A descriptive poem by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, an American poet, which rivals in graphic power the pictures of Crabbe.

THE night is dark, the stinging sleet,
Swept by the bitter gusts of air,
Drives whistling down the lonely street,
And stiffens on the pavement bare.

The street-lamps flare and struggle dim
Through the white sleet-clouds as they pass,
Or, govern'd by a boisterous whim,
Drop down and rattle on the glass.

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl
Faces the east-wind's searching flaws,
And, as about her heart they whirl,

Her tatter'd cloak more tightly draws.