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, 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 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, Flung sudden gleams around the quiet room, There is no truth in love, whate'er its seeming, Whose charmed slumber-false one-was of you. 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 happy hours that I have pass'd while kneeling 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; None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 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, For me on earth, except some years to hide The passion which still rages as before,— My breast has been all weakness, is so yet; To all, except one image, madly blind; I have no more to say, but linger still, My misery can scarce be more complete: 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 Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; An ancient timepiece says to all,— "Forever-never! Never-forever! Halfway up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands |