To Correspondents.

The following, or some of them, will appear:-“ Ida,” “J. L.,” "Beta," "T. S. (Cork)."

"A SUBSCRIBER's" suggestions will receive the attention they de

serve.

"G. W. (Dolgelly.)" The poem is clever, but does not belong to the category of Beautiful poetry. The same remark applies to the contributions of "Albert," "R. W."

“J. L. (Nottingham.)" The poems alluded to have been mislaid among a mass of papers.

NOTICES.

No. IV. of SACRED POETRY, to comprise the best pieces of Sacred Poetry in our language, price 3d. monthly. This day. Also Part I., price 18.

No. VII. of WIT AND HUMOUR: the choicest things of this class in our language, price 3d., is published this day. Part I., price 1s.

No. IV. of Selections from FRENCH LITERATURE, translated, is published this day. It contains selections from the famous letters of Madame de Sévigné. Price 3d. And Part I. price 1s.

A copy of either of the above sent to any person enclosing four postage stamps to the CRITIC Office, 29, Essex Street, Strand.

Subscribers paying 3s. 6d. in advance in postage stamps will be supplied with 12 stamped numbers of either of the above free by post.

THE POET IN SELF DEFENCE,

This playful and sweetly simple little poem, bearing so excellent a moral, is by ROBERT SOUTHEY.

WITH listening lips and looks intent,
There sat an eager boy,

Who shouted sometimes, and clapt his hands,
And could not sit still for joy.

But when I look'd at my mistress's face,
It was all too grave the while;

And when I ceased, methought there was more
Of reproof than of praise in her smile.

That smile I read aright, for thus
Reprovingly said she,

"Such tales are meet for youthful ears
But give little content to me.

"From thee far rather would I hear
Some sober, sadder lay,

Such as I oft have heard well pleased
Before those locks were grey."

"Nay, mistress mine," I made reply,
"The autumn hath its flowers,
Nor ever is the sky more gay
Than in its evening hours.

"Our good old Cat, Earl Tomlemagne,

Upon a warm Spring day,
Even like a kitten at its sport,

Is sometimes seen to play.

"That sense which held me back in youth
From all intemperate gladness,

That same good instinct bids me shun

Unprofitable sadness.

"Nor marvel you, if I prefer

Of playful themes to sing,

The October grove hath brighter tints
Than Summer or than Spring:

R

"Far o'er the leaves before they fall
Such hues hath nature thrown,
That the woods wear in sunless days
A sunshine of their own.

"Why should I seek to call forth tears?
The source from whence we weep
Too near the surface lies in youth,
In age it lies too deep.

"Enough of foresight sad, too much
Of retrospect have I;

And well for me that I sometimes
Can put those feelings by;

"From public ills, and thoughts that else

Might weigh me down to earth,

That I can gain some intervals

For healthful, hopeful mirth.”

TALES THE RIVER TELLS.

A passage from a poem entitled Prothonasia, by THOMAS WADE, published in the year 1839.

Ir rivers, between green and fragrant banks
Flowing, through scenes which are a paradise
Unto the vision of a soul at peace

With its own state and essence, and calm lakes,
And murmurous fountains, in recesses dim
Far in old forests, where ubiquitous life
Inhabiteth, in small and myriad forms
Astir on every leaf-could, human-voiced,
Tell of the human wailings they have heard,
Tell of the human writhings they have seen,
Tell of the human sighs which with their music,
Tell of the human tears which with their waters,
Have mingled sorrowing; and the human life
That hath exhaled within them and its clay
Left to their liquid keeping, there would sound
A never-ceasing utterance in the air

Of mortal woe, and make the ear's fine sense
Even a perpetual torture to men's hearts.

THE DAY IS DONE.

By LONGFELLOW.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist ;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gush'd from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

VANITY OF REGRET.

From OMAR RHIAM, one of the most distinguished Persian poets. He flourished in the year 1200. It is translated by the accomplished Miss COSTELLO.

NOTHING in this world of ours

Flows as we would have it flow;

What avail, then, careful hours,

Thought and trouble, tears and woe?
Through the shrouded veil of earth
Life's rich colours beaming bright,

Though in truth of little worth,
Yet allure with meteor light.
Life is torture and suspense;
Thought is sorrow-drive it hence!
With no will of mine I came,

With no will depart the same.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF BYRON.

A passionate tribute to the memory of Byron and his generous espousal of the cause of prostrate Greece. It is from the pen of J. J. CALLANAN, a young Irish poet who died prematurely, but whose poems deserve a wider reputation than the provincial one they have as yet gained.— It is extracted from The Recluse of Inchidony.

OH, for the pen of him whose bursting tear
Of childhood told his fame in after days;

Oh, for that Bard to Greece and Freedom dear,
The bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays,