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PAGE The Poet's Hour ....Dr. CROLY 113 The New Order of Nobility .... The Beautiful...... BURRINGTON 114

Mrs. C. TINSLEY 127 Waterloo ..............BYRON 115 A Lament ......T. K. HERVEY 129 To Sleep.......... SIR P. SIDNEY 117 A Pagan's Drinking Song .... The Voice of Spring ..........

E. JONES 131 Mrs. HEMANS 117 A Calm after a Storm ..MOORE 132 Summer Wind................

English Churches.. Miss LANDON 132

BRYANT 120 Lines .......... LUCY HOOPER 131 On Power's Statue of the Greek Day-Break, ............ ANON. 135

Slave ........ Mrs. BROWNING 121 The Poor Man's Song.......... The Last Poet .......... GRUEN 122

R. M. MILNES 136 Storm and Calm.... ....CRABBE 123 The Time for Prayer .... ANON. 137 The Fountain .......... ROGERS 124 The Wind and Leaf, or ElopeOn Revisiting Shrewsbury......

ment............TAIT'S MAG. 138 REYNOLDS 126 BRILLIANTS .................. 138


s bury....126 BR

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.

A portion of it will be hereafter devoted to The Poetry of Travel, which will be paged so as to form a separate volume for the use of travellers, containing what the Poets have sung about the localities usually visited by tourists.




To Correspondents.

The following, or some of them, will appear: "M. J. K. Rochester)," “ M. F.," "C. E. K.," "Ap Rhys," *" L. (Hull),” “Dr. Evans," “ Romeo (Manchester),” “D. W. (Glasgow),” J. L. C.,” “L. G.”

“ Burleigh,” is under consideration.

The contribution from “W.C.” (Brighton), does not quite fall within the title of Beautiful Poetry.

“F. C. (Gainsborough)," informs as that he has seen the following verse as commencing the beautiful poem “On the Picture of a Blind Girl leading her Mother through a Wood,” at page 47. If so, it must have been afterwards added by the author, for it is not in the first edition from which our copy was printed. This it is:

Gently, dear mother, here
The bridge is broken near thee, and below
The waters with a rapid current flow;

Gently, and do not fear;
Lean on me, mother, plant thy staff before thee,

For she who loves thee most is watching o'er thee. We shall be obliged by further contributions from “ J. G. (Wingham.)"

NOTICE. Part I. has been deferred in consequence of some of the Numbers being

out of print. They are reprinting, and it will be ready, we hope, on

the 22nd inst. No. 6 will appear on April 1st. No. 3 of Wit and Humour on April 1st.


Dr. CROLY is the author of these very graceful stanzas.

WHEN day is done, and clouds are low,

And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow

Along the western blue
And homeward fly the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the poet loves.

For in the dimness curtain'd round

He hears the echoes all
Of rosy vale, or grassy mound,

Or distant waterfall;
And shapes are on his dreaming sight
That keep their beauty for the night.

And still, as shakes the sudden breeze

The forest's deepening shade,
He hears on Tuscan evening seas

The silver serenade;
Or, to the field of battle borne,
Swells at the sound of trump and horn.

The star that peeps the leaves between

To him is but the light
That, from some lady's bower of green,

Shines to her pilgrim knight;
Who feels her spell around him twine,
And hastens home from Palestine.

Or, if some wandering peasant's song

Come sweeten'd on the gale,
He sees the cloister's saintly throng;

The crosier, cross, and veil ;
Or hears the vespers of the nun,
World-weary, lovely, and undone.

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And loves to see the shades of grey,

That feed his melancholy:
Finding sweet speech and thought in all-
Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall.


We take this charming composition, so full of poetry and so truthful in its philosophy, from a volume entitled Revelations of the Beautiful, by EDWIN HENRY BURRINGTON (Pickering, 1848), a gentleman to whom the readers of THE CRITIC are indebted for some of the reviews they have most enjoyed.

WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand,
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,
But give not all thy bosom-thoughts to her:

Walk with the Beautiful.

I hear thee say, “ The Beautiful! what is it ?”
O, thou art darkly ignorant! Be sure
'Tis no long weary road its form to visit,
For thou canst make it smile beside thy door :

Then love the Beautiful!
Ay, love it ; 'tis a sister that will bless,
And teach thee patience when the heart is lonely;
The Angels love it, for they wear its dress,
And thou art made a little lower only:

Then love the Beautiful!

Sigh for it !-clasp it when 'tis in thy way!
Be its idolator, as of a maiden!
Thy parents bent to it, and more than they ;
Be thou its worshipper. Another Eden

Comes with the Beautiful!

Some boast its presence in a Grecian face;
Some, on a favourite warbler of the skies :
But be not fool'd! where'er thine eye might trace,
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise :

Then seek it everywhere.

Thy bosom is its mint, the workmen are
Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee: believing
The Beautiful exists in every star,
Thou makest it so; and art thyself deceiving

If otherwise thy faith.

Thou seest Beauty in the violet's cup;
I'll teach thee miracles ! Walk on this heath,
And say to the neglected flower “ Look up
And be thou Beautiful !" If thou hast faith

It will obey thy word.

One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold ;
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue,
It turns the feelings prematurely old;
And they who keep their best affections young,

Best love the Beautiful !

WATERLOO. Every reader is familiar with this fine passage in BYRON'S Childe Harold. But not the less is it entitled to a place in a collection of the BEAUTIFUL POETRY of the English language ; certainly, wanting this, it would be imperfect.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love, to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;—
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell.

Did ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined !
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-

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