He gazed her over, from her eyebrows down Even to her feet: he gazed so with the good Undoubting faith of fools, much as who should Accost G.o.d for a comrade. In the brown Of all her curls he seemed to think the town Would make an acquisition; but her hood Was not the newest fashion, and his brood Of lady-friends might scarce approve her gown.

If I did smile, 'twas faintly; for my cheeks Burned, thinking she'd be shown up to be sold, And cried about, in the thick jostling run Of the loud world, till all the weary weeks Should bring her back to herself and to the old Familiar face of nature and the sun.

A Sketch From Nature

The air blows pure, for twenty miles, Over this vast countrie: Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth, Over steeple, and stack, and tree: And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth How sweet these meadows be.

The swallows are flying beside the wood, And the corbies are hoa.r.s.ely crying; And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, And, thorough the hedge and over the road, On the gra.s.sy slope is lying: And the sheep are taking their supper-food While yet the rays are dying.

Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, And giant-long shadows the trees are making; And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, And misty-gray the low-down crofts; But the aspens there have gold-green tops, And the gold-green tops are shaking: The spires are white in the sun's last light;-- And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.

Two sheep, afar from fold, Are on the hill-side straying, With backs all silver, b.r.e.a.s.t.s all gold: The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:-- 'The day--the day--the day is done:'

There answereth a single bleat-- The air is cold, the sky is dimming, And clouds are long like fishes swimming.

_Sydenham Wood_, 1849.

An End

Love, strong as death, is dead.

Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours.

He was born in the spring, And died before the harvesting.

On the last warm summer day He left us;--he would not stay For autumn twilight cold and grey Sit we by his grave and sing He is gone away.

To few chords, and sad, and low, Sing we so.

Be our eyes fixed on the gra.s.s, Shadow-veiled, as the years pa.s.s, While we think of all that was In the long ago.

_Published Monthly, price 1s._

This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and a.n.a.lytic Reviews of current Literature--particularly of Poetry. Each number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the opening article of the month.

An attempt will be made, both intrinsically and by review, to claim for Poetry that place to which its present development in the literature of this country so emphatically ent.i.tles it.

The endeavour held in view throughout the writings on Art will be to encourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity of nature; and also to direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works which Art has yet produced in this spirit. It need scarcely be added that the chief object of the etched designs will be to ill.u.s.trate this aim practically, as far as the method of execution will permit; in which purpose they will be produced with the utmost care and completeness.

No. 2. (_Price One Shilling_.) FEBRUARY, 1850.

With an Etching by JAMES COLLINSON.

The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature In Poetry, Literature, and Art.

When whoso merely hath a little thought Will plainly think the thought which is in him,-- Not imaging another's bright or dim, Not mangling with new words what others taught; When whoso speaks, from having either sought Or only found,--will speak, not just to skim A shallow surface with words made and trim, But in that very speech the matter brought: Be not too keen to cry--"So this is all!-- A thing I might myself have thought as well, But would not say it, for it was not worth!"

Ask: "Is this truth?" For is it still to tell That, be the theme a point or the whole earth, Truth is a circle, perfect, great or small?

London: AYLOTT & JONES, 8, PATERNOSTER ROW.

G. F Tupper, Printer, Clement's Lane. Lombard Street.

CONTENTS.

The Child Jesus: by _James Collinson_ 49 A Pause of Thought: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 57 The Purpose and Tendency of Early Italian Art: by _John Seward_ 58 Song: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 64 Morning Sleep: by _Wm. B. Scott_ 65 Sonnet: by _Calder Campbell_ 68 Stars and Moon 69 On the Mechanism of a Historical Picture: by _F. Madox Brown_ 70 A Testimony: by _Ellen Alleyn_ 73 O When and Where: by _Thomas Woolner_ 75 Fancies at Leisure: by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 76 The Sight Beyond: by _Walter H. Deverell_ 79 The Blessed Damozel: by _Dante G. Rossetti_ 80 REVIEWS: "The Strayed Reveller, and other Poems:" by _Wm. M. Rossetti_ 84

To Correspondents.

All persons from whom Communications have been received, and who have not been otherwise replied to, are requested to accept the Editor's acknowledgments.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Ex ore infantiam et lartentium pertecizli laudem.]

The Child Jesus

"O all ye that pa.s.s by the way, attend and see if there be any sorrow like to my sorrow."--

_Lamentations i.12._

I. The Agony in the Garden

Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth, And his wife Mary had an only child, Jesus: One holy from his mother's womb.

Both parents loved him: Mary's heart alone Beat with his blood, and, by her love and his, She knew that G.o.d was with her, and she strove Meekly to do the work appointed her; To cherish him with undivided care Who deigned to call her mother, and who loved From her the name of son. And Mary gave Her heart to him, and feared not; yet she seemed To hold as sacred that he said or did; And, unlike other women, never spake His words of innocence again; but all Were humbly treasured in her memory With the first secret of his birth. So strong Grew her affection, as the child increased In wisdom and in stature with his years, That many mothers wondered, saying: "These Our little ones claim in our hearts a place The next to G.o.d; but Mary's tenderness Grows almost into reverence for her child.

Is he not of herself? I' the temple when Kneeling to pray, on him she bends her eyes, As though G.o.d only heard her prayer through him.

Is he to be a prophet? Nay, we know That out of Galilee no prophet comes."

But all their children made the boy their friend.

Three cottages that overlooked the sea Stood side by side eastward of Nazareth.

Behind them rose a sheltering range of cliffs, Purple and yellow, verdure-spotted, red, Layer upon layer built up against the sky.

In front a row of sloping meadows lay, Parted by narrow streams, that rose above, Leaped from the rocks, and cut the sands below Into deep channels widening to the sea.

Within the humblest of these three abodes Dwelt Joseph, his wife Mary, and their child.

A honeysuckle and a moss-rose grew, With many blossoms, on their cottage front; And o'er the gable warmed by the South A sunny grape vine broadened shady leaves Which gave its tendrils shelter, as they hung Trembling upon the bloom of purple fruit.