Two sheep, afar from fold,
    Are on the hill-side straying,
  With backs all silver, breasts 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 grass,
  Shadow-veiled, as the years pass,
  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 analytic 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 entitles 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 illustrate 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?