To Correspondents.

66

The following have been received, and will appear : "R. J. S.," "W. R. S.," "H. C. (Cork)," "H. G. (Liverpool)," "G. L.," "A Subscriber," "Ida," ," "M. L.," " Ariette (Haddington)," "R. R. (Stockton)," "J. L. C.," "M. F.," "A Subscriber," "Mrs. F. (Stroud)," "J. T. L. (Nottingham)," "J. T. T. (Dalston)," "J. H. C. W.," "Mrs. Nutter (Carlisle)," "R. C. M."

The following are not quite equal to our design: "M. O. W. (Glasgow)," "W. N. L. (Ipswich)," "J. S. S. (Rotherham.)"

NOTICE.

No. 7 will appear on April 15th.

Part I. of Beautiful Poetry is now ready, sewn in a wrapper, price 18.

No. 3 of Wit and Humour is published this day.

No. 1 of Wit and Humour is reprinting and will be ready on Monday

next.

FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS.

The following beautiful poem is by Miss FRANCES BROWN, a young lady who has contributed largely to The Athenæum. It was taken from one of the periodicals, some three or four years ago.

"FAREWELL! farewell! bright children of the sun,
Whose beauty rose around our path where'er
We wander'd forth since vernal days begun,
The glory and the garland of the year.

Ye came, the children of the spring's bright promise;
Ye crown'd the summer in her path of light,

And now, when autumn's wealth is passing from us,
We gaze upon your parting bloom, as bright
And dearer far than summer's richest hue-
Sweet flowers, adieu!

Ye will return again; the early beams

Of spring will wake ye from your wintry sleep,
By the still fountains and the shining streams
That through the green and leafy woodlands sweep;
Ye will return again to cheer the bosoms

Of the deep valleys, by old woods o'erhung,
With the fresh fragrance of your opening blossoms;
To be the joy and treasure of the young;
With birds, from the far lands and sunny hours,
Ye will return, sweet flowers!

But when will they return, our flowers that fell
From life's blanch'd garland when its bloom was new,
And left but the dim memories that dwell

In silent hearts and homes? The summer's dew

And summer's sun, with all their balm and brightness,
May fall on deserts or on graves in vain;

But to the locks grown dim with early whiteness,
What spring can give the sable look again,
Or to the early wither'd heart restore

Its perish'd bloom once more?

In vain, in vain! Years come and years depart;
Time hath its changes, and the world its tears;
And we grow old in frame, and grey in heart,
Seeking the grave through many hopes and fears

G

But still the ancient earth renews around us
Her faded flowers, though life renews no more
The bright but early-broken ties that bound us,
The garlands that our blighted summers wore :
Buds to the trees and blossoms to the bowers
Return-but not life's flowers!"

Thus sang the bard, when autumn's latest gold
Hung on the woods, and summer's latest bloom
Was fading fast, as winter stern and cold
Came from the northern home of clouds and gloom.
But from the dying flowers a voice seem'd breathing
Of higher hopes; it whisper'd sweet and low,
"When spring again her sunny smile is wreathing
We will return to thee; but thou must go
To seek life's blighted blossoms on that shore
Where flowers can fade no more!"

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FAIR ONE.

HERRICK belonged to the Elizabethan age of our literature, and he breathes in every line the intensity of poetical thought and expression that distinguishes all the dramatists and poets of that age of poetry. How full of imagination, and yet how sportive in its tone and play of thought, is this.

LIVE, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine overspread,
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing neat shall be a gown
Made of the fleece's purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat,
Their milk thy drink, and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered.
Thy feasting tables shall be hills,
With daisies spread and daffodils,

Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by
For meat shall give thee melody.

I'll give thee chains and carcanets

Of primroses and violets.

These, nay, and more, thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love and live with me.

MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS.

The author of this poem is not known, nor are we informed where it appeared originally. It well deserves a place and preservation here.

I AM old and blind!

Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind;

Yet I am not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;

I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father supreme! to Thee!

O merciful One!

When men are furthest, then Thou art most near;
When friends pass by, my weaknesses shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face

Is leaning towards me; and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee
I recognise thy purpose, clearly shown:
My vision thou hast dimm'd that I may see
Thyself,―Thyself alone,

I have nought to fear;
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing,
Beneath it I am almost sacred-here
Can come no evil thing.

O! I seem to stand,

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapp'd in the radiance of thy sinless land,
Which eye hath never seen.

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,

When Heaven is opening on my sightless eyes—
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime

My being fills with rapture-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,—strains sublime
Break over me unsought!

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine!

A SLEEPING YOUTH.

This fine classical picture of a youth reclining in slumber is taken from Endymion, the earliest production of the youthful pen of KEATS, who is said to have been killed by the criticism it provoked in the Edinburgh Review. Certainly posterity has not confirmed the judgment of the reviewer. What a flood of finest poetry is here!

AFTER a thousand mazes overgone,

At last, with sudden step, he came upon
A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high,
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,
And more of beautiful and strange beside:
For on a silken couch of rosy pride,
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,