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.