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

for public favour, which has pecu liar and uncommon claims to attention, for in design & execution it differs from all other periodicals … A periodical largely occupied with poetry wears an unpromising aspect to readers who have learned from experience what nonsensical stuff most fugitive Magazine poetry is.... But, when they have read a few extracts which we propose to make, we think they will own that for once appearances are deceitful.... That the contents of this work are the productions of no common minds, the following extracts will sufficiently prove.... We have not space to take any specimens of the prose; but the essays on Art are conceived with an equal appreciation of its & requirements. Being such, this work has our heartiest wishes for its success, but we scarcely dare to that it may win the popularity it deserves. The truth is that it is too good for the time. It is not enough for the age”

Critic.

      “… It bears unquestionable evidences of true inspirations and, in fact, is so thoroughly spiritual that it is more likely to find ‘the fit audience though few’ than to attract the multitude … The prose articles are much to our taste … We know, however, of no periodical of the time which is so genuinely poetical and artistic in its tone.”

Standard of Freedom.

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

      No. 1. January, 1850

With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT

      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?

      My Beautiful Lady

      I love my lady; she is very fair;

      Her brow is white, and bound by simple hair;

      Her spirit sits aloof, and high,

      Altho' it looks thro' her soft eye

      Sweetly and tenderly.

      As a young forest, when the wind drives thro',

      My life is stirred when she breaks on my view.

      Altho' her beauty has such power,

      Her soul is like the simple flower

      Trembling beneath a shower.

      As bliss of saints, when dreaming of large wings,

      The bloom around her fancied presence flings,

      I feast and wile her absence, by

      Pressing her choice hand passionately—

      Imagining her sigh.

      My lady's voice, altho' so very mild,

      Maketh me feel as strong wine would a child;

      My lady's touch, however slight,

      Moves all my senses with its might,

      Like to a sudden fright.

      A hawk poised high in air, whose nerved wing-tips

      Tremble with might suppressed, before he dips,—

      In vigilance, not more intense

      Than I; when her word's gentle sense

      Makes full-eyed my suspense.

      Her mention of a thing—august or poor,

      Makes it seem nobler than it was before:

      As where the sun strikes, life will gush,

      And what is pale receive a flush,

      Rich hues—a richer blush.

      My lady's name, if I hear strangers use,—

      Not meaning her—seems like a lax misuse.

      I love none by my lady's name;

      Rose, Maud, or Grace, are all the same,

      So blank, so very tame.

      My lady walks as I have seen a swan

      Swim thro' the water just where the sun shone.

      There ends of willow branches ride,

      Quivering with the current's glide,

      By the deep river-side.

      Whene'er she moves there are fresh beauties stirred;

      As the sunned bosom of a humming-bird

      At each pant shows some fiery hue,

      Burns gold, intensest green or blue:

      The same, yet ever new.

      What time she walketh under flowering May,

      I am quite sure the scented blossoms say,

      “O lady with the sunlit hair!

      “Stay, and drink our odorous air—

      “The incense that we bear:

      “Your beauty, lady, we would ever shade;

      “Being near you, our sweetness might not fade.”

      If trees could be broken-hearted,

      I am sure that the green sap smarted,

      When my lady parted.

      This is why I thought weeds were beautiful;—

      Because one day I saw my lady pull

      Some weeds up near a little brook,

      Which home most carefully she took,

      Then shut them in a book.

      A deer when startled by the stealthy ounce,—

      A bird escaping from the falcon's trounce,

      Feels his heart swell as mine, when she

      Stands statelier, expecting me,

      Than tall white lilies be.

      The first white flutter of her robe to trace,

      Where binds and perfumed jasmine interlace,

      Expands my gaze triumphantly:

      Even such his gaze, who sees on high

      His flag, for victory.

      We wander forth unconsciously, because

      The azure beauty of the evening draws:

      When sober hues pervade the ground,

      And life in one vast hush seems drowned,

      Air stirs so little sound.

      We thread a copse where frequent bramble spray

      With loose obtrusion from the side roots stray,

      (Forcing sweet pauses on our walk):

      I'll lift one with my foot, and talk

      About its leaves and stalk.

      Or may be that the prickles of some stem

      Will