Standard of Freedom.
No. 1. (Price One Shilling.) JANUARY, 1850.
With an Etching by W. HOLMAN HUNT.
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.
My Beautiful Lady: by Thomas Woolner
Of my Lady in Death: by Thomas Woolner 5
The Love of Beauty: by F. Madox Brown 10
The Subject in Art, (No. 1.) 11
The Seasons 19
Dream Land: by Ellen Allyn 20
Songs of one Household, (My Sister’s Sleep): by Dante G. Rossetti 21
Hand and Soul: by Dante G. Rossetti 23
REVIEWS: The “Bothie of Toper-na-fuosich”: by Wm. M. Rossetti 34
Her First Season: by Wm. M. Rossetti 46
A Sketch From Nature 47
An End: by Ellen Allyn 48
It is requested that those who may have by them any un-published Poems, Essays, or other articles appearing to coincide with the views in which this Periodical is established, and who may feel desirous of contributing such papers—will forward them, for the approval of the Editor, to the Office of publication. It may be relied upon that the most sincere attention will be paid to the examination of all manuscripts, whether they be eventually accepted or declined.
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
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
The bloom around her fancied presence flings,
I feast and wile her absence, by
Pressing her choice hand passionately—
Imagining her sigh.