The Germ. No. I.--Aylott and Jones, Paternoster-row.----
This is the first number of a little unpretending work, which carries on the progressing tendency of the age in a manner both unique and praiseworthy. The poetry is of a very high order, and there is much of that mysticism in which Coleridge used to clothe his sublime thoughts, found embodied in a paper entitled "Hand and Soul." We shall be better able to judge, however, from future numbers. The following little dreamy poem reminds us of Uhland:

Where sunless rivers weep Their waves into the deep, She sleeps a charmed sleep; Awake her not. Led by a single star, She came from very far, To seek where shadows are Her pleasant lot. She left the rosy morn, She left the fields of corn, For twilight cold and lorn, And water-springs. Thro' sleep as thro' a veil, She sees the sky look pale, And hears the nightingale, That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest, Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west The purple land. She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain; She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand. Rest, rest, for evermore Upon a mossy shore, Rest, rest, that shall endure, Till time shall cease;-- Sleep that no pain shall wake, Night that no morn shall break, Till joy shall overtake Her perfect peace.

This document was scanned/transcribed from the original source.