The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist

Vol. V. By Miss Srickland.- Percival 'Keene. By Captain Marryat,
C.B.- Newfoundland in 1842. By Sir Richard Bonnycastle, Lieut.-
Col., R.E.—Russia and the Russians in 1842. By M. Kohl 131 to 144

(for October): Shakspeare. Edited by C.
Knight, Esq.—The Czarina. By Mrs. Hofland

269 to 279
(for NOVEMBER): Narrative of the Expedition
to China. By Com. J. Elliot Bingham, R.N.—The Nabob at Home;
or, the Return to England.-Self-devotion; or, the History of Ka.
therine Randolph.—Nimrod Abroad, noticed.-Letters of Mary
Queen of Scots, and Documents connected with her personal His-
tory : with an Introduction. By Miss Agnes Strickland. — The Miser's
Daughter : a Tale. By William Harrison Ainsworth, Esq. 406 to 422

(for December): Historical Memoirs of

the Queens of France. By Mrs. Forbes Bush.-Russia and the

Russians in 1842. By J. G. Kohl, Esq.— The Naval Club ; or, Remi-

niscences of Service. By M. H. Barker, Esq. (JThe Old Sailor”). 3

vols.— The Literary Ladies of England; from the commencement of

the last century to the present time. By Mrs. Elwood, author of " An

Overland Journey to India.” 2 vols.—Heath's Book of Beauty for

1842. Edited by the Countess of Blessington.-Phineas Quiddy.--

Norway and her Laplands in 1841

555 to 566

THE

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE ELM TREE:

A DREAM IN THE Woods.

BY THE EDITOR.

And this our life, exempt from public hauut,
Finds tongues in trees.

As You LIKE IT.

'Twas in a shady Avenue,
Where lofty Elms abound-

And from a Tree

There came to me
A sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmur'd overhead,

And sometimes underground.

Amongst the leaves it seem'd to sigh,

Amid the boughs to moan;
It mutter'd in the stem and then

The roots took up the tone;
As if beneath the dewy grass

The Dead began to groan.

No breeze there was to stir the leaves ;

No bolts that tempests launch,
To rend the trunk or rugged bark;

No gale to bend the branch;
No quake of earth to heave the roots,

That stood so stiff and staunch.
Sept.- VOL. LXVI. XO. CCLXI.

B

No bird was preening up aloft,

To rustle with its wing ;
No squirrel, in its sport or fear,
From bough to bough to spring;

The solid bole

Had ne'er a hole
To hide a living thing!

No scooping hollow cell to lodge
A furtive beast or fowl,

The martin, bat,

Or forest cat
That nightly loves to prowl,
Nor ivy nook so apt to shroud

The moping, snoring owl.
But still the sound was in my ear,

A sad and solemn sound,
That sometimes murmur'd overhead,

And sometimes underground'Twas in a shady Avenue

Where lofty Elms abound.
O hath the Dryad still a tongue

In this ungenial clime ?
Have Sylvan Spirits still a voice

As in the classic prime-
To make the forest voluble,

As in the olden time?

The olden time is dead and gone;

Its years have fill'd their sumAnd e'en in Greece_her native Greece

The Sylvan Nymph is dumbFrom ash, and beech, and aged oak,

No classic whispers come.

From Poplar, Pine, and drooping Birch, And fragrant Linden Trees;

No living sound

E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird,

Or hum of busy bees.

Knihy

The New Monthly Magazine and Humorist, Svazek 66