as, in his sketch,
endeavoured to convey some idea of their outline; but he hopes to supply
an amplification of their scenic beauty in a future engraving. We may,
however, observe that the view from this window deserves the character
of the _sublime in miniature_, and presents even a microcosm, where

Rocks and forests, lakes, and mountains grand,
Mark the true majesty of Nature's hand.

The whole apartment presents a finished specimen of joinery, with a
tasteful display of ornamental carving. Its colour is a deep warm or, we
think, _burnt sienna_, brown; the furniture is in _recherche_ rusticated
style, planned by Mr. Gray, whose taste in these matters is elaborately
correct; and it requires but the social blaze on the hearth, (which our
artist has liberally supplied,) to complete the well-devised illusion of
the scene. The apartment was painted about two years since as a scene
for a musical piece at Covent Garden Theatre, the incidents of which lay
in Switzerland.

* * * * *

THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT.

BY MISS M.L. BEEVOR.

(_For the Mirror._)

Like some young veiled Bride,
Gleams the moon's hazy face,
When tissues that would hide
But lend her charms a grace:
Each winkling starlet pale,
Sleeps in its far, far fold,
Wrapp'd in the heavy veil
Of dewy clouds and cold.
The turmoil, din, and strife,
Of factious earth are o'er;
The turbid waves of life
Have ceas'd to roll and roar;
But tones now meet the ear,
Full fraught with strange delight,
And intermingling fear:
_The Voices of the Night!_

Not such as softly rise
When boughs with song o'erflow,
And lover's vows and sighs,
Like incense breathe below;
Not such as warm his breast,
Whose fever'd anxious brain
Toils when all else hath rest,
To bring the _lost_ again!

But the owl's boding shriek,
The death-cry of his prey;
The tongues that durst not speak
In bright unslumb'ring day;
The murd'rer's curses fell,
His quiv'ring victim's groan;
The mutt'red, moody spell
Which rocks ABADDON'S throne!

The song of winds that sweep
Impetuously around
Our rolling sphere, and keep
Up conferences profound;
The music of the sea,
When battling waves run mad;
Far sweeter there may be,
But none so wild and sad.

The wail of forests vast
Thro' which pour storms like light,
Whilst rending in