dsor
Castle, to which attach the historical recollections of many centuries,
adding, if possible, yet more solemnity to Gothic grandeur? Again, can
there be conceived a spot more entirely consecrated to classical
associations than the grotto, at Twickenham; that retreat in which gazing
on "Thames translucent stream," Pope passed so many hours of undisturbed
privacy--that spot

"Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole,
And the bright flame was shot thro' Marchmont's soul."

I have visited it in summer, when the warmth of a mid-day sun has rendered
the "_frigus amabile_" of the interior doubly inviting, and on such
occasions, have quite revelled in local enthusiasm.

I remember, some years since, visiting the Duke of Devonshire's beautiful
villa, at Chiswick, in company with a friend, whose sentiments on the
subject of local impressions are similar to my own. While I was admiring
books and paintings in the library, my companion was contemplating in mute
emotion, the bed upon which Charles Fox breathed his last. That one object
engrossed all the powers of his soul; every other was forgotten!

C. J.

* * * * *

THE HUMBLE SPARROW'S ADDRESS TO T. S. A.

(_For the Mirror._)

My dearest Sir, how great a change
Has pass'd upon the groves I range,
Nay, all the face of nature!
A few weeks back, each pendent bough,
The fields, the groves, the mountain's brow,
Were bare and leafless all, but now
How verdant ev'ry feature!

Each little songster strives to raise
Its highest warbling notes of praise,
For all these blessings given:--
Ere Sol emerges from behind
The eastern hills, the lark we find
Soars, as it were on wings of wind,
With grateful notes to heaven.

A thousand others catch the strains,
Each bush and tree a tongue contains,
That offers up its praises.
From morn till the meridian day,
From noon till Sol has sunk away,
One ceaseless song, one grateful lay,
Each feather'd songster raises.

And when Night's grim and sable band,
Spreads her dim curtains o'er the land,
And all our prospect closes;
Then Philomela, queen of song,
The sweetest of the feather'd throng,
Takes up the theme the whole night long,
While nature all reposes.

Then surely I, the humblest bird,
That e'er among the groves was heard,
Should aid the thankful chorus;
With _ch