y the glory; and, at length,
As sank the last, low horizontal beams,
And Twilight drew her azure curtains round,
From out the south, twinkled the Evening star!

VIII.

Since then full often hath the snow-drop shown
Its early flower--hath summer waved its corn--
Hath autumn shed its leaves--and Arctic gales
Brought wintry desolation on their wings!
When Memory ponders on that boyish scene,
Broken seems almost every tie that links
That day to this--and to the child the man:
The world is alter'd quite in all its thoughts--
In all its works and ways--its sights and sounds--
With the same name it is another sphere,
And by another race inhabited.
The old familiar dwellings, with their trees
Coeval, mouldering wall, and dovecot rent--
The old familiar faces from the streets,
One after one, have now all disappear'd,
And sober sires are they who then were sons,
Giddy and gay:--a generation new
Dwells where they dwelt--whose tongues are silent quite--
Whose bodily forms are reminiscences
Fading:--the leaden talisman of Truth
Hath disenchanted of its rainbow hues
The sky, and robb'd the fields of half their bloom.
I start, to conjure from the gulf of death
The myriads that have gone to come no more:--
And where is he, the Angler, by whose side
That livelong day delightedly I roam'd,
While life to both a sunny pastime seem'd?
Ask of the winds that from the Atlantic blow,
When last they stirr'd the wild-flowers on his grave!

DE BURTIN ON PICTURES.

The writings of enthusiasts, however dry the subjects upon which they
employ their pens, have always some power of fascination. Many a one
who has never hooked a fish, has found delight in Isaac Walton. He is
still the pleasant companion by river and brooklet, and the cause why,

"He that has fishing loved should fish the more,
And he should fish who never fish'd before."

But then the subject is the loveliest of arts, Painting--embracing as
it does the beautiful, the great, and the pathetic, whatever charms
the eye and moves the heart--we are sensible of more than common
pleasure, and become soothed into dreams and visions of our own, even
by the gentle garrulity of a connoisseur. Is there any one who
pretends to acquaintance with literature, however uninitiated he may
be in the mysteries of the arts, who