Revelations was easy and natural; but if it had been neither, the orator would have made it both, for he is unequalled in the art of transition, and never seems embarrassed for a moment. From the Revelations, the hand of his friend the Rev. Edward Irving was then seeking to lift the veil, and to this new and magnificent task the Poet turned with sparkling eyes and glowing brow-he had found a theme suitable to his own lofty imagination, and as mystical as his own mind. How he soared! He appeared to think that the Apocalypse was a divine poem rather than a Revelation.

We have said that Sir George Beaumont was a lover of art; he was much more; he was a very beautiful landscape painter. But he felt the poetry of the profession better than he could fix his conceptions in suitable colours. His works have less of the fresh glow of nature-the dashing freedom which deals with grand scenes, and the sunshiny radiance of open fields and sloping hills, than some of the high masters of the calling. He had the soul of the artist-he wanted the complete discipline of hand, without which all feeling is vain and useless. The dignity of his household was well maintained by his lady, who in look and taste so much resembled him that they seemed akin. We have known many men of old descent and fine taste, inheriting splendid houses and enjoying fair estates, but we know of no one who continues to the nation the dignified image which Sir George Beaumont has left on our heart and mind. N. M.

THE LASS OF LAMMERMOOR.

I MET a lass on Lammermoor,

Between the corn and blooming heather; Around her waist red gowd she wore,

And in her cap she wore a feather.

Her steps were light, her looks were bright,

Her face shone out like summer weather; Birds sing, sweet lass, said I, nor fear Thy looks so lovely 'mang the heather.

O sic a geck she gave her head,

And sic a toss she gave her feather;

Man, saw ye neʼer a bonnie lass

Before, among the blooming heather?

Pass on, pass on, so fair a one

Should be less scornful; I would rather

Have one I name not in her snood,

Than thou with thy proud cap and feather.

UPPER CANADA, MAY 2.

CHILLO N.

A LONELY tower, a shaggy hill,

Green spreading groves, and waters still:
The sunlight slumbering 'mongst the flowers,
The stray deer rustling 'mongst the bowers;
A beauteous sky that loves to brood
With gorgeous wings o'er tower and wood:
Boors watching well, with eyes of jet,
The harvest of the dripping net.
All, all is there that man can give,
To bid the landscape glow and live;
All, all is there the eye can ask,

Art well hath wrought its wondrous task;
And Stanfield with triumphant skill
Hath steeped in splendour tower and hill.
All is not there. Round that gray tower,

And shaggy hill, and sunlit bower,
There hangs a holier halo brought

Bright down from heaven by Byron's thought.
He gave that tower a tongue to tell

Of sorrow like a parting knell;
He stamped the likeness of a god
On every stone and crumbling clod;

The very water seems to take
His form as we look on the lake;