and we think of future lords and ladies rather than of men and women. This will not be much felt, unless we glance from Reynolds to Gainsborough. There is a rustic grace and untamed wildness about the children of the latter, which speak of the country and of neglected toilettes. They are the true unsophisticated offspring of nature, running unchecked among woods as natural as themselves. They are not afraid of disordering their satins, of soiling their finery, and wetting their shoes. They roll on the greensward, burrow like rabbits, and dabble daily in the running streams. They have an illiterate, yet an intelligent look, with the frank spirit of old England in their eyes.

In this the works of Gainsborough and Reynolds are unlike each other, and both differ materially from the productions of the great painters of Italy. The babes of Raphael and Titian and Correggio are not mortal, they are divine. We think not of mothers' bosoms when we look at them—they are infant divinities-juvenile saints -hallowed babies-allied more to heaven than to human nature-things dedicated to the church and removed from mortal sympathy. We admire, but cannot love them as we do more homely and more earthly things.

ON HEARING "THERE'S A SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME" SUNG BY ITS AUTHOR, THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

BY MISS A. D. REYNETT.

HUSH! move not, sigh not, let not breath be heard, Lest we should lose a tone, a look, a word.

Hark! "Tis 66

a master spirit of his kind," And all that's sweet in language is combined

With all that's sweet in sound. 'Tis almost pain

To lose in listening, that delicious strain,

66

'There's a song of the olden time;" he sings,

And touches the soul's most sensitive strings.

The vision of my early days I see,

The dream of youthful fancy visits me.

Matchless enchanter! whence derived the power

To bring back with thy spell the blissful hour:

To give again, as in my brightest years,

Those who have left me long, to earth and tears;

Spirit of Melody! by every token...

Alas! the strain has ceased, the enchantment's broken.

BETTER FAR THAN BONNY.

BY JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.

HE's what they ca' a bonny lad,
That I loo best of ony;

But, O! what makes my heart fu' glad,
He's better far than bonny!

I met him first at Moffat-Wells,
Where a' the Nithsdale gentry,
In summertime, amuse themsels,
And make a joyous entry!

At gloaming, down by yon burnside,
The last time that I saw him,

He vowed that I should be his bride,
Whatever might befa' him:

But war, that scourge of young delight,
Has torn him frae my bosom,

And I am dowie, day and night,
For fear that I should lose him!

What though there's lairds in Annandale,
At kirk and market booing;

And mair than ane, in Nith's sweet vale,
That fain wou'd come awooing?
Fareweel to them and their green braes,
Where crystal streams are gliding;
For my poor heart, far, far frae these,
Is wi' my love abiding!