VI. Cato-Portrait of the late John Kemble. Painted by Sir

Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A.; Engraved by W. Greatbach.

(The Picture in the possession of the Right Honourable the Countess of Blessington.)

VII.-The Young Navigators. Painted by W. Mulready, R. A.; Engraved by Charles Fox.

VIII.-The Theft of the Cap. Painted by D. Wilkie, R. A.; Engraved by E. Finden.

(The Picture in the collection of the Most Noble the Marquis

of Lansdowne.)

IX. The Evening Star. Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence,

P. R. A.; Engraved by J. C. Edwards.

(The Picture in the possession of Richard French, Esq.)

X.-The English Mother. Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence,

P. R. A.; Engraved by W. Greatbach.

(The Picture in the possession of the Right Honourable

To show him that the earth was not
The home of his nativity?

For what the aspiring soul desired,
And traced in its excursive flight,

Was truth in fancy's garb attired,

The shadowing forth of its delight-
A glimpse of glory infinite-

The dawning of the perfect day,

Which prophet-bards had long foretold

When crime and woe should pass away,
And bring again the Age of Gold.

Nay, leave those speculative themes,
Leave to the poet his sweet dreams,
And I will show thee a delicious page
Of living poetry-the Golden Age!
A brighter Age of Gold, in sooth,

Than that they feigned-the Golden Age of youth!

Oh, youth! thou hast a wealth beyond

What careful men do spend their souls to gainA trustful heart that knows not to despond,

A joy unmixed with pain!

A world of beauty lies within thy ken;
Another paradise becomes thy lot;

Thou walk'st amid the ways of toiling men,

And yet thou know'st it not!

Thou thinkest not to plan and circumvent;
Thou dost not calculate from morn to eve;
They speak of guile, thou know'st not what is meant-
Of broken faith, thou can'st not it conceive!
Oh, happy Golden Age! thy limbs are strong,
Thou boundest like the fawn amid its play;
Thy speech is as the melody of song—

Thy pulse like waters on their cheerful way!
Beauty enrobes thee as a garment's fold;

And, as a spring within thy heart's recess,

Wells up, more precious than the sands of gold, Thy own great happiness!

Oh, beautiful and bright! that thou might'st keep The kindness of thy soul as it is now!

That o'er thy heart no selfish chill might creep,
No sorrow dim thy brow!

That thou might'st gather up life's flowers,
Love, joy, and meditative hours,

And twine them, as an amaranthine wreath,

Around thy brows in death!

Art thou my daughter?-so to thee I turn,
And with a warm solicitude do yearn
Toward thee in thy unpractised innocence,

And pour my longings out in earnest prayer:-
God be thy blessing, maiden, thy defence,
Thy Comforter, thy Father, every where!

MARY HOWITT.

"IT'S MY LUCK."

AN IRISH SKETCH, BY MRS. S. C. HALL,

"Some call it Providence, and others fate."

"WELL, ma'am dear, I never thought that ye'r going into foreign parts would make a heathen of ye entirely. To be sure, it turns the mind a little to leave one's own people; but to shift that way against what the whole world knows to be as true as gospel! It's myself that couldn't even it to you, at all, at all— so I couldn't-if I hadn't heard it with my own ears!"

"I assure you, Moyna, you are very much mistaken in imagining that the whole world adopt your notions of predestination, for

"I ax ye'r pardon for interrupting you, my lady; but I said nothing about pra-pra—I can't twist my tongue to round the word," continued Moyna; adding, with that exuberant vanity which prevents the Irish from ever pleading guilty to the sin of ignorance"Not but I've often heard it before."

B

"Predestination, Moyna, means what you call Luck -a thing you believe you cannot avoid-a sort of spirit that deals out to you good or evil, in defiance of your own wishes."

Moyna looked puzzled—exceedingly puzzled: she knocked the ashes out of her pipe against the post originally intended to support a gate, which, according to Moyna's reading, "her luck" had prevented from being either made or hung; and, stuffing her middle finger into the bowl of the little puffing medium, so as to ascertain that no hidden fire remained in its recess, she returned it to her pocket-clasped her hands so as to grasp the post within their palms, and, leaning against it, one foot crossed over the instep of the other, she turned her head a little round, and called to her husband by the familiar but affectionate appellation of "Tim a vourneen!"

"Tim"-or, to speak correctly, Timothy Brady— made his congeé from beneath the roof of a picturesque but most comfortless sheeling-a cottage that would have looked delightful in a painted landscape a matter that differs essentially from a delightful cottage in reality. Nothing could be more beautiful than the surrounding scenery: wood and water-hill and dale-a bold mountain in the distance -a blue sky over head-the turrets of a lofty castle shining among the woods and the lawns and

shrubberies of another, extending to the little patch