To show the charms on Nature's face,
To fix the forms of truth and grace.
And whether on Creation rude,
Or rock, or desert solitude,—
O'er ocean, cloud, or tranquil sky,
The painter throws a heedful eye;
And not a shrub, a flower, a tree,
But holds some latent mystery,
To which the artist's skill alone
Can give substantial form and tone.

Yes! and while the elasticity of his mind remains, he can draw pleasure from stores ever at hand. His imagination can range the wilds of his own creation, and see no bounds to the power of his art. Seduced by the delusive nature of his employment, Time glides imperceptibly away, while he paints him at rest; and the insidious foe to life marks, in the ardour of his pursuit and the intenseness of his application, the seeds of destruction, and, in the flame that lights up his genius, the consumer of his days.

R. D.

THE GAME OF LIFE;

Or, Death among the Cricketers.

WHEN men are in a moralizing strain,
And gravely talk about the brittle stuff
Of which poor human life is made,
'Tis ten to one,

That, ere they've done,

They shake their heads, and makethis sage reflection: That Life is transitory, fleeting, vain—

A very bubble!

With pleasures few and brief-but as for pain, And care, and trouble,

There's more than quantum suff.—

Nay, quite enough

To make the stoutest heart afraid,

And cloud the merriest visage with dejection!

And then, what dismal stories are invented

About this "vale of woe"

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Zounds! 'twere enough to make one discontented, Whether one would, or no!

Now LIFE, to me, has always seem'd a GAMENot a mere game of chance, but one where skill

Will often throw the chances in our wayJust like (my favourite sport) the Game of Cricket; Where, tho' the match be well contested, still A steady Player, careful of his fame,

May have a good long Innings, with fair play, Whoever bowls, or stops, or keeps the wicket.

Softly, my friend! (methinks I hear DEATH cry) Whoever bowls! you say ;-sure you forget That in LIFE's feverish fitful game

I am the Bowler, and friend TIME keeps wicket:-
Well! be it so, old boy,-is my reply;

I know you do-but, Master Drybones, yet
My argument remains the same,

And I can prove Life's like the Game of Cricket!

Sometimes a Batsman's lull'd by Bowler DEATH, Who throws him off his guard with easy balls;

Till presently a rattler stops his breath—

He's out! Life's candle's snuff'd-his wicket falls!

In goes another mate: DEATH bowls away-
And with such art each practis'd method tries,
That now the ball winds tortively along,

Now slowly rolls, and now like lightning flies,