We had almost overlooked the imitative Mechlin lace-facings, which would deceive any Nottingham factor.

* * * * *

THE ZOOLOGICAL KEEPSAKE.

The design of this “Annual” is good, we may say, very good; but we are alike bound to confess that the execution falls short of the idea.  It contains an account of the Gardens and Museum of the Zoological Society, but this is too much interlarded with digressions.  All the introductory matter might have been omitted with advantage to the author as well as the public.  The descriptions are divided by poetical pieces, which serve as reliefs, one of which we extract:—­

THE LOST LAMB; OR, THE CHILD SAVED.

BY H.C.  DEAKIN, ESQ.

Author of “Portraits of the Dead."

  Morn rose upon the purple hills,
    In all his pomp display’d;
  Flash’d forth like stars a hundred rills,
    In valley, plain, and glade. 
  The foaming mist, day’s chilly shrine,
    Into the clouds upcurl’d,
  Forth broke in majesty divine
    The Grampians’ giant world.

  It was a glorious sight to view
    Those mountain forms unfold,—­
  The Heavens above intensely blue,
    The plains beneath like gold. 
  Day woke, a thousand songs arose,
    Morn’s orisons on high,
  Earth’s universal heart o’erflows
    To Him beyond the sky.

  The shepherd roused him from his sleep,
    And down the vale be hied,
  Like guardian good, to count his sheep,
    His firstling by his side. 
  His firstling! ’twas his only child—­
    A boy of three years old,
  The father’s weary hours beguiled
    Whilst watching o’er his fold.

  And many an hour the child and he
    Joy’d o’er the vale together;
  It was a lovely thing to see
    That child among the heather. 
  The vale is pass’d, the mountains rear
    Their rugged cliffs in air,
  He must ascend to view more near
    His distant fleecy care.

  “My child! the flowers are bright for thee,
    The daisy’s pearl’d with dew;
  Go, share them with the honey-bee,
    Till I return for you,
  Thy dog and mine with thee shall stay
    Whilst I the flock am counting,”—­
  He said, and took his tedious way,
    The hilly green sward mounting.

  O’er crag and cliff the father toil’d,
    Unconscious pass’d the hours: 
  He for a time forgot the child
    He’d left among the flowers. 
  The boiling clouds come down and veil
    Valley, and wood, and plain;
  Then fears the father’s heart assail,
    He will descend again.

  Morn melted into noon, and night
    Dark on the shepherd shone,
  Terror in vain impels his flight,
    His child!—­his child is gone! 
  He calls upon his darling’s name,
    His dog in vain he calls;
  He hears naught but the eagle’s scream,
    Or roar of waterfalls.