An effectively-coloured lithographic of Mr. Gurney’s carriage (by Shoesmith) has recently appeared at the printsellers’, which we take this opportunity of recommending to the notice of collectors and scrappers.

[Footnote 1:  “Literary Gazette,” Sept. 19, 1829.]

[Footnote 2:  The propellers, I am informed, are not absolutely discarded.  They are now not fixed, but movable, and reserved for extreme possible emergencies, or for certain military purposes.]

* * * * *

PUNNING SATIRE ON AN INCONSTANT LOVER.

  You are as faithless as a Carthaginian,
  To love at once, Kate, Nell, Doll, Martha, Jenny, Anne.

Swift.

* * * * *

BRIMHAM ROCKS[3] BY MOONLIGHT.

(FOR THE MIRROR.)

  The sun hath set, but yet I linger still,
  Gazing with rapture on the face of night;
  And mountain wild, deep vale, and heathy hill,
  Lay like a lovely vision, mellow, bright,
  Bathed in the glory of the sunset light,
  Whose changing hues in flick’ring radiance play,
  Faint and yet fainter on the outstretch’d sight,
  Until at length they wane and die away,
  And all th’ horizon round fades into twilight gray.

  But, slowly rising up the vaulted sky,
  Forth comes the moon, night’s joyous, sylvan queen,
  With one lone, silent star, attendant by
  Her side, all sparkling in its glorious sheen;
  And, floating swan-like, stately, and serene,
  A few light fleecy clouds, the drapery of heav’n,
  Throw their pale shadows o’er this witching scene,
  Deep’ning its mystic grandeur—­and seem driven
  Round these all shapeless piles like Time’s wan spectres risen

  From out the tombs of ages.  All around
  Lies hushed and still, save with large, dusky wing
  The bird of night makes its ill-omened sound;
  Or moor-game, nestling ‘neath th’ flowery ling
  Low chuckle to their mates—­or startled, spring
  Away on rustling pinions to the sky,
  Wheel round and round in many an airy ring,
  Then swooping downward to their covert hie,
  And, lodged beneath the heath again securely lie.

  Ascend yon hoary rock’s impending brow,
  And on its windy summit take your stand—­
  Lo!  Wilsill’s lovely vale extends below,
  And long, long heathy moors on either hand
  Stretch dark and misty—­a bleak tract of land,
  Whereon but seldom human footsteps come;
  Save when with dog, obedient at command,
  And gun, the sportsman quits his city home,
  And brushing through the ling in quest of game doth roam.