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GREAT BELL OF GLASGOW.

(For the Mirror.)

In the steeple of Glasgow is a great bell, which is twelve feet one inch in circumference, and has a grave and deep tone.  In 1789, it was accidentally cracked by some persons who got admission to the steeple.  It was, therefore, sent to London, and cast anew.  On the outside of it is the following inscription:—­

In the year of grace 1594, Marcus Knox, a merchant of Glasgow, zealous for the interests of the reformed religion, caused me to be fabricated in Holland for the use of his fellow citizens in Glasgow, and placed me with solemnity in the tower of their cathedral.  My function was to announce, by the impress on my bosom, (Me audito venias doctrinam sanctam ut discas;[2]) and I was taught to proclaim the hours of unheeded time. 195 years had I sounded these awful warnings, when I was broken by the hands of inconsiderate and unskilful men.  In the year 1790, I was cast into the furnace, refounded at London, and returned to my sacred vocation.  Reader, thou also shall know a resurrection, may it be to eternal life.

MALVINA.

    [2] Come, that ye may learn holy doctrine.

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 FANCY.

(For the Mirror.)

Me, oft hath Fancy, in her fitful dream, Seated within a far sequestered dell, What time upon the noiseless waters fell, Mingled with length’ning leafy shade, a gleam Of the departing sun’s environ’d beam; While all was hush’d, save that the lone death-bell Would seem to beat, and pensive smite mine ear Like spirit’s wail, now distant far, now near:  Then the night-breeze would seem to chill my cheek, And viewless beings flitting round, to speak! And then, a throng of mournful thoughts would press On this, my wild-ideal loneliness.

  Me, oft hath Fancy too, in musing hour
  Seated (what time the blithesome summer-day
  Was burning ’neath the fierce meridian ray)
  Within that self-same lonely woodland bow’r
  So sultry and still; but then, the tower,
  The hamlet tow’r, sent forth a roundelay;
  I seem’d to hear, till feelings o’er me stole
  Faintly and sweet, enwrapping all my soul,
  Joy, grief, were strangely blended in the sound. 
  The light, warm sigh of summer, was around,
  But ne’er may speech, such thoughts, such visions tell,
  Then, perfect most, when indescribable!

M.L.B.

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FINE ARTS

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THE PROGRESS OF PAINTING IN FRANCE.

(For the Mirror.)