more appropriate subject for the embellishment of a church, than Hilton’s representation of this sublime event.  The countenance and figure of the crucified Saviour are admirably drawn:  his placid resignation is finely contrasted with the muscular figures of the two thieves struggling in the last agonies of torture:  the spike-nails and blood-drops of the hands and feet, and the title on the cross are closely preserved.  The group of women at the foot of the cross, the lifeless form, drooping hand, anxious eye, and gushing tear, the terrified and afflicted populace, and the unperturbed devotional gaze of a few by-standers are too among the masterly beauties of this composition.  The lights are well kept, and the entire effect of the Window is that of awe-inspiring grandeur.

It is somewhat curious, that on the evening Mr. Wilmshurst put together his Liverpool Window, his larger Window of the Field of Cloth of Gold, was totally destroyed by fire, and by the next morning all its glories were melted (or vitrified) into tears.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

THE TWA BURDIES.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

  When the winter day had past an’ gane,
  Twa wee burdies came into our hearth stane;
  An’ they lookit a’round them wi’ little din,
  As if they had living souls within.

  “O, bonny burdies, come tell to me
  If ye are twa burdies o’ this countrye? 
  An’ where ye were gaun when ye tint your gate,
  A-winging the winter shower sae late?”

  “We are cauld, we are cauld—­ye maun let us bide,
  For our father’s gane, an’ our mother’s a bride: 
  But in her bride’s bed though she be,
  We would rather cour on the earth wi’ thee!”

  “O, bonny burdies, my heart is sair
  To see twa motherless broods sae fair. 
  But flee away, burdies! flee away! 
  For I darenae bide wi’ you till day.”

  “Ye maun let us bide till our feathers dry,
  For the time of our trial’s drawing nigh. 
  A voice will call at the hour eleven,
  An’ a naked sword appear in heaven!

  “There’s an offering to make, but not by men,
  On altar as white as the snow of the glen—­
  There’s a choice to be made, and a vow to pay,
  And blood to spill ere the break of day.”

  “O, tell me, beings of marvellous birth,
  If ye are twa creatures of heaven or earth? 
  For ye look an’ ye speak, I watnae how—­
  But I’m fear’d, I’m fear’d, little burdies for you!”

  “Ye needna be fear’d, for it’s no our part
  To injure the kind and the humble heart;
  And those whose trust is in heaven high,
  The Angel of God will aye be nigh.

  We were twa sisters bred in a bower,
  As gay as the lark an’ as fair as the flower;
  But few of the ills of this world we proved,
  Till we were slain by the hands we loved.