Hail, mighty shades! bright spirits of the past;
Here may your ashes sleep while time shall last.
Let kindred genius shed the pensive tear,
And grace with votive elegy each bier.
While far beyond this melancholy vale,
When faded sorrow tells her mournful tale,
"O'er this dim spot of earth," in regions fair
Your spirits dwell, and joys eternal share.
[1] The tomb of Mrs. Nightingale.
_Kirton Lindsey_.
ANNIE R.
* * * * *
THE COSMOPOLITE.
* * * * *
THE TIMES NEWSPAPER.
We are not about to write an advertisement for this advertised of all
advertisers--nor to talk of its square feet--its crowded broadside--or
the myriads of letters that make it resemble a sea of animalculae. We
are content to leave all the pride of its machinery to Messrs.
Applegath and Cowper, and the clang of its engine to the peaceful
purlieus of Printing-house Square. Yet these are interesting items in
the advancement of science, and in the history of mankind; for whether
taken mechanically or morally, the _Times_ is, without exception, the
newspaper of all newspapers, "the observed of all _observers_" and
altogether, the most extraordinary production of this or any other
age.
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