"to stoop to truth," and moralise (not "the song," but) the picture.

But Mr. Rippingille is not only a good painter; he is an excellent critic on art. We remember to have heard him deliver a series of lectures on painting, a few years ago, abounding in acute remark, and justifying the belief that he possesses a scientific knowledge of his profession. The atmosphere of Bristol does not appear to be congenial to the Fine Arts. Excepting by one or two noble-spirited collectors (among whom it would be an injustice not to mention Mr. Ackerman), Mr. Rippingille, like Mr. Danby and Mr. Bailey, both natives of that city, seems to have met with but little encouragement from the Bristolians. He has accordingly removed to the metropolis, in which he at present resides.

THE GRECIAN GARDEN.

BY MISS L. E. LANDON.

'Tis lonely as my own sad heart, 'Tis silent as my own still lute, Fair garden-lovely as thou art,

Thy walks are lorn, thy songs are mute. The sun-set's melancholy beam

Falls o'er thy vases' sculptured snow, These urns for roses made, now seem As if the dead were laid below.

II.

The statues wear a sterner brow

Than they were wont to wear of old; The blossoms, drooping from the bough, Leave half sweet summer's tale untold. Droop, droop, pale flowers, for ye are mine; Your early doom my own will be; Give me some sympathising sign

That nature sorroweth with me.