SWISS COTTAGE, AT THE COLOSSEUM, IN THE REGENT'S PARK.
Reading edition
Swiss Cottage, At The Colosseum
Apartment Interior
The second Engraving shows the recessed window of the apartment, which faces the fire-place, and commands a view of a mass of rock-scenery, ornamented with waterfalls of singular contrivance and effect. The frames are filled in with plate-glass, so that the view of these artificial wonders is unobstructed. Our artist has, in his sketch, endeavoured to convey some idea of their outline; but he hopes to supply an amplification of their scenic beauty in a future engraving. We may, however, observe that the view from this window deserves the character of the sublime in miniature, and presents even a microcosm, where
Rocks and forests, lakes, and mountains grand, Mark the true majesty of Nature's hand.
The whole apartment presents a finished specimen of joinery, with a tasteful display of ornamental carving. Its colour is a deep warm or, we think, burnt sienna, brown; the furniture is in recherché rusticated style, planned by Mr. Gray, whose taste in these matters is elaborately correct; and it requires but the social blaze on the hearth, (which our artist has liberally supplied,) to complete the well-devised illusion of the scene. The apartment was painted about two years since as a scene for a musical piece at Covent Garden Theatre, the incidents of which lay in Switzerland.
THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT.
BY MISS M.L. BEEVOR.
(For the Mirror.)
Like some young veiled Bride, Gleams the moon's hazy face, When tissues that would hide But lend her charms a grace: Each winkling starlet pale, Sleeps in its far, far fold, Wrapp'd in the heavy veil Of dewy clouds and cold. The turmoil, din, and strife, Of factious earth are o'er; The turbid waves of life Have ceas'd to roll and roar; But tones now meet the ear, Full fraught with strange delight, And intermingling fear: The Voices of the Night! Not such as softly rise When boughs with song o'erflow, And lover's vows and sighs, Like incense breathe below; Not such as warm his breast, Whose fever'd anxious brain Toils when all else hath rest, To bring the lost again! But the owl's boding shriek, The death-cry of his prey; The tongues that durst not speak In bright unslumb'ring day; The murd'rer's curses fell, His quiv'ring victim's groan; The mutt'red, moody spell Which rocks ABADDON'S throne! The song of winds that sweep Impetuously around Our rolling sphere, and keep Up conferences profound; The music of the sea, When battling waves run mad; Far sweeter there may be, But none so wild and sad. The wail of forests vast Thro' which pour storms like light, Whilst rending in the blast, They feebly own its might! Deep thund'rings o'er the main: The short shrill smother'd cry, Hurl'd to the skies in vain, Of drowning agony! The SOMETHING toneless, which Speaks awfully to men, Startling the poor and rich, For CONSCIENCE will talk then; These are the watch-words drear, The Voices of the Night, Which harrow the sick ear, The stricken heart affright! Great Marlow, Bucks.