"Time was no more for them: the sun had gone, The stars from sunset glow began to peer; Yet 'neath those stars that pair still linger'd on, Unconscious of the night, fast drawing near! His voice to her was daylight, and her smile A sunny morning breaking o'er his soul: Such hours of bliss come only once--the while Long-silent love speaks forth without control, And of its hopes and fears first telleth out the whole." "Welsh Gossips."-- "At every word a reputation dies." For the credit of Wales, we hope Mr Horsley did not sketch these from nature; yet is there a fearful look of natural acrimony in the one, and sheer busybodyism in the other. The plate is beautifully etched. His "Moonlight" is not quite clear enough--there are too many sparkling lights. The "Shady Seat" is prettily designed; the lady looks rather too alarmed, and, for the subject, perhaps there is not enough of shadow-- certainly not "enough for two." We at once recognize Stonhouse in the "Evening effects of Solitude," and his "Neath Abbey." The former he thus describes:-- "There, woods impervious to the breeze, Thick phalanx of embodied trees-- Here, stillness, height, and solemn shade Invite, and contemplation aid." We are sure that Neath Abbey is from nature, for it has the sooty and smoked character of that manufacture-ruined ruin. But we must not pass by his "Dorothea" from Don Quixote. Nothing can be more happily expressed than the deep shady retirement of the wood; there are nice gradations of shades, which is the very character of retirement, and Dorothea is herself in it, not a bright figure in a black mass--and good is the figure too, but the feet are unfinished. Mr Creswick is a large contributor, and least fortunate in his first: it is not the scene so well given in verse by his friend Townsend; for it is too pretty, too tight. It wants the "lane;" it is the road-side. "THE WAYSIDE. "A lane, retired from noisy haunts of men, Whose ruts the solitary lime cart tracks, Whose hedge-sides, propp'd by many a mossy stone, Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom, Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath, Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through. There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath, A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope, A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad, Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread To rest the weary wanderer on his way. There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie, Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest. Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones-- Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop-- Point to the revels of preceding night. And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group, Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare; While laughter, louder after long constraint, From every jocund face is pealing round.