as by a sort of two-handed windlass, with ropes and
pulleys, called a _"moulinet_," which was temporarily attached to the
butt-end of the Cross-bow; of this a drawing is given in the illustrations
of Froissart's _Chronicles_, particularly in that one descriptive of the
Siege of Aubenton; in which two bowmen are shown, one in the act of
winding up the bow, and the other taking his aim, the _moulinet_, &c.
lying at his feet. Of this latter description, there are two specimens
preserved in the Tower of London, both of about the period of our Henry
the Sixth.

C.P.C.

* * * * *

LINES TO A LARK.

(_For the Mirror_.)

Upon thy happy flight to heaven, again, sweet
bird, thou art;
The morning beam is on thy wings, its influence
in thy heart;
Like matin hymns blest spirits sing in yonder
happy sky,
Break on the ear, the small, sweet notes of thy
wild melody.

Cold winter winds are far away, the cruel snows
have past;
And spring's sweet skies, and blushing flowers
shine o'er the world at last;
Where the young corn springs fresh, and green,
sweet flowerets gather'd he,
And form around thy lowly nest a shelter sweet
for thee.

Is it not this which wakes thy song, with thoughts of
summer hours,
When warmer hues shall clothe the skies, and
darker shades the bowers;
Has nature to thy throbbing heart such glowing
feelings given,
That thou canst feel the beautiful, of this bright
earth and heaven.

If so, how blest must be thy lot, from azure
skies to gaze,
When the fresh morn is in the heavens, or
mid-day splendours blaze;
Or when the sunset's canopy of golden light is
spread,
And thou unseen, enshrin'd in light, art singing
overhead.

Oh then thy happy song comes down upon the
glowing breast,
Soft as rich sunlight, on the flowers, comes from
the golden west:
And fain the heart would soar with thee, enshrin'd
in thought as sweet,
As the rich tones, which from thy heart, thou
dost in song repeat.

Oh there is not on earth a breast, but turns
with joy to thee.
From the cold wither'd years of age, to smiling
infancy.
Thou claimest smiles from ev'ry lip, and praise
from ev'ry tongue;
Such sympathy each happy heart finds in thy
joyous song.

_Dorking_.

SYLVA.

* * * * *

THE COSMOPOLITE.