person. I, however," continues the Countess, "believe that he often
gazed on those wonders, but in the late and solitary hour, when the
stupendous edifices which surrounded him, illuminated by the soft and
placid light of the moon, appeared a thousand times more lovely."
"During an entire winter, he went out every morning alone, to row
himself to the island of the Armenians (a small island, distant from
Venice about half a league), to enjoy the society of those learned and
hospitable monks, and to learn their difficult language." During the
summer, Lord Byron enjoyed the exercise of riding in the evening. "No
sunsets," said he, "are to be compared with those of Venice--they are
too gorgeous for any painter, and defy any poet."

[1] Letter-press of the superb "Landscape Annual" for the present
year, whence our Engraving is transferred. The Life of the noble
Poet at Venice cannot be better described than in his own
Letters, for which see pages 43-82 of the present volume.

[2] From some passages in his Lordship's Letters, this would not
appear correct.

* * * * *

NATURE REVIVING.

(_For the Mirror._)

The rills run free, and fetterless, and strong,
Rejoicing that their icy bonds are broke,
The breeze is burthen'd with the grateful song
Of birds innumerous: who from torpor woke,
Cleave the fine air with renovated stroke.
The teeming earth flings up its budding store
Of herbs, and flow'rs, escaping from the yoke.
That Winter's spell had cast around; and o'er
The clear and sun-lit sky, dark clouds are seen no more.

In woody dells, by shallow brooks that stand,
The modest violet, and primrose pale,
(Like youth just bursting into life,) expand,
And cast their perfumes down the dewy vale,
Till laden seems each bland, yet searching gale
That fans the cheek with odours of the Spring.
All living nature rushes to inhale:
As if this universal blossoming
Too soon would fade away, or instantly take wing.

What beauty in the swelling upland green,
On which the fleecy flock in sportive play,
And mirth, and gambol innocent, are seen.
What pleasure through the scented copse to stray,
And hear the stock dove coo its am'rous lay,
Or climb the steep hill's side, beneath whose height
Dashing afar, like drifted snow, their spray;
The waves of ocean with an angry might,
Flash in the purple d