ANNOUNCEMENT.

IN producing this Book of Landscapes by BIRKET FOSTER, it is the intention of the Publishers to give in a collected form specimens of the works of this justly popular Artist, which have already appeared in their series of Illustrated Gift Books.

BROADWAY, LUDGATE.

CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Towards the Church-yard he had turned aside.

Go staggering through the fords

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Bearing his Brother on his back

Yon precipice ;-it almost looks

Like some vast building made of many crags

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round

At a short distance from my cottage stands

A stately Fir-grove

In a cottaged vale she dwells,

Listening to the Sabbath bells!

'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire,

With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"

We met in secret, in the depth of night

When there was none to watch us

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay

I could not pray :-through tears that fell in showers

I saw my own dear home, that was no longer ours

Those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove

His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes,

Through crags and forest glooms and opening lakes

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;

On Christmas Eve the mass was sung

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon

As mine own shadow was this child to me,

A second self, far dearer and more fair

And in the weedy moat the heron, fond

Of solitude, alighted

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From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,

As the sun sets, to weep o'er the grave of my bride.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name

His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—

Though younger than himself full twenty years

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock

And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,

Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers

There by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen

Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog

Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours

Of winters past, or coming, void of care

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue

How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town

Now who is he that bounds with joy

On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?

While to my fond words she listened