eir long-lost ethereal wings? and do
not the delighted strangers soar for a little while above the grossest
realms of matter? Alas! even but for a little while; now do they drop,
for now flag and droop those angelic pinions which are too humid and
heavy with that atmosphere, from whence they could not wholly disengage
themselves; the golden harps of heaven murmur in their entranced ears no
longer; the smiles of the Sons of Peace fade from their enchanted sight;
and the clouds of this nether world retain from their enamoured gaze,
the treasures of infinity!

Perhaps we have enjoyed a very enthusiastic, a very poetical, Christmas
Day! we pretend not to deny it, though steadfastly believing it was
neither an anti-Christian, nor an utterly unprofitable one; nay, we even
venture to hope, that the beatitude of spirit just feebly portrayed was
not unpleasing in His sight, unto whom, for His gift of immortal life,
we upon Christmas Day render our peculiar thanksgivings!

M.L.B.

* * * * *

THE FALL OF ZARAGOZA.

(_For the Mirror_.)

Awake, awake, the trumpet hath sung its lay to the sunny sky,
And the glorious shout from Spanish lips gives forth its wild reply.
Awake, awake, how the chargers foam, as to battle they dash on,
Oh, Zaragoza, on this proud day, must thy walls be lost or won!

His hand--the hand of the youthful chief was on his flashing sword,
And his plume gleam'd white thro' the smoke and flame o'er the lofty
city pour'd--
And the banners around him darkly swept like the waves of a stormy sea,
But Zaragoza, amid this strife, his heart was firm to thee.

"Away, away, tread her walls to dust!"--the Gallic warriors cried
"Defend, my bands, your hearth and home," the youthful chief replied.
They caught the sound of this spirit-voice as they stay'd their foes'
career,
And many a thrilling cry was heard, when the bayonet met the spear

In vain, ye heroes, do you breathe your latest vows to heaven,
In vain is your devoted blood in the cause of Freedom given,
For when the morn awakes again, your city shall not be
The haunt of maids who warbled deep, their sweetest songs for ye!

But the story of your hallow'd death shall not remain unsung,
Oh, its record shall be glorified by many a minstrel tongue
For Freedom's holy light hath touch'd each ruin'd shrine and wall,
That sadly speak unto the heart of Zaragoza's fall.

_