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Never surely was there such a scene as that which followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous impulse fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand lips a great shout of joy which resounded far and wide, and lent new vigor to that blessèd pibroch. To our cheer of "God save the Queen," they replied by the well-known strain that moves every Scot to tears, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," &c. After that nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely remember what followed. Jessie was presented to the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the officers' banquet her health was drunk by all present, while the pipers marched round the table playing once more the familiar air of "Auld lang syne."

LXXIV. THE ASPEN LEAF.

I WOULD not be

A leaf on yonder aspen tree!

In every fickle breeze to play,

Wildly, weakly, idly gay,

So feebly framed, so lightly hung,

By the wing of an insect stirred and swung;
Thrilling ev'n to a redbreast's note,

Drooping if only a light mist float,

Brightened and dimmed like a varying glass,

As shadow or sunbeam chance to pass :

I would not be

A leaf on yonder aspen tree.

It is not because the autumn °sere

:

Would change my merry guise and cheer,-
That soon, full soon, nor leaf, nor stem,
Sunlight would gladden, or dew-drop gem,
That I, with my fellows, must fall to the earth,
Forgotten our beauty and breezy mirth,
Or else on the bough where all had grown,

Must linger on and linger alone;

Might life be an endless summer's day,
And I be for ever green and gay,

I would not be, I would not be
A leaf on yonder aspen tree!

Proudly spoken, heart of mine,

Yet weakness and change perchance are thine,
More, and darker, and sadder to see,

Than befall the leaves of yonder tree!
What if they flutter? their life is a dance;

Or toy with the sunbeam? they live in his glance;
To bird, breeze, and insect, rustle and thrill,
Never the same, never mute, never still,—
Emblems of all that is fickle and gay,

But leaves in their birth, but leaves in decay-
Chide them not, heed them not, spirit, away!

In to thyself, to thine own hidden shrine.

What there dost thou worship? what deem'st thou divine?
Thy hopes, are they steadfast, and holy, and high?
Are they built on a rock? are they raised to the sky?
Thy deep secret yearnings,-oh! whither point they?
To the triumphs of earth, to toys of a day?

Thy friendships and feelings-doth impulse prevail,
To make them, and mar them, as wind swells the sail?
Thy life's ruling passion-thy being's first aim-
What are they? and yield they contentment or shame!

Spirit, proud spirit, ponder thy state,

If thine the leaf's lightness, not thine the leaf's fate;
It may flutter, and glisten, and wither, and die,
And heed not our pity, and ask not our sigh:
But for thee, the immortal, no winter may throw
Eternal repose on thy joy, or thy woe;
Thou must live-live for ever-in glory or gloom,
Beyond the world's precincts, beyond the dark tomb.

Look to thyself, then, êre past is hope's reign,
And looking and longing alike are in vain!
Lest thou deem it a bliss to have been or to be
But a fluttering leaf on yon aspen tree.

Miss M. J. Jewsbury.

LXXV.-GIBRALTAR.

No one who has looked on that vast and fōrted rock, with its huge granite outline shown in bold relief against the clear sky of the south of Europe-its towering and ruined crowned peaks-its enormous crags, caverns, and precipices-and its rich historical associations,

which shed a powerful though °vague interest over every featurecan easily forget the strong impression which the first sight of that imposing and magnificent spectacle creates. The flinty mass rising abruptly to an elevation of fifteen hundred feet, and surrounded on every side by the waters of the Mediterranean, save a narrow slip of level sand which stretches from its northern end and connects it with the main land, has added to its other claims to admiration the strong interest of utter 'isolation.

For a while the spectator gazes on the "stupendous whole" with an expression of pleased wonder at its height, extent, and strength, and without becoming conscious of the various opposite features which make up its grand effect of sublimity and beauty. He sees only the giant rock spreading its vast dark mass against the sky, its broken and wavy ridge, its beetling projections, and its dizzy preci pices of a thousand feet perpendicular descent. After a time, his eye becoming in some degree familiarized with the main and sterner features of the scene, he perceives that the granite mountain is ovariegated by here and there some picturesque work of art, or spot of green beauty, that shines with greater loveliness from contrast with the savage roughness by which it is surrounded.

Dotted about at long intervals over the steep sides of the craggy mass, are seen the humble cottages of the soldiers' wives; or, perched on the very edges of the cliffs, the guard-houses of the garrison, before which, ever and anon, may be descried the vigilant sentry, dwindled to a pigmy, walking to and fro on his allotted and dangerous post. Now and then the eye detects a more sumptuous edifice, half hid in a grove of acacias, orange, and almond trees, as if they clustered round to shut from the view of its inhabitant, in his cyry-like abode, the scene of desolate grandeur above, beneath him, and on every side.

At the foot of the rock, on a small and narrow slip less precipitous than the rest, stands the town of Gibraltar, which, as seen from the bay, with its dark-colored houses, built in the Spanish style, and rising one above another in amphitheatrical order-the ruins of the Moorish castle and defences in the rear-and the high massive walls which surround it at the water's edge, and which, thick planted with cannon, seem formed to “laugh a siege to scorn," has a remarkably picturesque and imposing effect.

The military works of Gibraltar are on a scale of magnificence °commensurate with the natural grandeur of the scene. Its walls, its batteries, and its moles, which, bristling with cannon, stretch far out into the bay, and against whose solid structures the waves spend their fury in vain, are all works of art planned with great genius, and executed with consummate skill. An indefinite sensation of awe mixes with the stranger's feelings, as, gazing upon the defences which everywhere meet his eye, he remembers that the strength of Gibraltar

consists not in its visible works alone, but that, hewn in the centre of the vast and perpendicular rock, there are long galleries and ample chambers where the engines of war are kept always ready, and from whence the fires of death may at any moment be poured down upon an assailant.

Though the rock is the chief feature of interest in the Bay of Gibraltar, yet, when fatigued by long gazing on its barren and solitary grandeur, there are not wanting others on which the eye of the stranger may repose with pleasure. The green shores of Andalusia, encircling the bay in their semicircular sweep, besides the attraction which verdant hills and valleys always possess, have the 'superadded charm of being linked with many classical and romantic associations.

The picturesque towns of St. Roque and Algesiras, the one crowning a smooth eminence at some distance from the shore, and the other occupying a gentle declivity that sinks gradually down to the sparkling waters of the bay-the mountains of Spain, fringed with cork forests, in the back ground-the dimly-seen coast of Morocco across the Straits, with the white walls of Ceuta just discernible on one of its promontories-the towering form of Abila, which not even the unromantic modern name of Apes-hill can divest of all its interest as one of "the trophies of great 'Hercules"-these are all features in the natural landscape, which, combined, render it a scene of exceeding beauty.

ANONYMOUS.

LXXVI.-ROME.

THE 'Coliseum's lonely walls still tower,

In all their massy strength, to greet the skies;
The Cæsar's hundred palaces of power

In undecayed magnificence still rise;

And towers, and tombs, and temples desolate,
Tell of the solemn grandeur of her state.

The winding walks are there, which, erst, have rung
With steel-shod foot, and hoof, and clattering car,
When hosts met hosts, like waves on wild waves flung,
And fury sped the thunderbolt of war;

And there, to greet the traveler, still rise
The trophies of a thousand victories.

Each step records some tokens of a day,

Whose pomp and power we cannot comprehend;

'Tis grandeur in the grandeur of decay,

Whêre ruin mars what man has scorned to mend;
And, as from pile to pile the step is led,
We seem amid the dwellings of the dead.

We walk amid those temples tottering;

Each foot-fall starts the young owl from her rest;
Where mantling vines round mouldering arches cling,
To furnish forth the bat her dusky nest;

And every breeze that through the ruin strays,
Seems like the ghost of Rome's departed days.

Romans and Roman matrons wandered here;

Here blushed the cheek at its sweet beauty spoken; Trembled the delicate hand, and sparkled clear

The bright drop in the eye at love's fond token;
And children's voices woke these streets all day,
And echoed the light laugh of maidens gay.

Tempest, and terror, roar, and flood, and fire,
And cruelty, and guilt, and avarice,

These have been here, and wreaked their vengeance dire,
On pillared fane, and smouldering precipice;
Yet sits she still amid the solemn scene,

Queen of the hills! °ay, "every inch" a Queen!

Rome's greatness, and Rome's grandeur may not be
The greatness and the grandeur that we prize;
Yet, though her soul was chained, her mind was free;
And power was there which men cannot despise ;
She lifted her proud arm, each flag was furled,
And, at her haughty beck, bowed down the world.

And with her, though a tyrant in her mood,

Was genius, learning, talent consecrate;
And though on land and sea her track was blood,
Yet intellectual greatness marked her state;
For while was heard the trumpet's deafening clang,
The Forum thundered with the loud harangue.

Yet we walk forth upon the breast of earth,

And dâre to speak and tell how great we are; Less than the ancient worthies from our birth, We talk of deeds of daring-thus we dare; It is as if the young and timorous dove Should mate itself with the proud bird of °JOVE! REV. W. T. BACON.

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