see them solemnly unfoldTheir soft and fleecy wings!
These be the angels that convey
Us weary children of a day
Life's tedious nothing o'er,
Where neither passions come, nor woes
To vex the genius of repose
On death's majestic shore!"
Then do our delighted eyes wander downward; then doth earth appear a glorious, though but a temporary palace, the gift of a gracious God to man! then do we feel an unaccountable assurance that angels visit the beautiful domain; then that (though viewlessly) they rejoice with, they sorrow for, (if angels can sorrow) and they minister unto "the heirs of salvation," as they did in the days of old, and as they will do, to the end of time. Were we not assured of this blessed fact in the book of books, reason would assert, that for a thankless, graceless generation alone, earth should not have been formed so divinely fair; but it is heavenly, that the immortal servitors of man may even here find records of the divinity, and themes for undying thanksgiving. Are we indeed visited, watched, and ministered unto, by beatific essences? Oh, reason and revelation, both loudly proclaim the fact; those beneficent beings may be with us then, when we deem ourselves alone; they may be our society in the solitude of our chambers; they may pass us in the breeze, and they may wander beside us in our loneliest walks. Such meditations are calculated to inspire our bosoms with new life; to brighten all nature around us, and to unite us to the invisible world by ties, of the existence of which we were never previously sensible; ties, at once so sweet and so sacred, that we almost crave the blessing of death, in order more surely to strengthen them! Then doth the beauty of "the vale of tears" confound us; then doth it infuse into our bosoms such unalterable fore-tastes; such mysterious and undefinable sensations of the blessedness of "the isles of joy," that our very souls seem to have become but one prayer, one fervent, wordless, agonizing prayer, for divine repose, and unimaginable blessedness; and then doth the mere suggestion of final reprobation amount to insufferable torture! Oh, that such heavenly imaginings, such divine intimations of a transcendent futurity, were more frequently vouchsafed to us, and were less evanescent. They are glimpses of everlasting day, shining on wanderers in "the valley of the shadow of death;" they are droppings from the overflowing and ineffable cup of mercy; they are presciences of eternity, inestimable, unutterable! and the pen that would describe indescribable perceptions, droops in shame and sorrow at its own imbecility. Such perceptions have visited, do visit us, on this most rapturous of Christmas Days? Is it not a golden day? does it not remove us for a little space from earth, into the society of the holiest sentient beings, and to the beauty of a celestial, surpassing, world? Does it not bestow on our souls their 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.
Deal.
REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
THE BANQUETTING HOUSE, WHITEHALL. 1
(For the Mirror.)
Many persons who have visited this chapel may not have noticed or been aware of the splendid painted ceiling by Sir Peter Paul Rubens, which was executed by him when ambassador at the court of James I. This beautiful performance represents the apotheosis of that peaceful monarch, he being seated on his throne, and turning towards the deities of peace and commerce, having rejected the gods of war and discord. It is painted on canvass, and is in excellent preservation; the original painter had £3,000. for his labour; it has been retouched more than once, and the last time was by Cipriani, who had £2,000. for his repairs.
Ralph, in his Critical Review of Public Buildings, observes, "that this picture is not so generally known as one could wish, but needs only to be known to be esteemed according to its merits;" and he further adds, "it is but an ill decoration for a place of religious worship, for in the first place, its contents are nowise akin to devotion, and in the next, the workmanship is so very extraordinary that a man must have abundance of zeal or no taste, that can attend to anything besides."
It is almost needless to remark, that it was from a passage broken for the occasion through the wall of this building, that the unfortunate Charles was conducted by the regicides to his death; this passage still remains, and now serves as a doorway to an additional building in Scotland Yard: and nearly facing this doorway stood the ingenious Dial, engraved and described in No. 400, of the MIRROR. The next important and public event connected with this building occurred in 1811, when a very different and far more gratifying spectacle took place, being that of the ceremony of placing in the chapel, the eagles and other colours taken by our gallant troops during the war. There were six standards and the like number of regimental colours, which after having been presented at the altar were affixed to the places they now occupy. There is a singular circumstance attached to the history of one of the eagles which may be well introduced in this place; it may be distinguished from the others by its having a wreath placed round its neck, the flag itself being destroyed. It was the usual custom for the eagles to be attached to the staves on which they are borne by a screw, so that in the event of any imminent danger, they might be taken off and secured; but Napoleon on his presenting this standard to his 8th regiment,
For a general description of this magnificent edifice, see MIRROR, No. 247.
