on my horse, with my daughter slung on my back. My journey homeward was accomplished some hours sooner than the same ground had been ridden over on the preceding day; and long before the sun had set beneath the wave of the Atlantic, my Pepita was happy in the arms of her nurse, and in the home of her fathers."

This singular story, taken in connection with the history of the gipsies, induced me to reflect on the many mutations to which all sublunary things are, sooner or later, subject in this world, and led me to marvel at the stability with which some of the earth's materialities preserve their ground over that of others. In the East, the manners and customs of certain nations have been stereotyped for thousands of years; and in the West, the gipsies, for three or four centuries, have continued, and still remain, an isolated race. When they shall have passed away, however, they shall leave no memorial behind them. Neither statue, column, pillar, nor temple will remain to denote that they have had an existence. Not even a cairn or a pile of stones throughout the wastes and wildernesses which they traverse, will be found, to recall the memories of their buried past. We cannot say why it is, but we feel as if there were something melancholy in this reflection; and recall the fine thoughts of a modern writer, elicited by the accidental discovery of rather a singular-looking pile of stones, as witnessed by him in one of the wild wastes of the Spanish peninsula. It was circular, with a base of immensely large and heavy stones, which, as it rose, became smaller and smaller, shaped in such a manner as to have a striking resemblance to scollop-shells. These were surmounted by a very large flat stone, which slanted downwards in a southerly direction, where there was a doorway. In the interior of this rude and simple construction, a small thorn-tree was growing, which, however, had not attained to such proportions as to occupy the whole of the space, as three or four persons might still have been easily accommodated in it. This was a Druidical altar—a simple, yet a suggestive memorial of ages long, long passed in the ever-gliding stream of time.

"I gazed," says the writer, "with reverence and awe upon the pile where the first colonists of Europe offered their worship to the unknown God. The temples of the mighty and skilful Roman, comparatively of modern date, have crumbled to dust in its neighbourhood. The churches of the Arian Goth, his successor in power, have sunk beneath the earth, and are not to be found; and the mosques of the Moor, the conqueror of the Goth-where and what are they? Upon the rock, masses of hoary and vanishing ruin. Not so the Druid's stone.

There it stands, on the hill of winds, as strong and as freshly new as the day, perhaps thirty centuries back, when it was first raised by means which are a mystery. Earthquakes have heaved it, but its cope-stone has not fallen; rain-floods have deluged it, but failed to sweep it from its station; the burning sun has flashed upon it, but neither split nor crumbled it; and Time, stern old Time, has rubbed it with his iron tooth, and with what effect let those who view it declare. There it stands; and he who wishes to study the literature, the learning, and the history of the ancient Celt and Cymbrian, may gaze on its broad covering, and glean from that black stone the whole known amount. The Roman has left behind him his deathless writings, his history, and his songs; the Goth his liturgy, his traditions, and the germs of noble institutions; the Moor his chivalry, his discoveries in medicine, and the foundations of modern commerce; and where is the memorial of the Druidic races? Yonder!-that pile of eternal stone."

But even a pile of eternal stone the Gitanos of Spain will not leave behind them.

SUZETTA.

LOUD dash the waves 'gainst Staffa's columned front,
Shrill cries the sea-bird in its darksome cave,
Up which the winds of heaven unceasing hunt
The sparkling foam, which whitens in its lave.

In ev'ry gust I hear Suzetta's name,
I see her form on ev'ry snow-tipt wave;
Methinks I hear her mellow voice, the same
That sung so sweet just ere she found a grave!

Ah, no my fancy but deceives my sight,
My every sense; no more she'll charm me here!
Suzetta's voice now slumbers in the night
Of those dark waves which roll, inspiring fear!

O gentler play, ye waters, o'er her breast;
Beat not so hard against your rugged bounds;
Move not your Treasure in her liquid rest,
But ripple o'er her in your softest sounds.

15

SCOTLAND.

KNOW ye the land where lofty hills
Blush with heather-blooming bells,
That paint the rock and scent the dells,
In summer's prime? 'Tis Scotland!
Know ye the land where eagles fly,
Where varying clouds delight the sky,
And fling their shadows far and nigh

On mountains grand? 'Tis Scotland!

Know ye the land where joys abound,
Where mirth and melody resound,
Where peace and poesy are found

In wild ravines? 'Tis Scotland!

Thou art the land of lochs and woods,
Of roaring cascades, falling floods;
Of azure skies, and curling cluds,*
In autumn ripe, my Scotland!

No land more rich in martial deeds,
And none for FREEDOM freer bleeds,
The THISTLE, king of flowers and weeds,
Is valour's type and Scotland's!

No truer hearts, no purer worth,

No faircr forms adorn the earth,

Than thine, sweet lassies of the north,
As bonnie as your Scotland!

Though winter points with ice the wind,
And though the soil is less than kind,
Yet O! how strong the ties that bind
The native's heart to Scotland!

If peace be thine, my country dear, Though fate on me frown dark and drear, One thought of thee my heart can cheer, Where'er I am, my Scotland!

* Clouds.