enriched by nature, made excellent by education,
noble by birth, chaste by virtue, adorned by beauty!--a fair woman, which
is the ornament of heaven, the grace of earth, the joy of life, and the
delight of all sense, even the very _summum bonum_ of man's existence."

Burns must have had somewhat of the same idea as that which I have
underlined, when he wrote--

"Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses O!"

JAC-CO.

* * * * *

THE VICTORY OF THE CID.

(_For the Mirror_.)

The subject of the following lines is mentioned in the traditional
histories of Spain: that on one occasion, to insure victory in a nocturnal
attack on the Moslem camp, the body of the Cid was taken from the tomb,
and carried in complete armour to the field of battle.

Not a voice was heard at our hour of need,
When we plac'd the corse on his barbed steed,
Save one, that the blessing gave.
Not a light beam'd on the charnel porch
Save the glare which flash'd from the warrior's torch,
O'er the death-pale face of the brave.

We press'd the helm on his ghastly head,
We bound a sword to the hand of the dead,
When the Cid went forth to fight.
Oh where was Castile's battle cry,
The shout of St. James and victory,
And the Christians stalwart might?

The winds swept by with mournful blast,
And sigh'd through the plumes of the dead as he past,
Through troublous skies the clouds flitted fast,
And the moon her pale beam faintly cast,
Where the red cross banner stream'd,
But each breeze bore the shouts of the Moslem throng,
Each sigh was echoed by Paynim song;
Where the silvery crescent beam'd.

Undrawn was the rein, and his own good sword
Ungrasp'd by the nerveless hand of its lord;
His steed pac'd on with solemn tread,
'Neath the listless weight of the mighty deed.
But each warrior's heart beat high,
As he mark'd the beacon's wavering flash,
And heard the Moorish cymbal clash,
For he knew that the Cid was nigh.

We bore him back to his silent bed,
When his plumes with Paynim blood were red,
And the mass was sung, and the prayer was said
For the conqueror from the grave.
We wrapp'd him again in his funeral vest,
We placed his sword on the clay cold breast,
And o'er the place of the hero's rest,
Bade Castile's banner wave.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF DI