Conservative despondency! Yes, we're in a deep fit of Waterloo despondency (Hear, hear.) Calm, recumbent, collected, not vaunting its prowess, but husbanding its resources; knowing its rights, and determined to defend them (cheers), peace ful, and therefore guilty of no aggression, brave, and determined to suffer none. (Hear.)"

This is just the despondency of the Protestants of Ireland-Waterloo despondency! The spirit of the Black North is aroused, and black indeed will it prove to the ambition of the faction that seek to trample on the rights and liberties of Protestants.

A VISION OF JUDGMENT.

In the grey depth of that unliving shade—

That sunless world, where sleep enchains the frame
With unfelt bonds: Like the Cumean maid,

Through phantom-peopled vales, realms without name,
While Sybil Fancy leads,-methought I strayed;
And a dread vision o'er my spirit came.

In shadowy prospect near, a ghastly crowd

Knight, noble, priest, stood bound in strange dismay,
And cowered-as village fowl, when from its cloud
The Olympian bird stoops nigh. Some knelt to pray;
Some held vague council; others wept aloud;

Some tried to cheat blank fear with mockery gay.
But fear prevailed. And at each far-heard sound,
Mock, laugh, lament, to ghastlier silence rolled.
From eye to eye the chain of fear ran round,
In panic's icy spell till all stood pale and cold!
-I gazed upon the vision, darkly bound

In the dread shadow of that fear untold.

Next, as a gathering tempest slowly grows.
Above the silence of calmed seas, there came
Portentous noises. Doubtful murmurs rose,

And rumors dark of malcontent and blame,
Of lurking treasons and domestic foes-

Surmises fearful, without shape or name...

Yet, came a pause, a brief bright interval-
As the fleet sun-glimpse on some shadowy plain,
Or brown moor gliding, or on clouded main
I saw hope's golden gleam down-breaking, fall
Amid the darkness of their fears and all

Forgot fear's very name. Gay smiles again

Burst forth like spring-flowers; hopes and fond desires,
And restless wishes-frolics glad and gay-

Projects and busy schemes-brief loves and ires-
Life's still repeated round, which never mortal tires.

But while they thought not, fate was on the way!
Even as the revel gained its height-outbroke,
Above the light strain and the laughing lay,

A fearful cry!-Like the electric stroke

That blasts to blackness bare the woods: it shed

O'er lips yet severing with the reckless joke,

The ghastly paleness of the sheeted dead;

And laughing eyes I saw contract with sudden dread.
Conflicting counsels rose,-to fight, fly, wait,
But every counsel as it came, was late.

Then lo! rushed in, red as from some street brawl,
An uncouth rabble, which made mock of state,
With ruffian pomp-uttering such jeers, as crawl
Like vipers to the breast, and as they fall
Wither all hope of mercy! Darkly then
They spoke of equal laws, and natural right,
And swore Astrea's age was come again-
That thrones should fall, and public wisdom reign,
And virtue, justice, liberty unite.

But

every word they spoke meant some fierce opposite.

By heaven abandoned-to themselves untrue-
On fate's dark verge men stood and wavered still-
Just firm enough to anger that fell crew,

And only yielding to provoke fresh ill.

They compromised while each concession drew Fresh claims, each mandate of a fiercer will.

Then came the fearful and the guilty hour
Such human eye hath seen-conception's power
Dream't never, or speech uttered.
Yet it past,
Leaving its crimson tracks on field and bower.
Proud structures raised, the storms of time to outlast
Lay heaped the ruin of a moment's rage.
Tower, temple, mansion, in confusion vast

Were mingled. There the tuneful and the sage,
The brave, the fair, the great, the good, the just,
The priest, the altar, and the sacred page,
All things of power or pride, of love or trust,
Lay crushed together in one crimson dust.

Next as the changes of a dream appear,
I saw the homicidal multitude

Gaze on each other with the eye of fear.

Justice stole back, disguised with smile severe.
Among the striving miscreants, where they stood
Around a block with gory garlands dressed-
Avenging virtue with their own base blood.
A rule of many tyrants all opprest,

Where each became a slave or victim to the rest.

A nation's cry arose, and o'er the land

A giant phantom, waved its iron hand,

And checked the brawlers with their self-wrought chain
Till all grew still. Then eame a marshalled band
And reared a ponderous throne-which sore did strain
Upon the necks of the perfidious crowd.

Last rose the clang of arms o'er sea and land,

As the high trumpet broke sleep's shadowy cloud, And that crowned Phantom raised his battle cry aloud.

THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC.*

BY JOHN ANSTER, LL.D.

LONELY was the blossoming

Of the sad unwelcomed Spring;

And Man, the slave of passions blind and brute,
A wanderer in a world where all was mute.
Sound for the ear, or symbol for the heart
Was none; and Music was a later birth-
The thoughts, we find no language to impart,
Die-and thus Love was dying from the earth.

Then of the Heavenly was there a revealing,
That harmonized the chaos of Man's breast;
Above-around-within-the hidden feeling
Found language-Music is but Love expressed.
The nightingale in every rich love-note

To Man speaks love; and, when the vexed wind rushes
Through moaning forests, Man's mind is afloat

In the wild symphony. The liquid gushes
Of the thin tinkling rivulet-the tone

Of Zephyrus, that whispers Flowers half-blown,
Tempting the lingerers to dare the May-
Do they not with them wile Man's heart away
And oft, as in a car of fire, elate

?

The soul ascends, on Music's wings, in gleams
Of momentary triumph, to Heaven's gate-
A happy wanderer in the world of dreams!

Spell, that soothest, elevatest,
Language of the land unknown,
Music, earliest charm and latest,
In gladness and in gladness gone!

Shrieking in his mother's arms

Infant passions vex the child
Murmur low the lulling charms,
Pain is soothed and reconciled.

Magic mystery of numbers,

Thine to soothe away, and lighten
"Grief-and thine the cradled slumbers

With thy dreams of gold to brighten.

To the dance!-to the dance!-'tis the summer-time of life
And Music invites to the dance-to the dance-

age

Old has its sorrows, and manhood its strife,
Care darkens the forehead, dispirits the glance.

For the weary hath Music its accents of healing;

But in youth what a charm in each jubilee-note;

To the dance-to the dance!How the rapturous feeling

Gives wings to the feet-sends the spirit afloat!

These lines were written from imperfect recollection of a German poem, introductory to a piece of music of Spohr's.

VOL. IX.

C

WITH the Joyous doth Music rejoice!
'Tis the stilly time of night,
And the soft star-light

Smiles in heaven-and-hark-the guitar!
And hush-'tis the young lover's voice

To his own-to his earthly star.

And she is his-in vain-in vain
Would womau burst the magic chain
Of love and love-inwoven sound ;-
Love-inwoven Sounds-ye come,
And are language to the dumb,
Heal the wounded heart-the hard heart

ye

wound!

To the battle-to the battle-Hurry out-
To the tumult-and the shriek and the shout;
Hark the bugle-how it thrills-" To the strife"-
"What is life?"-and the trumpet-" What is life?"
In every tone is Victory-how they scatter into air,
Before the sunny Music, clouds of doubt, and fear, and care.
Already is the triumph won-prophetic Fancy weaves,
Dyed in the blood of enemies, the wreath of laurel leaves.

Wild in the war-whoop your ominous voices

We hear o'er the battle-field pealing aloft

:

Peace smiles in her sweet smile the green earth rejoices And welcoming Music comes mellow and soft.

Slow down cathedral aisles streams prayer and praise,
As home returning from the battle-field

Their hands and hearts the joyous victors raise
To Him, who in the battle was their shield.

Listen to the death-bell tolling,
And its accents of consoling,
Telling, to the long oppressed,
That the weary is at rest,
To the mourner whispering
Of an everlasting spring;
Soothing, thus and reconciling,
Softening, and to tears beguiling
With their measured murmurs deep
Agony, that could not weep!

Mysterious tones! and is it that you are
The dreamy voices, of a world unknown,

Heard faintly from the Paradise afar,

Our Fathers' home, and yet to be our own!

Breathe on! breathe on, sweet tones-still sing to me,

Still sing to me of that angelic shore,

That I may dream myself in heaven to be,

And fancy life and all its sorrows o'er!