at the national heart, why then the professions think with heroic complacency of the invincible might of disciplined troops(brave loyal fellows! who, if commanded, would cut down their own brothers!)-charging a storming rabble. Those who read the letter of "a soldier" in the "Times," or recollect the profane brutality of Colonel Sibthorp in the House of Commons, will see how unfit such men are to deal with people who complain of political wrongs, and seek for political rights.

The Duke of Wellington, during a long political career, has constantly talked of his duty to stand by his Sovereign, but he has never yet shown the least sympathy for the men by whose labour he is supported in luxury and wealth, and whose brothers won for him the laurels of Waterloo. We are by no means admirers of Feargus O'Connor; we considered the convention in John Street very far from a model assembly, but the petition for the Charter was grave, argumentative, respectful; it was signed undoubtedly, by an immense number of serious and decided men; it was presented at a time, when almost every nation in Europe was seeking redress for political wrongs. But the mode of its reception in parliament was unmanly and unwise; unmanly, for gentlemen and officers might learn that it ill becomes a child of clay, though he be dressed in scarlet, to scorn the lowly and the weak; unwise, inasmuch as that petition was the expression of the will of a large class, who,

"Know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain."

Every man should know his place: the cobbler should stick to his last, the military man to his regimental mess. There he may indulge his attachment to the bulwarks of our country, and can despise all who do not follow to the field their warlike lord. Occasionally he may give utterance to the spirit of the barrack room, by publishing letters in the "Times," showing how Chartists may be either blown up or cut down, as may be most convenient at the time. There he can possibly become a very good soldier, certainly a very bad senator.

This is a serious subject; it is owing to this that public opinion is not represented, but misrepresented, in what ought to be the people's voice. Cobden and Bright represent public opinion, and yet they are left in miserable and disheartening minorities. There are nearly two hundred naval and military men ready, not to answer their arguments, but to swamp them with their votes. Some little pocket-borough may send its illustrious obscure to parliament, and may thus nullify the thousands of Manchester and Birmingham.

'

This is a state of things neither desirable nor safe, which, so long as it lasts, must be a fruitful source of ill, and to which Englishmen cannot be expected much longer to submit. The warning has been given; the hand writing has appeared upon the wall; our present ministers are by no means loved; the House of Co mons are received with increasing distrust. The present policy but nurses that discontent. It is well that May Fair should be sworn in as special constables, that aldermen should make loyal speeches, and that civic corporations should send up loyal addresses-that in crowded theatres, actors should sing to enthusiastic audiences," God save the Queen;" it is well that, while blood has been spilt, and death has been at work in Vienna, in Paris, and Berlin, order and law in our great city have been respected and preserved; but the lover of his country and its institutions sees that it is desirable now that fresh blood be infused into those institutions, and that they be placed upon a wider base; that thus in those institutions the people may see the legitimate bulwarks of their right; that thus they may see that by them is best promoted the welfare of the state; that thus the agitator and demagogue may perish from the land,

THE PRIOR'S CURSE.

THE Prior stands on the lonely rock,
And the waves around him play,
With a ripple, and a gentle shock,
And they wet him with their spray.
He chants not now his vesper song,
He mutters now no prayer;
But fitful and wild, he pours along,
Fierce accents on the air!

For, through the closing night he sees,
Breasting against the foam,

All bearing on with favouring breeze,
The Northern spoilers come!

May, 1848.-VOL. LII.-NO. Ccv.

And there he stands, that stern old man,
Beneath the priory tower,

To overwhelm with curse and ban
Th' invading foeman's power!

Thick as the locusts of the south,
Through the dark, with flashing oar,
They gather to the harbour's mouth,
And make towards the shore.
'Tis a proud sight to that Sea-king,
To see those stalwart men,
For blood and plunder, gathering
Around him once again!

And strange to see that serge-clad form,
With cowl around him cast,
Calling aloud upon the storm,
And praying for the blast;
Beseeching heaven to 'whelm the foe
Beneath the seething surge,

And the winds above and the waves below

To sing the foeman's dirge:

That the raven that hovers above their prow,
And hastes to the feast of the slain,

May be glutted for aye with the slaughter now,
And gorged with the blood of the Dane!

See! as he calls upon the skies,

And flings his arms i' the air,

Long crests of foaming breakers rise,

And the ships are struggling there!

And the north wind comes with a sudden burst, To whiten the sea with froth;

The ban has fallen upon the accurst

Invader of the North!

The maidens of Denmark shall rend their hair,

And wail the mighty dead,

For the valiant are dear to the hearts of the fair, And cold is the ocean's bed.

On that sunken reef, full forty sail

Are borne to a watery grave,
For helm or shield shall not not avail
Against the howling wave.

The vision of many a bloody fight,
And many a ruthless deed,

The gallant youth, with ringlets bright,
Seeking young valour's meed.

The gray of head, and stern of heart,
And the young, eager boy,

That could have wept from home to part,
But that he laughed for joy,

Are mingled in that vengeful tide,
Whilst cries of grief and fear,
And sobs of anguish, rung from pride,
Close many a high career.

But high amidst the raving storm,
Through the sheeted foam and spray,
Is seen the wild, unearthly form,
Of the Friar of Orders Gray.
And high above the howling blast,
And the ocean's angry surge,
Ringeth his wild chant, loud and fast,
As he sings the foeman's dirge.

'Tis o'er the waves have risen so high,
He may not reach the shore,
And still he gazeth on the sky,

All heedless of their roar !

His cowl, 'tis floating on the water,

His hands above him cast,

And ever his prayer to heaven for slaughter,
Is heard upon the blast!

And still 'tis said, when the wind is high,
And the midnight dark with storm,

The seaman hears that wailing cry,

And sees that serge-clad form!

W. T. A.

COMIC IRISH SONG.

PRETTY KATE OF KILTARTAN.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

any,

Pretty Kate of Kiltartan had lovers so many,
She was puzzled to choose, and so would not have
But trifled away the best years of her life,
Till she sigh'd, when too late, to be somebody's wife:
Kate look'd in her glass, but it flattered no longer,
And the wish of her heart it grew stronger and stronger,
To win back her first love, her handsome young Larry,
The truest of all that had woo'd her to marry.

Larry saw that Kate's blue-eyes were shining less brightly,
Than when he first dream'd of them daily and nightly;
That her roses had faded, (and Larry loved roses,)
That her nose was no longer the whitest of noses:
But still Larry reason'd, "there's witchcraft about her,
She's grown to my heart, and I can't do without her;
Like an old hat, or shoe, that just fits one," said Larry,
She suits me the best, and no other I'll marry."

So he went back to Kate, and she soon took compassion,
And made up her mind in a very quick fashion;
Thus Kate of Kiltartan won Larry to wed her,
And soon from the altar in triumph he led her :
Oh! an Irishman's love, it is made for all seasons,
Paddy acts from his heart, and then afterwards reasons;
"For," says he, "if the head was all matters to carry,
By my faith, there are very few folks that would marry!"