with ridicule,-all, all this, and more, may be seen around us; and yet it is believed, it is expected, that this system is fated to be eternal. Gentlemen, we shall all weep the insane delusion; and, in the terrific moments of retaliation, you know not, you cannot know, how soon or how bitterly "the ingredients of your poisoned chalice may be commended to your own lips." Is there amongst you any one friend to freedom? Is there amongst you one man who esteems equal and impartial justicewho values the people's rights as the foundation of private happiness, and who considers life as no boon without liberty? Is there amongst you one friend to the constitution-one man who hates oppression? If there be, Mr. Magee appeals to his kindred mind, and expects an acquittal.

There are amongst you men of great religious zeal—of much public piety. Are you sincere? Do you believe what you profess? With all this zeal, with all this piety, is there any conscience amongst you? Is there any terror of violating your oaths? Are ye hypocrites, or does genuine religion inspire you? If you are sincere, if you have conscience, if your oaths can control your interests, then Mr. Magee confidently expects an acquittal.

If amongst you there be cherished one ray of pure religion -if amongst you there glow a single spark of liberty-if I have alarmed religion, or roused the spirit of freedom in one breast amongst you, Mr. Magee is safe, and his country is served; but, if there be none-if you be slaves and hypocrites -he will await your verdict, and despise it!

XXI.-MR. SHEIL'S REPLY TO LORD LYNDHURST.

THE Duke of Wellington is not, I am inclined to believe, a man of excitable temperament. His mind is of a cast too martial to be easily moved; but, notwithstanding his habitual inflexibility, I cannot help thinking, that, when he heard his countrymen, (for we are his countrymen,) designated by a phrase as offensive as the abundant vocabulary of his eloquent confederate could supply-I cannot help thinking that he ought to have recollected the many fields of fight in which we have been contributors to his renown. Yes, “the battles, sieges, fortunes," that he has passed, ought to have brought back upon him he ought to have remembered-that, from the earliest achievement in which he displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat which has

300 READINGS IN SENATORIAL AND JUDICIAL ELOQUENCE.

made his name imperishable-from Assaye to Waterloo-the Irish soldiers, with whom our armies are filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which his unparalleled successes have been crowned. Whose were the athletic arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through those phalanxes that never reeled in the shock of war before? What desperate valour climbed the steeps and filled the moats of Badajos? All-all his victories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory:-Vimiera, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse, and last of all, the greatest!-Tell me, for you were there,-I appeal to the gallant soldier before me,* from whose opinions I differ, but who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast; tell me, for you must needs remember,—on that day, when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance-while death fell in showers upon them-when the artillery of France, levelled with a precision of the most deadly science, played upon them-when her legions, incited by the voice, and inspired by the example, of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset-tell me, if, for an instant, when to hesitate for that instant was to be lost, the "aliens" blenched? And when at length the moment for the last and decisive movement had arrived, and the valour which had so long been wisely checked was at length let loose— when with words familiar but immortal, the great captain exclaimed: "Up, lads, and at them!"-tell me, if Ireland, with less heroic valour than the natives of your own glorious isle, precipitated herself upon the foe? The blood of England, of Scotland, and of Ireland, flowed in the same stream—on the same field. When the still morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together-in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust-the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave. Partakers in every peril-in the glory shall we not be permitted to participate? and shall we be told as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out?

Sir Henry Hardinge.

MISCELLANEOUS EXTRACTS

FOR

RECITATION.

I. SAUL'S ADDRESS.-Byron.

WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword
Pierce me when leading the hosts of the Lord,
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path,
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath.

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet;
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
Farewell to others; but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death that awaits us to-day.

II. THE DYING CHIEF.-Mrs. Maclean.

THE stars looked down on the battle-plain,
Where night-winds were deeply sighing:
And with shattered lance near his war-steed slain,
Lay a youthful Chieftain dying.

He had folded round his gallant breast
The banner, once o'er him streaming,
For a noble shroud, as he sunk to rest
On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on his broken shield,
By the rushing Guadalquiver;

While, dark with the blood of his last red field,
Swept on the majestic river.

There were hands which came to bind his wound,
There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping;
But he raised his head from the dewy ground,
Where the land's high hearts were sleeping!
And "Away!" he cried;-"your aid is vain,
My soul may not brook recalling,-
I have seen the stately flower of Spain
Like the autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen the Moorish banners wave

O'er the halls where my youth was cherished;
I have drawn a sword that could not save;

I have stood, where my king hath perished!
"Leave me to die with the free and brave,
On the banks of my own bright river!
Ye can give me nought but a warrior's grave,
By the chainless Guadalquiver!"

III. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.-Wolfe.
NOT a drum was heard-not a funeral note,
As his corpse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast;

Not in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow!

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the bell tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line-we raised not a stone, But we left him alone, with his glory!

IV. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.—Byron. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners, at sunset, was seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host, on the morrow, lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he past;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted, like snow, in the glance of the Lord!

V. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.-Campbell.
ON Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden showed another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horsema drew his battle-blade;
And, furious, every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed' the steed, to battle driven;
And, louder than the bolts of Heaven,

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

"Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens :-On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!