THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S

[THE choral music of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old-a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

"All the choir

Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas."-MILTON.

AGAIN! oh! send that anthem-peal again
Through the arched roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!

Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have heard, While armed for fields of chivalrous renown:

Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirred,
While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

These notes once more !-they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in the exulting lay
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven! Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source,
Even while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course?

THE LONELY BIRD

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest bour?

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THE LONELY BIRD

FROM a ruin thou art singing,
O lonely, lonely bird!
The soft blue air is ringing,

By the summer music stirred.
But all is dark and cold beneath,

Where harps no more are heard :
Whence win'st thou that exulting breath,
O lonely, lonely bird?

Thy songs flow richly swelling
To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling

A stream in glory bounds

Though the castle-echoes catch no tone

Of human step or word,

Tho' the fires be quenched and the feasting done,

O lonely, lonely bird!

How can that flood of gladness

Rush through thy fiery lay,

From the haunted place of sadness,

From the bosom of decay

While the dirge-notes in the breeze's moan,

Through the ivy garlands heard,

Come blent with thy rejoicing tone,

O lonely, lonely bird?

There's many a heart, wild singer!
Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,

Where Love hath left his bower;
And there's many a spirit even like thee,
To mirth as lightly stirred,
Though it soar from ruins in its glee,
O lonely, lonely bird!

THE IVY-SONG

OH! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the Vine?

Ivy thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er;
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more;

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadowed the victor's tent.

Though shining there in deathless green
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lov'st the silent scene

Around the victor's grave

Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

THE IVY-SONG

The cold halls of the regal dead,

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest tread

Ivy they know thee well!

And far above the festal vine

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Thou wav'st where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the RhineThe Rhine, still fresh and young!

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy all are thine !

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanished race,
Where harp and battle and renown
Have passed, and left no trace.
But thou art there !-serenely bright,

Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom,

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy Ivy all are thine,

Palace, hearth, and shrine,

'Tis still the same: our pilgrimn-tread

O'er classic plains, through deserts free,

On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power—

Days pass, thou Ivy never sere!

And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
Temple, pillar, shrine !

THE NECROMANCER

"Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please?
Resolve me of all ambiguities?

Perform what desperate enterprises I will?
I'll have them fly to India for gold,

Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,

And search all corners of the New-found World
For pleasant fruits and princely delicates."
MARLOW'S FAUSTUS.

AN old man on his deathbed lay, an old yet stately

man;

His lip seemed moulded for command, though quivering now, and wan;

By fits a wild and wandering fire shot from his troubled

eye,

But his pale brow still austerely wore its native

mastery.

There were gorgeous things from lands afar, strewn round the mystic room;

From where the orient palm-trees wave, bright gem and dazzling plume;

And vases with rich odour filled, that o'er the couch of

death

Shed forth, like groves from Indian isles, a spicy summer's breath.

And sculptured forms of olden time, in their strange beauty white,

Stood round the chamber solemnly, robed as in ghostly

light;

All passionless and still they stood, and shining through

the gloom,

Like watchers of another world, stern angels of the

tomb.