*Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power; There is an air, which oft among the rocks Of his own lov'd land, at the evening hour,

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks!— Oh, ev'ry note of it would thrill his mind

With tend'rest thoughts, and bring about his knees
The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut to scenes like these.
Vain, vain, is then the trumpet's brazen roar,
Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears,
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,
Now, melting mournful, lose themselves in tears.

(RENDS DE VACHE, INTERRUPTED BY A TRUMPET.)
But wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior men.
O War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the lab'ring storm,
Thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,

And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys.

Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of HIM who made all harmony,

Than the blest sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

(SPANISH PATRIOT'S SONG.),

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold enthusiastic strain,
Like morning's music, on the air,
And seems in ev'ry note to swear,
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain a conqueror's glory.

(SPANISH

(SPANISH AIR CONCLUDED.)

But ah! if vain the patriot Spaniard's zeal,
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's lights,
Can break or melt the blood-cemented seal,
That shuts to close the book of Europe's rights;
What song shall then, in sadness, tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge, at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave ?
O Erin! thine.

(MELANCHOLY IRISH AIR, SUCCEEDED BY A LIVELY ONE.)

Blest notes of mirth, ye spring from sorrow's lay,
Like the blithe vesper of the bird that sings
In the bright sunshine of an April day,

While the cold shower yet hangs upon his wings.

Long may the Irish heart repeat

An echo to those lively strains,
And, when the stranger's ear shall meet
That melody on distant plains,

Oh! he will feel his soul expand

With grateful warmth, and, sighing, say

"Thus speaks the music of the land,

Where welcome ever lights the stranger's way,

When still the woe of others to beguile

Is e'en the gayest heart's most lov'd employ,
Where Grief herself will generously smile,
Through her own tears, to share another's joy."

ON A GAY WIDOW.

[From the same, April 9.]

HER mourning is all make believe,

She's gay as any linnet :

With weepers she has tipp'd her sleeve,

The while she's laughing in it.

T.

WELLINGTON'S

WELLINGTON'S TRIUMPH, AND PORTUGAL
RELIEVED.

TH

BY WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD, ESQ.

[From the same.]

HE blow is struck! the awful conflict's o'er,
And shouts of triumph reach Britannia's shore !
The baffled Chief of France, in wild dismay,
Resigns the honours of his former day,

And, with his legions, is by Wellesley driven,
As clouds of locusts by the winds of heaven!
Unlike the warriors of a nobler age,

His flight is mark'd with more than Vandal rage!
By peasants murder'd! and by towns in flame!
Their ashes records of Massena's shame!
The smoking ruins are descried from far,
With all the horrors of his savage war :

The mountain streams run red with native blood,
And mangled bodies choke each river's flood!
While Lusitania's ravag'd plains declare
The flying Gaul has left a desert there!
Long shall the crimes of France in mem'ry stand,
Recorded with the curse of every land;
But Britain's triumphs, like her honour pure,
Sball to the utmost date of time endure!
Loud as the thunder let the cannon's sound
Proclaim the tidings to the realms around;
Nations, enslav'd by Gaul's oppressive power,
Shall shake their chains with joy, and bless the hours
The very wretches, who in silence wait

The Despot's nod, and tremble while they hate,
Shall feel some pleasure warm the torpid breast,
To see their Tyrant in his turn oppress'd;
To mark his pallid cheek, his hagard eye,
His stifled anguish, and his bitter sigh!
In the bright temple of immortal Fame
Glory inscribes her favourite Wellesley's name!
Amidst the high-plum'd champions of the land,
In future ages Wellington shall stand;

VOL. XV.

There

There too triumphant Graham shall appear,
Wielding aloft the mighty British spear;
And at their feet the shatter'd flags of France,
Her captive Eagles, and her broken lance!
Thus shall Britannia's Monarch ever be

Renown'd on ev'ry shore, and lord of ev'ry sea!
April 9, 1911.

SCARCITY OF SILVER.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE.

[April 11.]

SIR,

THE

HE want of change, not merely in the metropolis, but throughout the kingdom, has created such alarming inconvenience, that it has become necessary to adopt some means to remedy it. It has been suggested, that the Bank should issue five-and-twenty shilling, thirty shilling, and thirty-five shilling notes. This would diminish, but by no means remedy, the inconvenience. It is sincerely to be hoped another scheme, said to be in contemplation, will never be realized I allude to the projected plan of an issue of ten shilling and five shilling notes. This would be the consummation of the papier machée system, and would form a base for the statue of that great man, now no more, who so strenuously in 1797 advocated the freedom of the (Bank of England) press.

Notwithstanding all that has been said and written. to the contrary, the Bank paper is most certainly depreciated. Under these circumstances metallic money must disappear from circulation; some will hoard it in their closets, in the hope a still greater nominal value will be put upon it; others will melt it in their crucibles; others will sell it at an enormous premium for exportation. Those who have recently left England for the Continent will not forget how unconscionably the Jews at Portsmouth and Plymouth charged them

for

for dollars. In these different ways the whole circulating metallic medium will in a few months be withdrawn from circulation, to the ruin of many, and the very great inconvenience of all.

The same mischief, springing from the same cause, existed in Ireland. The great man, now no more, waved his paper wand over the Bank of Ireland, and the phantom of Over-issue immediately made its appearance. All the mint-money first was withdrawn to remedy this deficiency, all the bad halfpence, which for years had been deposited as condemned raps in the garrets of the shopkeepers, were brought down stairs, made into rouleaus, and thus circulated. This, however, could not last long; and several barrels of Birmingham shillings were imported, which answered the purpose tolerably well for three weeks, till the gilding was worn off; they then rested in the pockets. of those who had imprudently taken them as value. The people then began to grumble, as the English people are grumbling now, and exclaimed, that, as the over-issue and consequent depreciation of the Bank-paper was the cause of the evil, it was absolutely incumbent on the Bank to apply some remedy. The Irish Bank did, as I trust the Bank of England will now do, take the case of the public into their serious consideration; and, after some speeches, about as eloquent as Mr. Randle Jackson's, and some pamphlets, about as clear as Mr. Wilson's, they bought up the Birmingham shillings which had lost their gilding, melted the mass, and recoined and reissued it in the form of two-and-sixpenny, ten-penny, and five-penny pieces, bearing the impress of the Bank, with a promise of its being always exchangeable at their counter for paper. To something like this expedient the Bank of England must have resort; they must harmonize their system-as they have given an ideal value to their paper, by stamping certain cha