miration? and do they now dare-have they the audacity to speak of agitation? Have we not as good a title to demand the restitution of our Parliament, as the ministers to insist on the reform of this House?

ENGLAND'S MISRULE OF IRELAND.--Id.

If in Ireland, a country that ought to teem with abundance, there prevails wretchedness without example,--if millions of paupers are there without employment, and often without food or raiment,--where is the fault? Is it in the sky, which showers verdure? --is it in the soil, which is surprisingly fertile ?—or is it in the fatal course which you, the arbiters of her destiny, have adopted? She has for centuries belonged o England. England has used her for centuries as she has pleased. How has she used her, and what has beer. the result? A code of laws was in the first place established, to which, in the annals of legislative atrocity, there is not a parallel; and of that code-those institutes of unnatural ascendency the Irish Church is a remnant. In Heaven's name, what useful purpose has your gorgeous establishment ever promoted? You cannot hope to proselytize us through its means. You have put the experiment to the test of three centuries. You have tried everything. If the truth be with you, it may be great; but in this instance it does not sustain the aphorism--for it does not prevail. If, in a religious point of view, the Establishment cannot conduce to the interests of religion, what purpose does it answer? It is said that it cements the Union--cements the

Union! It furnishes the great argument against the Union; it is the most degrading incident of all the in cidents of degradation by which that measure was accompanied; it is the yoke, the brand, the shame, and the exasperation of Ireland!

Public opinion and public feeling have been created in Ireland. Men of all ciasses have been instructed in the principles on which the rights of Nations depend. The humblest peasant, amidst destitution the most abject, has learned to respect himself. I remember when, if you struck him, he cowered beneath the blow; but now, lift up your hand, the spirit of insulted man hood will start up in a bosom covered with rags-his Celtic blood will boil as yours would do-and he will feel, and he will act, as if he had been born where the person of every citizen is sacred from affronts, and from his birth had breathed the moral atmosphere which you are accustomed to inhale. In the name of millions of my countrymen, assimilated to yourselves, I demand the reduction of a great abuse-the retrenchment of a monstrous sinecure-I demand justice at your hands! "Justice to Ireland" is a phrase which has been, I am well aware, treated as a topic for de rision; but the time will come-nor is it, perhaps, remote-when you will not be able to extract much matter for ridicule from those trite but not trivial words. "Do justice to America," exclaimed the father of that man by whom the Irish Union was accomplished; "dc it to-night-do it before you sleep." In your National Gallery is a picture on which Lord Lyndhurst should look: it was painted by Copley, and represents the

death of Chatham, who did not live long after the celebrated invocation was pronounced. Do justice to America-do it to-night-do it before you sleep." There were men by whom that warning was heard who laughed when it was uttered. Have a care lest injustice to Ireland and to America may not be folowed by the same results-lest mournfulness may not succeed to mirth, and another page in the history of England may not be writ in her heart's blood!

THE DRONES OF THE COMMUNITY.—-Percy Bysshe

Those gilded flies

Shelley.

That, basking in the sunshine of a Court,
Fatten on its corruption--what are they?
The drones of the community! they feed
On the mechanic's labor; the starved hind
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield
Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form,
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine,
Drags out in labor a protracted death,

To glut their grandeur. Many faint with toil,
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth.
Whence, think'st thou, kings and parasites arose
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap
Toil and unvanquishable penury

On those who build their palaces, and bring

Their daily bread?—From vice, black, loathsome vice; From rapine, madress, treachery, and wrong;

From all that genders misery, and makes
Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust
Revenge, and murder.-And, when Reason's voice,
Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked
The Nations; and mankind perceive that vice
Is discord, war, and misery-that virtue.

Is

peace, When man's maturer nature shall disdain

and happiness, and harmony;

The playthings of its childhood ;-kingly glare
Will lose its power to dazzle; its authority
Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall,
Fast falling to decay, whilst falsehood's trade
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable
As that of truth is now.

Where is the fame

Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth
Seek to eternize? O! the faintest sound
From time's light foot-fall, the minutest wave
That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing
The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! to-day
Stern is the tyrant's mandate-red the gaze
That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes,
That mandate is a thunder-peal that died
In ages past; that gaze, a transient flasn
On which the midnight closed; and on that arm
The worm has made his meal.

CESAR'S PASSAGE OF THE RUBICON.-James Sheridan

Knowles.

A gentleman, Mr. Chairman, speaking of Cæsar's benevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with which he entered into the civil war, observes, "How long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon!” How came he to the brink of that river? How dared he cross it? Shall private men respect the boundaries of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared he cross that river? O! but he paused upon the brink. He should have perished upon the brink ere he had crossed it! Why did he pause? Why does a man's heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer, his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye taking the measure of the blow, strike wide of the mortal part? Because of conscience! 'Twas that made Cæsar pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion! What compassion? The compassion of an assassin, that feels a momentary shudder, as his weapon begins to cut! Cæsar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon! What was the Rubicon? The boundary of Caesar's province. From what did it separate his province? From his country. Was that country a desert? No; it was cultivated and fertile, rich and populous! Its sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity! Its daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste! Friendship was its inhabitant! Love was its inhabitant! Domestic affection was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabi