received opinions. On the appearance of a rupture with Spain, I wrote a pamphlet to prove that Ireland was not bound by the declaration of war, but might and ought, as an independent nation, to stipulate for a neutrality. In examining this question, I advanced the question of separation with scarcely any reserve, much less disguise. But the public mind was by no means so far advanced as I was, and my pamphlet made not the smallest impression. The day after it appeared, as I stood perdu in the bookseller's shop, listening after my own reputation, Sir Harry Cavendish, a notorious slave of the House of Commons, entered, and throwing my unfortunate pamphlet on the counter in a rage, exclaimed, 'Mr. Byrne, if the author of that work is serious, he ought to be hanged.' Sir Harry was succeeded by a Bishop, an English doctor of divinity, with five or six thousand a year laboriously earned in the church. His Lordship's anger was not much less than that of the other personage. 'Sir,' said he, 'if the principles of that abominable work were spread; do you know that you would have to pay for your coals at the rate of five pounds a ton?' Notwithstanding these criticisms, which I have faithfully quoted against myself, I continue to think my pamphlet a good one; but, apparently, the publisher, Mr. Byrne, was of a different opinion, for I have reason to believe that he suppressed the whole impression, 'for which his own G———ds damn him!'"
THE WIND.
The Wind has a language I would I could learn:
Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern,
—Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,
And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along,
And the forest is lull'd by the dreamy strain,
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,
And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.
Sometimes, when Autumn grows yellow and sear,
And the sad clouds weep for the dying year,
It comes like a wizard, and mutters its spell,
—I would that the magical tones I might tell—
And it beckons the leaves with its viewless hand,
And they leap from the branches at its command,
And follow its footsteps with wheeling feet,
Like fairies that dance in the moonlight sweet.
Sometimes it comes in the wintry night,
And I hear the flap of its pinions of might,
And I see the flash of its withering eye,
As it looks from the thunder-cloud sailing on high,
And pauses to gather its fearful breath,
And lifts up its voice, like the angel of death,—
And the billows leap up when the summons they hear,
And the ship flies away, as if winged with fear,
And the uncouth creatures that dwell in the deep,
Start up at the sound from their floating sleep,
And career through the waters, like clouds through the night,
To share in the tumult their joy and delight,—
And when the moon rises, the ship is no more,
Its joys and its sorrows are vanish'd and o'er,
And the fierce storm that slew it, has faded away,
Like the dark dream that flies from the light of the day!
