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from Mr. O'Connell would not have proved half so effectual as this quiet rebuke.

But we must draw these observations to a close. The characteristics and defects of his speeches have been more dwelt upon, because his eccentricities of delivery have been frequently and powerfully described. There is a striking correspondence between his personal peculiarities and the leading features of his speeches. He is unique as an orator. There is a harmony between the outer and inner man which you do not find in others, for instance, in Mr. Macaulay. Having read his speeches, if you see him, you are not surprised to find that it was from him that they proceeded. Small in stature, delicately formed, with a strongly marked countenance full of expression, he looks the man of genius, and betrays in every motion that impulsive temperament on which excitement acts like a whirlwind.

He seems" of imagination all compact." You see the body, but you think of the mind. It is embodied passion, thought, fancy; not mere organised matter. Look! what comes here? -a grave unto a soul, holding the Eternal Spirit against its will!" you are tempted to exclaim with the poet who of all others could have appreciated such rare products of Nature's love-labour, such unusual blendings of the spiritual and the material. Yet there is nothing of the beautiful in a physical sense, little of that personal perfection or refinement which made a Byron or a Shelley so loved or worshipped by their intimates. The charm of Mr. Sheil's appearance consists in the striking and powerful developement of intellect; in the quick reflex of thought in the features; the mobility of body, the firm grasp, as it were, which is taken by the mind of the corporeal frame, making it the ready and obedient slave of its slightest and most sudden will. Thoroughly masculine in moral strength, in the intensity of his feelings, and the strong power with which he impresses them on others, Mr. Sheil has also all the feminity which we attach to our idea of the poetical temperament, though it shews itself not in personal delicacy or symmetry so much as in a supreme and serene control over the body

by the spirit. There is more of Edmund Kean than of Shelley in this transparency of the corporeal man to the intellectual light within. Α writer, who would seem to be well acquainted with his subject, has said, speaking of Mr. Sheil's personal appearance,

"Small in stature and make, like so many men of genius, be bears the marks of a delicate organisation. The defects of a figure not disproportioned, and yet not strictly symmetrical, are overlooked in the play of the all-informing mind, which keeps the frame and linibs in rapid and harmonious motion when in action. The body, though so small in itself, is surmounted by a head which lends it dignity, a head, though proportionately small in size, yet so full of intellectual developement, so wide-browed, that, while it seems large in itself, it raises the apparent stature of the wiry frame on which it rests. The forebead is broad and prominent. but, at first sight, it rather contradicts the usual developement of the intellectual; though really deep and high, it seems to overhang the brow. Under it gleams an eye, piercing and restless even in the repose of the mind, but indescribably bright and deep-meaning when excited. The mouth, small, sharp-the lips chiselled fine, till, under the influence of passion, they are almost transparent like a shell—is a quick ally in giving point and meaning to the subtlest ideas of the ever-active brain; apt in its keen like expression, alike of the withering sarcasm, the delicate irony, or the overwhelming burst of sincere and passionate vehemence. The features ge. nerally are small, but, under the influence of ennobling emotion, they seem to expand, until, at times, they look grand, almost heroic. Yet when the baser passions obtain the mastery over this child of impulse-as they will sometimes over the best in the heat of party warfare-these features, so capable of giving expression to all that elevates our moral and in. tellectual nature, become contracted, the paleness of concentrated passion overspreads them. Instead of the eloquent earnestness of high-wrought feeling, you see (but this is rare, indeed) the gloating hue of suppressed rage, the tremulous restraint of cautious spite. In place of the dilated eye, and features flushed with noble elevation of soul, or conscious pride of intellectual power, you have a keen, piercing, adder-like glance, withering, fascinating, but no longer beautiful. Yet the intellect, though for a time the slave of passion, is the intellect still."

His peculiar style of eloquence,

his rapidity of utterance, variety and impressiveness of action, and harmonious tones of voice, now deep and richly melodious in the expression of solemn emotion, now loud and piercing in the excitement of passion, almost defy description.

Imagine all the beauties of Kean's performance of Othello crowded into half an hour's highly sustained eloquence, and you have some tangible idea of what is the effect. While the impulse is upon him he seems as if possessed, his nature is stirred to its very depths, the fountains of his soul pour forth unceasingly the living waters. His head glows like a ball of fire, the soul struggles through every outlet of expression. His arms now raised aloft, as if in imprecation, are, in a moment, extended downwards, as if in supplication, the clenched fingers clasped like those of one in strong agony. Anon, and the small, thin, delicate, wiry hand, is stretched forth, the face assumes an expression the very ideal of the sarcastic, and the finger of scorn is pointed towards the object of attack. A thousand varying expressions, each powerful and all beautiful, are crowded into the brief time during which his excite

ment (which, like that of actors, though prepared, is genuine while it lasts) hurries him on to pour forth his whole soul in language of such elegance and force.

Mr. Sheil occupies a position different from that of most of his countrymen in parliament. The Irish member who most approaches him in intellectual qualities, though not in actual eloquence, is Mr. Wyse. Like Mr. Wyse, he has associated himself with the Whig party, who chose him to be one of their ministers when they desired to fraternize with the Irish Catholics, because he was at once talented, moderate, and respectable. For joining them, he has been made the subject of virulent abuse by the extreme party in Ireland; but he has too much steadiness of purpose and good sense to be much affected by it. His position in the House is well earned, not merely by his eloquence, but also by the general amenity of his disposition, whether as a politician or a private individual. Were all the Irish members like Mr. Sheil, the Irish question might be speedily and satisfactorily settled.

THE CAGED LARK.

HOUR by hour the dreary day
Slowly, sadly wore away;
Heavy drops of ceaseless rain
Beating 'gainst the window-pane;
Bitter winds with gusty sound
Mournfully were wailing round,
Till at last the outward gloom
Seem'd to fill my quiet room,
And I look'd with tearful eyes
Upward to the weeping skies.
Now and then a few quick feet
Pass'd along the village street,
Now and then a child's shrill cry
Mingled with the wind's deep sigh.
Many a thought of other days-
Fairer scenes and brighter Mays-
Fill'd my discontented heart:
I, who oft had taken part
In the gladness of the spring;
I, whose joy it was to sing
Of the earth's awakening
From her ice-bound wintry sleep,
Now could only pine and weep,
For my soul grew faint and dull,
Longing for the beautiful.

66

"Spring was wont of old," I said,
Blessings on my path to shed.
Once her skies were all serene,
All her fields of richest green,
All her flowers of loveliest sheen.
Then the hidden cuckoo sang,
Till the leafy greenwood rang
With his lay, and thousands more
Sounding till the day was o'er;
Nor were even hush'd at night
Songs and echoes of delight.
Then, where'er my feet might tread,
Starlike flowers were gaily spread:
Studded were the banks and fields
With the primrose' yellow shields,
Cowslip-bells and violets small
Blossom'd ere the grass was tall,
And the murmur of the bee
Ever rose unceasingly,

Where the scented furze unroll'd
Banners fair of green and gold.

Then the bright-wing'd butterfly,
Like a dream of joy, flew by,
Or awhile in quiet hung

Where the tufted harebells swung.
All of old was bright and glad,—
Now, alas! how changed and sad!
Now the skies are cold and grey,
And throughout the live-long day,
Prison'd in my room, I hear
Not a sound of joyous cheer-

Nothing but the ceaseless rain
Beating 'gainst the window-pane,
And the wind, with hollow tone,
Round my dwelling making moan.
Few and pale the leaves I see
Budding on yon chestnut-tree.
Here and there, within the bound
Of my plot of garden-ground,
Some stray flower of fairest dye
Half unveils its timid eye,
Till the storm-blast, rushing by,
Blights its charms, but half-reveal'd,
And its early doom is sealed.
Spring-time-season sad and drear,
Once the gayest of the year,
I am alter'd e'en as thou!
Pain hath left upon my brow
Shadows that may ne'er depart;
Care hath brooded at my heart,
Till I feel I cannot be

E'er again in spirit free.

Now I have no spells to raise

Thoughts that cheer'd my brighter days;

Other visions life hath brought,

Sadder lore than once I sought."

Thus, in lonely hour, I said,
Half believing joy had fled,

And my own bright hopes were dead.
Suddenly, while still I spoke,

Blithest music near me woke,

Piercing through the gloomy air,
Like a voice of praise and prayer.

Though the wind blew loud and shrill,
Yet it had not power to chill
Gladness such as fill'd that strain;
And the shower beat in vain
Round the prison, where had birth

Those rich sounds of dauntless mirth.
Well I knew the strains I heard
Came from an imprison'd bird,
One whose nature was to cleave
Freest air from morn till eve,
Prone to greet with fearless wing
Sunshine and the breath of spring.

Yet, though men had done him wrong,

Still arose his cheerful song;

Still, although the clouds were dark,

Wildly sang that captive lark.

Quickly faded the distress

Of mine hours of loneliness.

Near me seem'd to pass once more
Lovely things I'd seen of yore;
Sense of all the love and joy

Time and change could ne'er destroy.
Thoughts of eyes whose loving light
Still could make my dwelling bright,
O'er my spirit rush'd again,
At the bidding of that strain;
And my humbled head I bent,
Heedful of the lesson sent
To rebuke my discontent.

May, 1845.

Brightly falls the sunshine now
On each blossom-laden bough.
Every moss-grown apple-tree
Is a lovely sight to see,

With its bloom in clusters fair
Opening to the sunny air.
Breezes, stealing round about,
Shake the hidden fragrance out,
Flinging on the ground below
Frequent showers of mimic snow.
Gleams of purest white are seen
'Mid the chestnut's tufts of green;
Pyramids of pearly flowers

Peeping from their thick-leaved bowers.
'Mong the boughs light breezes pass,
And the shadows on the grass

Move the while like living things;

Many a pendent blossom swings
From the lofty sycamore,
And along the turfy floor
Thick the lowly daisies beam;
King-cups shed a golden gleam
O'er the meadows near the stream.
Proud, and beautiful, and strong
Still the river sweeps along.
Here and there a pleasant shade
Elm or hawthorn-bough hath made,
Or the willow's streamers gay
Throw their shadow on its way;
Beauty more than gloom they shed
O'er the river's sunlit bed.

Swallows in their merry flight

Haunt the stream from morn till night.

Gracefully as fairy boat

On a magic lake might float,

Now and then a milk-white swan

In his stately joy moves on.

Yet though spring's rich beauty glow
As it did long years ago,

I am but a captive still
With an oft-impatient will;
But whene'er my heart is fain,
In its weakness to complain,
Hark! for once again I hear
Blithest music, rising clear
From that other captive near.
Little of the sky he sees,
Little of the flowers and trees;
Little he was used to rove,
Houses round him and above!

Yet upon the sod he stands
(Laid, perchance, by kindly hands
On his prison-floor) and sings,
E'en as if his folded wings
Still were free to range at will
Higher than the highest hill.
And again my heart will heed
This sweet lesson in its need;
And in others' bliss rejoice,
Bidden by that captive's voice.

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