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 fret-work, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognize 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.

MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.

All the choir

Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.

MILTON.

AGAIN, oh! send that anthem peal again
Thro' the arch'd 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 arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown;

Such the high hearts of Kings might well have stirr❜d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown,

Those notes once more!—they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' 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? Ev'n while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!

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 hour?

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH

MOTHER OVER HER SON.

This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on;

Darker is thy repose, my

fair-haired son!

Silent and dark.

There is blood upon the threshold

Whence thy step went forth at morn,

Like a dancer's in its fleetness,

O my bright first-born !