The Sun.
London, England, 1850-05-08 00:00:00

LITERAT UR E

BALLADS, POEMS, and LYRICS, Original
and Translated. By Denis Florence M'Carthy.
With many of the spirited compositions contained
in this neat little volume we are not unfamiliar, hav-
ing had the pleasure of perusing them in the pages of
the Dublin Unircrsity Magazine. Mr. APl:artily
exhibits poetical talent of no ordinary excellence, and
many passages in these poems would stand a compari-
son with the best productions of modern poets. He
possesses one great merit—the inspirations of his
muse he lays on the altar of his country, some of the
most stirring and vigorous of his effusions are dedi-
cated to the land of his birth, and breathe the highest
tone of nationality and patriotism. Our readers will
perhaps be better able to judge of the merits of this
little collection from a few extracts, than from any
lengthened criticism of ours. The opening poem,
" The Bell• Founder," is full of touching sentiments ;
the story is interesting, and worked out with great
poetical skill. There is a beautiful vigour and
freshness in these lines, in praise of healthful in-
dustry :
" Al)! little they know of true happiness, they whom

satiety fiils,
Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the
....

rankness that kills.
All 1 little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased

slumber enjoys,
Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of

the sleep that destroys;
Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for,

or gain;
Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom
. .

and brain;
Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with

itsireath ;
Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and
death!

" But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man
among men,
AEA with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or

ploughshare, or pen,
Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morn-

ing of life,
Winning home and its darling divinities—Love-worship-
ped children and wife.
Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the

sharp chisel rings,
And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not

the bosom of kings—
Ho the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his

race
Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the
strong world in the face.

"And such was young Paolo! &c. . ."
The Foray of Con O'Donnell is vividly descriptive of
one of those irruptions which the ancient chieftains of
Ireland were frequently in the habit of making into
each other's territories, for the purposes of war or
pillage. The ballad " Kate of Keninare" is full of
grace and beauty. We shall treat our fair readers to
a stanza or two from this sweet ballad; but we would
strongly recommend them a perusal of the whole col-
lection; and we have little doubt they will receive as
much gratification as we have had :
Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to
shine,
And many cht eks, pale with the soft hue of sadness,
Have I worshipped in silence, and felt, them divine!
But hope in its gleanings, or love in its-drew:pings,
Ne'er fashioned a being so f4iiltless and fair
As the lily-checked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmore!

" To Lim who far travels how sad is the feeling,
How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,
When the scenes he moat loves, like a river's soft
stealing,
All fade as a vision and vanish from bim.
Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that
garland
That memory weaves of the bright and the fair;
While this sigh I am breathing my garland is
wreathing,
And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare,"&c•
The little poem, entitled " Remonstrance," corn.
mencing with the lines—
" Bless the dear old verdant land;
Brother, wert thou born cf it ?"

contains some sentiments of fervid nationality,—
" Think that this dear old land is thine,
And thou a traitor slave of it,—
Think how the Switzer lt ads his kine,
When pale the evening star loth shine---
His song has home in every line,
Freedum in every stave of itl
Think how the German loves his Rhine,
And worships every wave of itl
" Our own dear land is bright as theirs,
But oh! our hearts are cold for it; &c.,

Let us do all that honour dares—
Be earnest, f&ithful, bold for it."
The tribute to the memory of one of the greatest men
of modern times, the late Mr. O'Connell, is alike
creditable to the good taste, sound sense, and
kindly feelings of the writer, entitled " The Dead
Tribune,"—

The awful shadow of a great man's death
Falls on this land, so sad and dark before,—
llai k with the famine and the fever breath,
And mad dissensions gnawing at its core.
Oh I let us hush foul discord's maniac roar,
And make a mournful truce, howe►er brief,
Like hostile armies when the day is o'erl—
And thus de►ote the night-time of our grief
To tears and prayers for him, the great departed Chief.
"In Genoa the Superb' O'Connell dies—
That city of Columbus by the sea,
Beneath the canopy of azure skier,
As high and cloudless as his fame must be.
Is it mere chance or higher destiny
That brings these names together? One the bold
Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he—
The other, too, exploring paths untold ;
One a new world would seek, and one would serve
the old I

Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van,
Where'er your forces o'er the word aro spread,
The last great champion cf the rights f
The last great Tribune of the world is dead !
Join in our griefs, and lit cur tears be is bta
Without reserve or coldness on his bier ;
Look on his life as on a map outspread—
His fight for freedom—freedom far and near—.
And if a speck should rise, oh 1 hide it with a tear !"
This volume contains translations front the French,
Italian, Spanish, and German, all admirable; and we
have hopes to see the writer produce works more
likely to last than these fugitive pieces, as we think
he possesses qualities entitling him to a respectable
place among living poets.

MAGAZINES, &c _(CONTINUED).

FRASER.

Fraser opens, with an elaborate Shakesperian
study by George Fletcher, the subject of the present
paper is the Merchant of Venice. The Quarterly
Reviewer, who attacked the Queen's College and Pro-
iesror Maurice stigmatizing that gentleman and his
friends as Pantheists and Latitudinarians, is merci-
lessly castigated by Fraser, and richly does he
deserve it. We have a most delightful article on the
fables of Babrius, which have been recently discovered
in a monastry in Greece, and which have been care-
fully edited by Mr. G. C. Lewis.: Babrius
was a Greek poet, who flourished it is
supposed about the time of the Emperor
Alexander Severus, and who then wrote this series
of fables in Greek verse, which for elegance, sim-
plicity, and poetry, are superior either to Phsodrus or
La Fontaine. The " Story of the Requiem" is a strange
tale, which, if true, would seem to show that Mozart
died from poison, administered to him by a mercenary I
musician who had managed to possess himself of the
latest works of that composer ; we, however, attach
no credit to this narrative. Fraser promises a series
of articles on Diplomacy, Diplomatists, and the
Diplomatic Servants of England ; and in the
opening paper, which appears in the present number,
insists on the necessity of Englishmen receiving a
regular diplomatic education before they are entrusted
with the exercise of diplomatic functions as the only
means of enabling them to compete with the masters
in ambassador-craft of France, Germany, and Russia,
There are several other papers of merit in this month's
Fraser.