The Sun.
London, England, 1844-11-01 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

The first article in the present Number of this
Magazine is headed " Twaddling Tourists in Ireland,"
and is severe—and not altogether unjustly so—on
divers and sundry volumes of trash that have lately
been published on the subject of the sister country.
The absurdities, and gross misrepresentations, arising
from ignorance, of a recent German traveller, who
strolled through Ireland in the Repeal year, are spe-
cially held up to ridicule, and never was ridicule
better applied than in this particular case. " Etruria"
is a critical notice, accompanied by numerous extracts,
of Mrs. Hamilton's clever antiquarian work on this
subject. The " National System of Education" is
a skilfully reasoned essay, though in places it evinces
somewhat too much of a party bias. Some of the
writer's suggestions are well worthy the consideration
of Government. " Major Lynch's Journal of a
Residence among the Ghilzies in 1839" contains
orne graphic sketches of character and scenery.
,Glimpses in the Mountains " is a wild, desultory
article, but by no means devoid of fancy. We sub-
join 012 e of the poems with which it is interspersed :
Co ward heart and failing limb,
Drovsy sluggard of the earth,
Where the sun and stars are dim—
Come where Hope and Love have birth !
Like the embers from the earth,
Like the blossoms from the tree,
Plenty there decays to dearth,
Death from Life is hunting thee.
Hero are Fancy's purpled hills,
Here Ambition's towers of gold.
Earthly fountain never fills
Streams like those our vallies hold,
Down in every mountain fold
They go apparelled from the sun—
Faltering heart awake, be bold,
And the heritage is won.
When the dew of boyhood's dawn
At the kindling morn of Youth,
Rose in glorious dreamings gone,
Here they settled into truth ;
Never Time's devouring tooth
Gnaws the bud or fruitage hero ;
Here, enchanted, gentlest Ruth
Holds her urn without a tear.
There thou art a silly slave,
Shepherd Conscience pens thee in,
From the cradle to the grave,
Trembling for the old wolf, Sin.
Here thy golden years begin,
Wolf and flock together play;
No more frets the shepherd's din,
Nor his angry dogs all day.
Wealth shall trouble thee no more;
House, or raiment, food, or drink.
Wish—and ere the wish is o'er,
Teems around the fountain's brink
Fruit of boughs that never shrink
From the cold calamity.
Labour here is but to think,
And the God-like hand is free.
Would'st thou utter noble thought—
It is uttered ere it rise,
By no wasting watching brought;
O'er the blushing earth it lies,
Like the rosy dawning skies;
Genius stirs the trembling grass,
Weeps from out the violet's eyes,
Fills the breezes as they pass.
Here the heart can find its brother,
As the blossom finds the dew,
And another and another,
Like the flowers that spring anew;
And the free life passes through,
Like the wind-sigh through the tree.
Dream of Love, and is it true;
When thou wak'st, embracing thee.
When the heart would utter love
On that frustrate earth below,
The stumbling tongue in vain would more,
As deep as love it cannot go.
Here to and fro thy life doth flow,
Breathing the immortal hours;
And the thoughts, unspoken, grow
On the leaves and on the flowers.