The Sun.
London, England, 1844-04-04 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.

In an enlightened article on the " Irish Question,"
Which leads-Olhhis Number, and- is sinFularly_tm.
perate in its tone, the writer, after observing that Ire-
land has been too long regarded in the House of
Commons as a mere battle-field for party, goes on to
state that the only effectual way of tranquillising that
country is by paying prompt and diligent attention to
the wants of the poor, for it is poverty that is there
the fruitful parent of all agitation. " Want is a bad
counsellor," adds the writer, " and Irishmen have had
for many years no other. The lavish professions of
the demagogue fall pleasantly on the ears of him who
has never heard the words of encouragement from
any other. Look upon Ireland, then, for once, with
the eyes of benevolence and humanity, and not with
the one-sided glance of a partisan. Help the people.
In doing so, you will contribute largely to your own
welfare and prosperity." There is much good sense
in these remarks, and the time, we trust, is not far
distant, when an English Minister will act in accord-
ance with them. " The Three Suitors" is a passable
rhymed legend, written in the manner of Ingoldsby.
" Southey, and his Poems" contains here and there
some judicious critical comments, but, as a whole, its
tone is too encomiastic. Mr. Anster's translation of
Schiller's ballad of " Hero and Leander" is rendered
with considerable spirit; we subjoin the closing
stanzas :

And the winds are hush'd—and panting
Up the eastern pathway slanting
Their course the steeds of Eos hold ;
Ocean smoothes his face of terror--
Peaceful lies the mighty mirr
Resting in his bed of old.
Softly, with a playful murmur
As upon the rocky strand
Break the gently heaving billows,
Lo ! they waft a corse to land.
He it is, whose promise plighted
Death bath seard ; and,—reunited
Now,—one glance—she sees him there.
Moan is none—nor tear-drop falling—
Statue-like the heart appalling
Chillness of that calm despair.
From the wave that gives no comfort
To the blank sky see her glance,
And a glow of kindling triumph
Lights her pallid countenance.
" Powers, with whom is no relenting,—
Unresenting,—unlamenting,-
1 bow me to the will divine.
Ended is my course full early,
;3ut I loved, and was loved, dearly,
And Life's fairest lot was mine.
Venus ! while I lived, true priestess
Of thy temple I have been,
And I die, a willing victim,
Thine in death, celestial queen !"
With hair flying and robes floating
From the turret, self-devoting,
! she plunges in the wave,—
And, their holy forms receiving,
Ocean's God, in triumph heaving,
Bears them onward—is their grave.
Pontus, with the rich spoil laden,
Thrills, his living depths below,
Pouring from his urn exhaustless
Streams that will not cease to flow.

SPORTING MAGAZINE.

The present month's Number of this periodical is
embellished with two engravings, one representing
a " Gamekeeper on duty"—that is to say, keeping a
sharp look-out with his gun in his hand and his dogs
behind him, in the centre of a thick woodland pre-
serve—and the other representing a view of " Izaac
Walton's Cottage," which is a snug, unassuming,
thatched farm-house, shaded with lofty trees. The
literary contents ace all, as usual, taken up with
sporting themes.