The Sun.
London, England, 1845-10-03 00:00:00

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.
No. CLIV.

An excellent bill of fare promised in the table of
contents is well supplied by the bulk of the papers which
this number contains. "Ireland and her Church "
(second article) ; " Poetical Remains of the late Mrs.
James Gray ;" "New Zealand ;" " The Asthetical Con-
dition of England;" "Irish Rivers ;" "The Last Lay of
the Minstrel ;" " The Whychcots—a Leaf from the
Census of 1841 ;" " A Month in the Highlands;" " Gal-
lery of Illustrious Irishmen ;" " The Outpost Bugle;"
" A Plea for Illusion;" " Sir Robert Peel and the Pro-
testants of Ireland"—these are the principal dishes
which are served up by the editor for our delectation.
The first and the last of them are, of course, strongly
tinctured with a Protestant and Orange hue. re do not
imagine that our readers would thank us for any recur-
rence in this place to daily objects of political polemics
with which they must be aweary. Very beautiful are
the "Poetical Remains" of the gifted lady whose name
they bear; but we have not space for extracts—and, in-
deed, we could only give them at the price of so abridging
her impressive stanzas as to do them grievous injustice.
And yet we are irresistibly tempted to adduce this
charming specimen of her high poetic power
:
"I lift with gentle hand the shadowy veil,
How like myself thou art—and yet how pale!
The same dark hair above the lofty brow,
In its still beauty white and pure as snow.
Thou might'st be sleeping that untroubled sleep
I often watched when resting by thy side,
But on thy face there is a calm more deep,
And on thy lips a rest mere purified;
I touch thy hand—ah, now I feel the change
For when was touch of thine so cold and strange?
And no uplifting of those shadowed eyes
That ever opening looked for love in mine; '
No answer to those holy sympathies,
Whose magic trembled from my heart to thine.
My love, my love, it cannot be thy clay
That makes me shudder thus and turn away,
Away from thee—forgive—forgive! the thought
Was from a momentary terror wrought.
Wretch that I was to dread thee !—Lo, I rest
My head once more upon thy marble breast
As if it were a refuge still. Oh love,
. That word of mine could one dear answer move
From these cold lips! Surely thou still must share
Some comfort from my watching and my care;
Surely we shall net part ! Oh joy for us
—Trwe rnillitev to ether thus—
That I could bear t ee efen.as thou art
--..-Xe-semelone_cavern, where my aching heart
-----,4light have thee to iLtelf, and none Intrude -
For ever oo tua that au
Nay, is not vur own chamal.ii defence,
Who hath a right from me to take thee hence
From me thy wedded wife?"

" The Wife's Last Vigil," for example, is of so much
unity and such profound pathos, that we could not bring
ourselves to quote any disjointed parts of it. " New
Zealand"—an extended review of the books of Earle,
Brown, Edward Wakefield, Dr. Dieffenbach, and Capt.
Wilkes (United States Navy)—is also the best topo-
graphical, statistical, and descriptive paper on this im-
portant colony that we have met with for some time
past. Under the head of " Irish Rivers" we have a
second article on the Blackwater of Munster—a very
agreeable contribution to this interesting department of
our national topography—full of historical anecdote,
romantic legends, and fine descriptions of scenery.