The Sun.
London, England, 1842-07-01 00:00:00

TAlrs MAGAZINE.

Tait has some fearless and forcible remarks this
month on the subject of the " National Distress,"
which, he says, has this character to distinguish it
from former periods of suffering—that its advances
have been insidious and gradual, but steady ; adding,
that the remedial measures just carried by Sir Ro-
bert Peel, while they inflict considerable sufferings on
individuals of the middle class, can at best prove but a
temporary.alleviation. " Indeed," pursues Tait, " alto-
gether the effect of his measures is doubtful. The
best that can be affirmed is, that the changes in the
Tariff„if, they should do little good, can do no great
harm. No man, not even the author of these changes,
dares flatter himself that such petty alterations are
speedily to repair the wide-spread calamities of even
the last season ; when distress has grown to so fearful
a height, that even the wise and the courageous
shrink from looking it in the face ; and well-meaning,
humane persons, of limited understanding, are left to
propose foolish or desperate temporary expedients.
The causes of national decay, to be followed, it is
but too probable, by social, and not improbably, by
violent disorganization, have been much longer. at
work than appears to be generally suspected." Dis-
couraging as these remarks are, we fear there is but
too much truth in them. The writer concludes with
an observation or two on the Corn-laws, which he in-
sists ought to be abolished, were it only as a peace-
offering to the famishing millions who attribute to
them their misery. The " Song of July" is not so
grateful or spirited a chant as the " Songs for the
Months" have hitherto been. The versification is
clumsy, and the thoughts not above common-place.
" Abednego, the Money-lender," exhibits no falling-
.off in interest, the dialogues are uniformly clever and
natural. The reviews of some recently-published
works of fiction are written with that tact and judg-
ment for which the critical notices of this periodical
have long been remarkable. We quote some graphic
stanzas, entitled the " ICyber Pass
My song a mournful muse invokes :
Pale, bleeding o'er the vale she stands,
Wildly waving forth her hands.
Where Kyber, from his snow-clad rocks,
Poured down his fierce, insatiate bands,
To bathe their keen, deceitful brands
In blood that looks tl heaven, and smokes
For Vengeance on their cursed lands.
The troop has reached the fatal vale—
Slowly the lengthening lines ascend ;
The crags in horrid tumult bend :
Each eye is fixed—each cheek is pale ;
For, rising like a fitful gale,
A thousand echoing voices blend—
The heralds of a dreadful tale!
Gleaming-athwart the firmament,
Like fiends by frenzied Murder sent,
Wild figures blot the sky ;
While cne dire havoc, deeply pent,
Tee thousand bosems' element
Bursts like a flood on high ;
And they who dare, and they who fly,
In one wide waste of death are iblent,—
Unburied there to lie.
The horseman rears his battle blade ;
Secure the vengeful foemen crowd:
High. hanging on a thunder-cloud,
He falls—nor asks kir aid.
The startled steed defiance neighs,—
Son of the desert ! think not now
Thy freely-tossing mane will flow,
As in the pride of other days,
O'er half a nation low ;
When sandy plain and sunny slope
Beheld thee rise, the Arab's hope,
Where Carmel's rocky mountain smiled
Upon thy birth, proud desert child ?
High towers his head—quick heaves his breath— .
The sun, like lightning, gilds his mane—
It ne'er will see it float again—
Ile sinks—the majesty of death !
Swift from the musket's deadly throat
Tire winged wanderer flies :
The mountain chieftain's wild war-note
Throbs on his tongue, and dies.
With streaming robe, and grasping hands,
A thousand feet beneath his bands
The bleeding wretch is driven ;
While coloured shawl, and caftan rent,
Wave far along the dread descent,
Prone from the verge of heaven.
In vain, alas ! devoted brave,
Firm as the rock that marks your grave,
In crowded rank ye stand ;
One effort more—one thought of home—
A prayer to heaven—then bid your hand,
With dying grasp, and dripping brand,
Carve o'er your bloody tomb—
' " The glory of an injurecl,iand
In Vengeance yet will come !'

DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE.
• Curry and Co., Dublin.
This is a very readable Number of one of the
cleverest of our monthly periodicals. " Jack Hinton,
the Guardsman," by the editor, Harry Lorrequer,
abounds in scenes of broad, rich
1-Jibernian humour.
The description of Major Mahon s entertainment of
his guests at his country seat, which he called
Newgate, and which, although the sheep lived in the
week
ek
would e
parlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-
room. and the live bull-dogs and a buck-goat kept
house in the library et looked so imposing
hlei , fromv
the high road to Innis," is enough to throw a stoic
, t,terary
into convulsions. " Nuts and Nutcrackers" has some
good hits at the follies of the day, of which the best
refers to the penal code. We doubt, however, whether
the condemnation
be feltas a
steovedire dayspneuonuisthsraixeatbymost
in
men, who would prefer dining anywhere to not
dining at all, as too many of them do at present.
" Carl Stelling, the Painter of Dresden," is a capital
story for a winter evening's fireside, where the mar-
vellous is always at a premium. The " Portrait
Gallery" for this month exhibits a very good likeness
of Admiral Sir Robert Stopford, followed by a bio-
graphy of that distinguished, gallant officer. " Poems
by the late Robert Charles Welsh, an Irish gentle-
man who was murdered last year by (it is supposed)
some of his own tenants, are the productions of an
elegant and highly-gifted mind. We quote as a spe-
cimen the " Exile's ,41- ong:"—
Oh ! bear me back to my native shore,
O'er the circling ocean's foam ;
And ere I die, let me gaze once more
On my father's humble home.

~`'~i' Y

Oh ! bear me back to the greenwood's shade,
To the well-known chestnut tree—
To the'quiet vale, and the sunny glade,
The huunts of my childish glee:
My spirit pines for the breezy hills,
Far off in my own bright land ;
For the warblings that gush from its lonely rills,
And the joyous household band.
Rind faces met by the'fireside's gleam,
When arose the evening hymn :
But their spells are gone, like a passing dream,
Their memories vague and dim.
I list to the billows' thundering sound,
As their surges break in the bay ;
I watch them ?ringing the - liffs around
With a beautiful girdle of spray.
But not bark, nor ship, to the wandering breeze
Their cloudlike sails unroll, •
And the anthem sublime of the swelling seas,
Like a death-song thrills my soul.
On the mountain-tops the wild deer springs
In happiest freedom by ;
And the proud eagle soars on his golden wings
To the crystalline dome of the sky ;
And the midnight wind unchained sweeps past
O'er mount and forest dell—
But o'er me there's a strange dull feeling cast,
With a power I may not quell.
Then bear me back to my native shore,
O'er the circling ocean's foam !
And ere I die, let me gaze once more
On my father's humble home.
Oh ! bear me back to the greenwood shade,
To the well-known chestnut tree—
To the quiet vale, and the sunny glade,
The haunts of my childish glee !