• The power ascribed to the Lotos of the Nile (of making men forget their home) is well-known to all students of Egyptian antiquity. VOL. IX. 2 B Yet is all past, while Feelings live, Passion may nerve the broken wing Baptized in Love's refreshing fount! Think how that bliss of tender thought Streams of rich glory from no sun Those hours! An "Island of the Blest" In Time's bleak Ocean each such hour! —Evoke not these the ghost of song, The Spectre of Evanished Power? Vain, vain! That charm is long unwound, Love wears a more convenient hue; For he that aches for wise men's praise, Must learn to love as wise men do. To kneel, and kneeling scoff-to deem And laugh his very heart to scorn. Scant aliment such vows for Song ! Oh true! yet pardon, if 'tis hard But come! the Sacrifice prepare! The world's mute Victim shall not falter, I'll drain the heart's blood from the core, And lay the remnant on its altar! III. And is it past? the princely dower, Once more,-ere from that sunless heaven I ask, in Nature's clasping arms, Once more-in Youth' and Memory's name!- Their sad song symphonied my dreams! The old charmed air may breathe again You know the place, the purple bells, Their meek eyes sparkling through the heath, Woods, skies, above-woods, skies, beneath. The rocks o'erpiled in giant crags, That bare and black'ning rose behind, No, not forget, while Memory lives! Are things that are, not that have been! Each tinge that deepen'd as it past In the vein'd mountain's maze of rills. Each green slope where the noontide Sun, Weak dream, perchance! and yet mine heart Yes! the swarth Exile of the east And Fancy asks a grave amid The Holy Land of Memory! Come, then, and let me, while the Past The Holy City and its neighbourhood are crowded by aged Jews, who, feeling the approach of death, come from all distances to close a life of expatriation in their native land, amidst the hallowed scenery of all their recollections and all their hopes. THOUGHT. Thought is the ladder by which we attain to all things."-Andrew Marvell. Thought! without thee "that bitter boon, our life," Between weak nature, and o'ermastering fate, Our pleasure's lightness, and our sorrow's weight. Which else Ephemera had been, with wings That would have quenched their course ere scarce begun. Vast worlds of space, fill'd with mysterious ways; And mourn the cypress Love, wreath'd with his bays; (Save that nor shoals nor quicksands blot thy chart,) Like Theseus' shade, thou smitest without a blow, PAST AND PRESENT STATE OF LITERATURE IN IRELAND. OFTEN as we have desired to summon the attention of our readers to the interesting subject of the literary prospects and intellectual state of this country, we have been deterred by the consideration of the varied topics, with which a full and accurate view of this subject must be complicated. Of these, some are difficult to pronounce upon with accuracy or precision; some entangled in dispute, some involved in party feeling. It is easy to conceive, how any question that affects the nation's mind must comprehend views from which the literary essayist would gladly extricate the train of his reasoning, did a just regard to truth allow. But the literature of a nation, and of this nation in particular, is affected by its political state and influential upon it. And this double dependance becomes more important, either as effect or cause, in proportion as the stage of civilization is lower, and the operation of the conservative principles of society less developed. Though we shall endeavor to keep on the surface of common interest, yet we must bespeak some intelligent at tention, while we attempt a brief statement of the general causes by which the country is, in this respect, retarded or advanced. Of these general causes, three claim especial notice. The state of the time, the state of Ireland as affected by it, and the state of literature at this period. From these heads a correct and comprehensive view of the difficulties before us will be obtained. From this, we can more clearly ascertain the advantages to be looked for in the promotion of our home literature. And lastly, estimate satisfactorily, our capabilities, advantages, and the progress we have actually gained. Such, we trust, will be felt to offer no uninteresting train of inquiry and reflection, to any one who feels an interest in the real honor and improvement of his country. The most standard perfection of legislative institutions would be an inadequate substitute for the blessing of civilization; without this, mild laws can afford no shelter, equal rights would be an injustice, and freedom but an abuse. In taking a compass, which, to some, may at first appear more wide than is necessary for the purpose of consider ing the literary prospects of this country, we can only say that our view requires it, and request a patient hearing. To consider the objects of literature, otherwise than in its bearing on the more permanent interests, and more vital and essential elements of national progress, would be to narrow a most extensive subject into one of little moment. In this tempestuous crisis, when the elements of the social state appear to be involved in a preternatural rapidity of progression, either for good or evil, we should be ashamed to sit gravely engaged in speculating on the progress of the tenth-rate poetry, or third-rate scholarship of the day. We care little how the souvenirs and forget-me-nots might best multiply their insect existence, or the twopenny ballad-mongers find favor with Curry and Co. All this, though harmless in itself, and even desirable as a portion of more important changes, may well lie over for future consideration. When the hopes of the year are secured, and the bladed fields set our hearts at rest for the future harvest, we may find leisure to watch the humble-bee in his honied range, or to be amused by the butterfly as its painted wing glances from flower to flower amidst the gay profusion of the spring. Not that we are deficient in the cordial goodwill which rises in our breast, when we behold the teeming, but not superfluous, trifles of modern literary journey-work piled in all their elegance of external ornament on the publisher's table; or that we are insensible enough not to feel a more intense and lively satisfaction, when, by the inestimable kindness of the worthy authors, these valuable specimens of typography and binding, appear on our own table, and awaken our hearts to silent gladness-tacitum pertentant gaudia pectus. But it is not with these, or even with the productions of a higher form, that we feel ourselves engaged in entering on a topic, which, according to our social theory, embraces the most important principles of national welfare. It is one of the most important distinctions between us and England, that its literature and civilization have begun in distant ages. When the morasses and forests of Ireland were yet under the domination of the "ragged royal race of Tara," as they are not in |