Thy word created all, and doth create; Thy splendour fills all space with rays divine. Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious! Great ! PANANTI'S " EPIGRAMS." THIS author, who is chiefly known in England by his interesting account of his captivity among the Turks, is much esteemed in Florence as a wit and a pure Tuscan writer. His " Epigrams" are in great circulation in Italian society, where they are admired for their causticity, political allusion, boldness, and liberality of sentiment. The volume which he has printed, though pruned of whatever might give umbrage to the powers that be, has considerable merit. A large part, however, consists of translations from the French, English, and ancient epigrammatists; and of those pieces which are original, many partake too much of the licentiousness, as well as of the purity of diction, of the fifteenth century, to render them generally acceptable to an English public. EPIGRAM FROM PANANTI. "Stretch'd on his bed of death, old Thomas lying, Instead of summing his offences, For mixture, bolus, draught, and pill, And guineas gone in paying doctors, THE PRESENT RACE OF CORK POETS. To whatever cause the improvement of the literary taste of Cork may be owing we know not; it is certain, that, contrasted with what it was seventy years ago, when Smith published his catalogue of writers born in this county and city, an extraordinary and rapid increase has taken place in the number of eminent names in the various departments of science and literature, and more especially in that of poetry. Cork, at this moment, holds within it (natives) a most respectable number of the sons of song; at the head of whom decidedly is JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN ; a name which it is not too much to say will, at no very remote period, when his various spirited and delightful productions will meet the public eye, rank amongst the most distinguished of Ireland's bards, living or gone. He is now preparing a volume of his poetry for publication, and the literati will perceive, from the specimens of it here given, what its character and claims on their patronage will be. Callanan was originally intended for the Catholic priesthood, and studied, for some years, at the College of Maynooth. Changing his determination, he entered Trinity College as a pensioner, directing his studies to the law, which he intended to make his future profession. While in Trinity, he distinguished himself twice amongst the poetic candidates for prizes, being each time declared the victor. The conduct of his judges, on one of these occasions, in the distribution of the reward, disgusted Mr. C., and he quitted the College in consequence. He has since been a resident in Cork. Some of his minor poems have, from time to time, appeared in the "Cork Mercantile Chronicle,” and been from thence copied into several English papers. He has, also, published some very beautiful and vigorous translations from the Irish, in "Blackwood's Magazine." (February, 1823.) The following piece of poetry, written under circumstances the most unfavourable to poetic genius, we doubt not, our readers will deem deserving of the highest eulogy. THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. "The Evening Star rose beauteous above the fading day, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray; And hill and wave shone brightly, in the moonlight's mellow fall, But the Bank of green where Mary knelt, was the brightest of them all. Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck, as to the land she near'd; To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow, o'er the waves below, in pride and beauty shone. The Master saw 66 Our Lady," as he stood upon the prow, And mark'd the whiteness of her robe, and the radiance of her brow; Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best. He shew'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer, And on the kneeling Virgin they gaz'd with laugh and jeer; And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before, And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore. The Ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more "The Lady" on the strand. Out burst the growling thunder, and the lightning leapt about, And rushing with it's wat'ry war, the tempest gave a shout; And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund'ring shock, And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock. Then loud from all that guilty crew, one shriek rose wild and high, But the angry surge swept over them, and hush'd their gurgling cry; And with a hoarse exulting tone, the tempest pass'd away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay. |