A REVIEW.
A gentleman of literary tendencies, and for whom I had a great personal regard, mentioned to a small party of friends his intention to publish a semi-monthly periodical in Dublin, under the title of "The Irish Review." I stated that whilst wishing the utmost success to his undertaking, my hopes were extremely slender, and adduced what I considered cogent reasons for the opinion expressed. None of the others coincided with me, and one of them jocularly remarked that a penance should be imposed on me by requiring me to write the preface. With this proposition the others fully agreed, and although I steadfastly declined to comply with their requisition, I expressed a willingness to attempt a contribution of a prefatory nature, the topics and composition being completely left to my own discretion, or perhaps I should say, indiscretion. The production was sent and published, and although the periodical was not ultimately successful, a better result may possibly attend the next attempt to establish an enlightened and impartial organ of literary criticism in the Irish metropolis. My contribution was headed—
AN IRISH REVIEW.
When Albion, proud Albion, heard threats of invasion,
Her spirit and energy met the occasion;
She call'd on her sons, and they readily back'd her,
And perhaps for that reason, no foes have attack'd her.
Of Ireland, it seems, there were doubtings and fears;
From us they declined to demand volunteers;
They thought that if bay'nets and muskets we got,
We'd exchange with each other a thrust or a shot.
They thought Tipperary could ne'er meet Tyrone,
And part in whole skin without any sore bone,
That lads from old Galway or Southern Tralee;
With Derry's apprentices might disagree.
We've no volunteers, and we'll not have a fight,
Our colors are peaceful, they're plain black and white;
But without volunteers in green, scarlet, or blue,
We're determined on having An Irish Review.
A review—where a mere moral force we demand,
A review—at which Intellect takes the command,
A review—where each Science delights to combine,
A review—where Wit's facings appear in the line.
A review—where a press procures willing recruits,
A review—where at Folly the satirist shoots;
At poor Private Folly no aim is directed,
But General Folly's the mark that's selected.
To Gen'ral Goodhumor the duty's assigned
Of keeping the ground, and the public shall find
He'll drive away Rancor and Prejudice, too,
Till Gen'ral Applause greets The Irish Review.