tered a note at which Athens started from her indolence, Thebes roused from her lethargies, and Macedon trembled.

*

Soon after the delivery of this speech, Mr. Wolfe began to turn his mind with more than his usual diligence to the minor branches of mathematics and natural philosophy prescribed in the under-graduate course: and in the short time he thus devoted his labours, he evinced so great a capacity for scientific attainments, that those friends who could best estimate his talents for such abstruse subjects, earnestly urged him to the arduous task of reading for a fellowship. His diffidence in his own powers, however, prevented him from entering upon it until some time after he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts, to which he was admitted in the year 1814. He was at length persuaded to determine upon this pursuit, and all his friends entertained the most sanguine hopes of his success, so far as they could depend upon the steadiness of his application.

For a short period he prosecuted his studies with such effect as to render it a matter of regret to all who were interested for him, that he did not persevere in his efforts, and that he allowed any trifling interruptions to divert him from his object. He evinced, indeed, a solidity of understanding, and a clearness of conception, which, with ordinary diligence and proper management, might have soon made him master of all those branches of learning required in the fellowship course of the Dublin University; but the habits of his mind and the peculiarity of his disposition, and the variety of his taste, seemed adverse to any thing like continued and laborious application to one definite object. It was a singular characteristic of his mind, that he seldom read any book throughout, not even those works in which he appeared most to delight. Whatever he read, he thoroughly digested and accurately retained; but his progress through any book of an argumentative or

speculative nature was impeded by a disputative habit of thought and a fertility of invention, which suggested ingenious objections and started new theories at every step. Accordingly, this constitution of mind led him rather to investigate the grounds of an author's hypothesis, and to satisfy his own mind upon the relative probabilities of conflicting opinions, than to plod on patiently through a long course, merely to lay up in his memory the particular views and arguments of each writer, without consideration of their importance or their foundation. He was not content to know what an author's opinions were, but how far they were right or wrong. The examination of a single metaphysical speculation of Locke, or a moral argument of Butler, usually cost him more time and thought than would carry ordinary minds through a whole volume. It was also remarkable that in the perusal of mere works of fancy-the most interesting poems and romances of the day-he lingered with such delight on the first striking passages, or entered into such minute criticism upon every beauty and defect as he went along, that it usually happened, either that the volume was hurried from him, or some other engagement interrupted him before he had finished it. A great portion of what he had thus read he could almost repeat from memory; and while the recollection afforded him much ground of future enjoyment, it was sufficient also to set his own mind at work in the same direction.

The facility of his disposition also exposed him to many interruptions in his studies. Even in the midst of the most important engagements, he had not resolution to deny himself to any visiter. He used to watch anxiously for every knock at his door, lest any one should be disappointed or delayed who sought for him; and such was the good-natured simplicity of his heart, that, however sorely he sometimes felt the intrusion, he still rendered himself so agreeable even to his most common-place acquaintances, as to encourage a repetition of their importunities. He allowed himself to be

come the usual deputy of every one who applied to him to perform any of the routine collegiate duties which he was qualified to discharge; and thus his time was so much invaded, that he seldom had any interval for continued application to his own immediate business. Besides, the social habit of his disposition, which delighted in the company of select friends, and preferred the animated encounter of conversational debate to the less inviting exercise of solitary study; and his varied taste, which could take interest in every object of rational and intellectual enjoyment, served to scatter his mind and divert it from that steadiness of application which is actually necessary for the attainment of distinguished eminence in any pursuit.

About the time he had entertained thoughts of reading for a fellowship, he had become acquainted with an interesting and highly respectable family, who resided in the most picturesque part of the county of Dublin. Previously to this he had been long immured within the city, and had seldom made even a day's excursion amidst the lovely scenery of the surrounding country. The beauties of nature seemed to break upon him with all the charms of novelty, and were heightened by being shared with friends of congenial feelings. The sensations thus excited soon awakened his slumbering Muse, and found their natural expression in all the fervours of poetic inspiration. The reader shall be presented here with a specimen of his powers in descriptive poetry. The subject is "Lough Bray:" a romantic and magnificent scene, which lies about six miles south of Rathfarnham, in the northern part of the county Wicklow. It is a sequestered spot in the midst of a region of wildest mountains and hills. There are two lakes called the upper and the lower, the latter of which is the more beautiful and extensive. It is situated near the top of an abrupt mountain, and is almost circular in its shape, a circumstance which has probably given rise to the conjecture that it may be the crater of an extinct volcano. Its area is said to be thirty-seven Irish

acres. Close beside it stands a precipice of several hundred feet, near the top of which is a dark overhanging cliff, commonly called the "Eagle's Crag;" and the lake itself sometimes overflows and glides down the side of the mountain in the opposite direction. This brief description of the principal features of the scene, may serve to prepare the reader for what he is to expect in the little poem which follows.

FAREWELL TO LOUGH BRAY.

Then fare thee well!-I leave thy rocks and glens,

And all thy wild and random majesty,

To plunge amid the world's deformities,

And see how hideously mankind deface

What God hath given them good :-while viewing thee,

I think how grand and beautiful is God,

When man has not intruded on his works,

But left his bright creation unimpaired.

'Twas therefore I approached thee with an awe
Delightful, therefore eyed, with joy grotesque-
With joy I could not speak; (for on this heart
Has beauteous Nature seldom smiled, and scarce
A casual wind has blown the veil aside,
And shewn me her immortal lineaments,)
'Twas therefore did my heart expand, to mark
Thy pensive uniformity of gloom,

The deep and holy darkness of thy wave,
And that stern rocky form, whose aspect stood
Athwart us, and confronted us at once,
Seeming to vindicate the worship due,
And yet reclined in proud recumbency,
As if secure the homage would be paid:
It look'd the genius of the place, and seem'd
To superstition's eye, to exercise

Some sacred, unknown function.-Blessed scenes!
Fraught with primeval grandeur! or if aught
Is changed in thee, it is no mortal touch

That sharpen'd thy rough brow, or fringed thy skirts
With coarse luxuriance :-'twas the lightning's force
Dash'd its strong flash across thee, and did point
The crag; or, with his stormy thunderbolt,
Th' Almighty architect himself disjoin'd

Yon rock; then flung it down where now it hangs,
And said, "Do thou lie there ;"-and genial rains,
(Which e'en without the good man's prayer came down)
Call'd forth thy vegetation.-Then I watch'd

The clouds that coursed along the sky, to which
A trembling splendour o'er the waters moved
Responsive; while at times it stole to land,
And smiled among the mountain's dusky locks.
Surely there linger beings in this place,
For whom all this is done :-it cannot be,
That all this fair profusion is bestow'd
For such wild wayward pilgrims as ourselves.
Haply some glorious spirits here await
The opening of heaven's portals; who disport
Along the bosom of the lucid lake ;
Who cluster on that peak; or playful peep

Into yon eagle's nest; then sit them down

And talk of those they left on earth, and those
Whom they shall meet in heaven: and, haply tired,

(If blessed spirits tire in such employ,)

The slumbering phantoms lay them down to rest
Upon the bosom of the dewy breeze.--
Ah! whither do I roam--I dare not think-

Alas! I must forget thee; for I go

To mix with narrow minds and hollow hearts--
I must forget thee--fare thee, fare thee well!

The following stanzas will convey some idea of the sensations with which the poet returned from such scenes as this to the sombre walls of a college, and how painful he felt the transition from such enjoyments to the grave occupation of academic studies.