Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! 50 True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide), Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield
their prey?

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Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign,——
To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,

From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country

convince

Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,

And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"

70

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite ! Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite

And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !

Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge ! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd George!

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Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow.

But let not his name be thine idol alone

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still be thine own!

A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, 90 Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. Without one single ray of her genius, without

The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race— The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!

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Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still
for thee!

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,

III

I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons, And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

For happy are they now reposing afar,—

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-dayNor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 120

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon

power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore !

September, 1821.

STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD
BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA

Он, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ?

'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

Oh FAME !-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my

story,

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY
THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

9

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here—

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

ΙΟ

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