Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and
burst.
But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be-if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanish'd beam-and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye orators! whom yet our council yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !1
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,"
He was your master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind-as various in their change,
While eloquence-wit-poesy and mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on earth,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!
Ere the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! GEORGE the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long cherish'd Isle which he loved like hisbride.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more,
And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags,
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth;
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves!
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,
With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!
He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-
But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er!
Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!
Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant agaio,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.
Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators Jash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride—
Not thus did thy GRATTAN indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
Ever glorious GRATTAN! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.
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! 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 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?
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 CESAR 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!»>
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor FINGAL, recal,
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!»>
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! Thy 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,
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,
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