When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan

Ye orators! whom yet our council yield, Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,

Mourn for the veteran hero of your field! His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The worthy rival of the wondrous Three !! The wrath--the delegated voice of God!

Whose words were sparks of immortality! Which shook the nations through his lips—and blazed Ye bards ! to whoin the Drama's Muse is dear, Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. He was your inaster-emulate him here ! And here, oh! here, where, yet all young and warm,

Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! The gay creations of his spirit charm,

He was your brother-bear his ashes hence! The matchless dialogue—the deathless wit,

While powers of mind almost of boundless range, Which knew not what it was to intermit;

Complete in kind—as various in their change, The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring

While eloquence-wit-poesy—and mirth, Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; That humbler harmonist of care on earth, These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought

Survive within our souls-while lives our sense To fulness by the fiat of his thought,

of pride in merit's proud pre-emi' ence, Here in their first abode you still may meet,

Long shall we seek his likeness-.long in vain, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;

And turn to all of him which may remain, A halo of the light of other days,

Sighing that Nature form’d but onc such man,
Which stiil the splendour of its orb betrays.

And broke the die—in moulding Sheridan!
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight,
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone

Jar in the music which was born their own,

ERE the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, Sull let them pause-Ah! little do they know

And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, That what to them seem'd vice night be but woe. Lo! GEORGE the triumphant speeds over the wave, Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze

To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like hisIs fix'd for ever to detract or praise ;

bride. Repose denies her requiem to his name,

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye

The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause Stands sentinel-accuser-judge-and spy,

For the few little years, out of centuries won, The foe--the fool—the jealous--and the vain,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her The envious who but breathe in others' painBehold the host ! delighting to deprave,

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, Who track the steps of glory to the grave,

The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, Watch every fault that daring genius owes

And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,

Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the pyramid of calumny!

To her desolate shore—where the emigrant stands These are his portion—but if join'd to these

For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth:

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, If the high spirit must forget to soar,

For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. And stoop to strive with misery at the door,

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! To soothe indignity-and face to face

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Meet sordid rage—and wrestle with disgrace, Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, To find in hope but the renew'd caress,

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,

He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score, If such may be the ills which men assail,

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?

But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er! Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given

Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart ! Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven, Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, And a new spring of noble affections ariseDriven o'er the louring atmosphere that nurst Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch—and And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. burst.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? But far from us and from our mimic scene

Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, Such things should be—if such have ever been;

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browOurs be the gentler wish, the kinder task,

Such servile devotion might shame him away. To give the tribute Glory need not ask, To mourn the vanish'd beam-and add our mite

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash of praise in payment of a long delight.

Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride

Not thus did thy Grattan indignarılly flash 1 See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. on the charges exbibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House 10 adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could ken occur after the immediate efiect of that oration.

1 Fox, Pitt, Burke,

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good ! Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth, So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest !

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued, Seems proud of the reptile which crawlid from her earth, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile! Erc Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Without one single ray of her genius, without Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun- The fancy, the manhood, the fire of ner raceBu: Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb The miscreant who wel mignt p.unge Erin in doubt

of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One ! If she ever gave oirtn o a being so base. With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;

If she did - let her .ong-boastea proverb be hushid, With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;

Which procla'ms inal from Erin no reptile can Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,

springAnd corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full Aushid, his mind.

Still warming its folds in the breast of a King ! But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till Fcasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,

Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below When a week's Saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

My voice, though but jumble, was raised for thy right, Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)

This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy figlit, Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still Kiss his foot with thy blessings denied !

for thee! Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay,

land, Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd

I have known noble hearts and great souls in th With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band their prey ?

Who are gone, but I weep then no longer as once. Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign

For happy are they now reposing afar,To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised,

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy SHERIDAN, all The cause of the curses all annals contain,

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, From Cæsar the dreaded, to GEORGE the despised !

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. Wear, Fiscal, thy trapping! O'Connel, proclaim Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! His accomplishments ! His.!! and thy country Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day, convince

Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame,

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their feuerless clay. And that “Hal is the rascaliest sweetest young Prince!”

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled, Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall

There was something so warm and sublime in the core The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?

of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns ? Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Ay! “ Build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite!

Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen!

Power, Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite- 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moors' And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !

Seot. 16th, 1821. Spread-spread, for VITELLIUS, the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot bc stuff’d to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last

THE DREAM. The Fourth of the fools and

oppressors callid “GEORGE !"

I. Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!

Our life is twofold: sleep hath its own world, Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!

A boundary between the things misnamed Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne,

Death and existence; sleep hath its own worid,

And wide realm of wild reality, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet


And dreams in their developement have breath, to flow,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of jov; But let not his name be thine idol alone

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, On his right hand bchold a SEJAnus appears ! They take a weight from off our waking toils, Thine own CASTLEREACH! let him still be thine own! They do divide our being; they become

A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers ! . A portion of ourselves as of our time,




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