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" and the resort of fear. But you will have the sentiment in the words of the original.”
THE IRISH AVATARA.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are
gone, The rainbow-like epoch when Freedom could
pause, For the few little years out of centuries won,That betray'd not, and crush'd not, and wept
not her cause.
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his
rags, The Castle still stands, and the Senate 's no
And the famine that dwells on her freedomless
crags, Is extending its steps to her desolate shore:
To her desolate shore, where the emigrant stands For a moment to pause 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
Ay! roar in his train ; let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride : Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul on the freedom implored and denied !
Ever-glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart—so sublime in the rest, With all that Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his victor, or rival, in all he possess’d;
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny, listening, sat melted or mute, And Corruption sank scorch'd from the glance Ay! back to our theme back to despots and
of his mind.
slaves, Feasts furnished by Famine rejoicings by
Pain: True Freedom but welcomes, while Slavery still
When a week's Saturnalia have loosen'd her
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, for blessings
And if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,Must what terror or policy wrung forth be class'd With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey ?
But let not his name be thine idol alone!
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appearsThine own Castlereagh! Let him still be thine
A wretch never named but with curses and
Till now, when this Isle, that should blush for his
birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her
soil, Seems proud of the reptile that crawld from her
earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and
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, may her long-boasted proverb bé
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 heart of a king!
Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh, Erin ! how
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulph still !
My voice, though but humble, was raised in thy
right; My vote*, as a freeman's, still voted thee free; My arm, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight; And this heart, though outworn, had a throb
still for thee!
He spoke on the Catholic Question.