"and the resort of fear. But you will "have the sentiment in the words of the original."

66

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

more;

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

birth.

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 bruteWith the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny, listening, sat melted or mute,

And Corruption sank scorch'd from the glance

of his mind.

Ay! back to our theme-back to despots and

slaves,

Feasts furnished by Famine rejoicings by

Pain.:

True Freedom but welcomes, while Slavery still

raves,

When a week's Saturnalia have 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, for blessings

denied!

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 appears— Thine own Castlereagh! Let him still be thine own!

A wretch never named but with curses and

jeers,

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 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, may 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 heart of a king!

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 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.