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But let not his name be thine idol alone!
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appearsThine own Castlereagh! Let him still be thine
own ! A wretch never named but with curses and
Till now, when this Isle, that should blush for his
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 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!
Yes! I loved thee and thine, though thou wert not
my land ; I have known noble hearts and brave souls in
thy sons, And I wept with delight on the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as
For happy are they now reposing afar
Thy Curran, thy Grattan, thy Sheridan,—all, Who for years were the chiefs in this eloquent
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded thy
Yes ! happy are they in their cold English graves ! Their shades cannot start at thy shouts of to
day; Nor the steps of enslavers and slave-kissing slaves Be damp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless
Till now I had envied thy sons and thy shore! Though their virtues are blunted, their liberties
fled, There is something so warm and sublime in the
core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy—their
Or if aught in my bosom can quench for an
hour My contempt of a nation so servile, though
sore, Which, though trod like the worm, will not turn
upon power, 'Tis the glory of Grattan--the genius of Moore !
“What a noble fellow,” said Lord Byron, after I had finished reading, “ was “ Lord Edward Fitzgerald !-and what a “ romantic and singular history was his ! “ If it were not too near our times, it
“ would make the finest subject in the “ world for an historical novel.”
“ What was there so singular in his life and adventures ?" I asked.
" Lord Edward Fitzgerald,” said he, "was a soldier from a boy. He served in “ America, and was left for dead in one “ of the pitched battles, (I forget which,) “ and returned in the list of killed. Hav“ing been found in the field after the re“moval of the wounded, he was recovered “ by the kindness and compassion of a “native, and restored to his family as one “ from the grave. On coming back to “ England, he employed himself entirely “ in the duties of his corps and the study “ of military tactics, and got a regiment.