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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

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 crawld 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!

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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

once !

For happy are they now reposing afar

Thy Curran, thy Grattan, thy Sheridan,—all, Who for years were the chiefs in this eloquent

war,

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded thy

fall !

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

clay!

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

dead !

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 !

vor

“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.

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