« AnteriorContinuar »
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. And here, oh! here, where, yet all young and warm, The gay creations of his spirit charm, The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fulness by the fiat of his thought, Here in their first abode you still may meet, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 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, Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd vice might be but woe. Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel-accuser-judge-and spy, The foe-the fool-the jealous-and the vain, The envious who but breathe in others' painBehold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of glory to the grave, Watch every fault that daring genius owes Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, And pile the pyramid of calumny! These are his portion-but if join'd to these Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, If the high spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with misery at the door, To soothe indignity-and face to face Meet sordid rage-and wrestle with disgrace, To find in hope but the renew'd caress, The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,— If such may be the ills which men assail, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven, Black with the rude collision, inly torn,
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
But far from us and from our mimic scene
1 See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give ume for a exlmer consideration of the question than could hen occur after the immediate effect of that oration.
Ye orators! whom yet our council yield,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
THE IRISH AVATAR.
ERE the Daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! GEORGE the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherish'd Isle which he loved like hisbride.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine, which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze 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. But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes in the promise and bloom of three-score, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's partBut long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart! Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
1 Fox, Pitt, Burke,
Ever glorious GRATTAN! the best of the good!
Erc TULLY arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford
Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay,
Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,—
From CESAR the dreaded, to GEORGE the despised!
Wear, FINGAL, thy trapping! O'CONNEL, proclaim His accomplishments! His.!! and thy country
Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame,
And that "Hal is the rascaliest sweetest young
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor FINGAL, recall
Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne, Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has to flow.
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 the Isle which should blush for his birth, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, Seems proud of the reptile which 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 ner raceThe miscreant who wed mignt punge ERIN in doubt If she ever gave orta o a being so base.
If she did-let her .ong-Doasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from ERIN no reptile can spring
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom fall flush'd,
My voice, though bu umble, was raised for thy right,
Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my
I have known noble hearts and great souls in th And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. For happy are they now reposing afar,
Thy GRATTAN, thy CURRAN, thy SHERIDAN, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the 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 to thy shouts of to-day,Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled, There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy—thy dead.
Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon Power,
'Tis the glory of GRATTAN, and genius of MOORE' Seot. 16th, 1821.
OUR life is twofold: sleep hath its own world,
And dreams in their developement have breath,