LETTER XV.

FROM AN IRISHMAN TO THE IRISH PEOPLE.

LETTER XV.

FROM AN IRISHMAN TO THE IRISH PEOPLE.

(Sent from London under cover to the Free man's Journal.)

O Cives! Cives!

My thougthless, reckless countrymen, attend

A moment to a brother and a friend,

Who fores the blossoms of his native stem, But hates the weeds that twine along with them.

The fever of your brains at length is

gone

The madd'ning hour-and you are now alone;

Your cities, harbours, fields, and valleys, lie
Once more in sleep, deep, sad, and silently.
When shall they wake again? Alas! the
throng

That reel'd in brightest pageantry along ;
The rapid wheels, with steeds trapp'd out in
gold,

That o'er your mould'ring streets a moment roll'd ;

The plumes, the coronets. the stars, whose

rays

Brought flashing back bright thoughts of
other days:

Rank, riches, splendour, and their busy train,
All pass'd away, and Ern sleeps again!
Gone like the light which bind men, dream-
ing, see.

Leaving more da k, more sad reality!

And have you, in that transient madd'ning

ray,

Hugg'd your destroyer-knelt to

The

!

of the North, whose baneful scent Has track'd your kindred o'er the wastes they went:

The hapless hunted victin.s fiercely tore. Grinn'd o'er his prey, and fatten'd on their gore!

Can you forget the lash, the fire, the steel?

Can hearts of feeling e'er forget to feel?

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