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 part-
But 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

Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

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 o'er the freedom implored and denied.

Ever-glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest,
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,
And his rival, or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun~~ 'But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One!

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;

Even Tyranny listening sat melted or mute,

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of bis mind.

But back to our theme! back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's Saturnalia hath 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 blessings denied!

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the Idol of Brass find his feet are of clay,

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd

With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,—

To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised

The cause of the curses all annals contain,

From Cæsar the dreaded, to George the despised!

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim

His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of Fame,

And that "Hal is the rascaliest sweetest young Prince !"

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

Ay! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite—
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison! ·

Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuft to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "

George!"

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!

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!

II.

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 her race--
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt,
If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

If she did let 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 breast 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 for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, 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 art not my land;
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
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, 'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore !

September 16, 1821.

EPIGRAM.

THE world is a bundle of hay,
Mankind are the asses who pull ;
Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

THE CHARITY BALL.

WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
And the saint patronizes her "charity ball!"

What matters- -a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,
Be driven to excesses which once could appal-
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing,
As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball!" *

STANZAS.

COULD Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain

No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,⠀
And, form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;

Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

*These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.-E.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing-

He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

Like Chiefs of Faction,

His life is action

A formal paction

That curbs his reign,

Obscures his glory,
Despot no more, he
Such territory

Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on-
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!

Till years are over,
And then recover

As from a dream;
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,"

All hideous seem-
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing
All passion blight:

If once diminish'd

Love's reign is finish'd—

Then part in friendship,-and bid good-night.