Kemits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, | True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along, But Caina waits for him our life who ended: " These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since first I listen'd to these soul's offended, I bow'd my visage and so kept it till “What think'st thou ?" said the bard; { when} unbended, And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies Is to remind us of our happy days In misery, and that thy teacher knows. But if to learn our passion's first root preys Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, I will do even as he who weeps and says— We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue All o'er discolor'd by that reading were; overthrew { But one point only wholly us o'erthrew ; desired When we read the } 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 threescore, 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 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 browSuch servile devotion might shame him away. Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash long-sighed for smile of her, Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash { a fervent To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover, He who from me can be divided ne'er Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. Accursed was the book and he who wrote! That day no further leaf we did uncover.While thus one spirit told us of their lot, The other wept, so that with pity's thralls I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote, And fell down even as a dead body falls." March, 1820. 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 his-bride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, For the few little years, out of centuries won, her cause. • Is some of the editions it is, "diro," in others, "faro; "an essential difference between "saying " and "doing," which I know not how to deAnk Foscolo. The d-ditions drive me mad. On the Kung's it to Ireland, in 1841. 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, But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,- |This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses the all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised. fight, And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee! Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell proclaim Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, hymns? 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-dayNor 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 September, 1821. STANZAS TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM. BE it so we part for ever! Let the past as nothing be;Had I only loved thee, never Hadst thou been thus dear to me. Had I loved, and thus been slighted, Pride may cool what passion heated, Had I loved, I now might hate thee, And, in words, my vengeance wreak. Which can find no vent in speech, Like a clankless chain enthralling,- |