same time, under the circumstances in which they were published, I have considered it better to give them here. THE IRISH AVATARA. TROE, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,— For the few little years out of centuries won,—— That betray'd not, and crush'd not, and wept not her cause. True, the chains of the catholic clank o'er his rags, To her desolate shore, where the emigrant stands Ay! roar in his train; let thine orators lash Ever-glorious Grattan! the best of the good! With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute, And corruption sank scorch'd from the glare of his mind. Ay! ! 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 have 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 blessing, for blessings denied! And if freedom past hope be extorted at last, – Must what terror or policy wrung forth be class'd With what monarchs ne'er give but as wolves yield their prey? But let not his name be thine idol alone! On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears— Thine own C. . . . ! 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, 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 My voice, though but humble, was raised in thy right; My arm, 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 wert not my land; I have known noble hearts and brave souls in thy sons: And I wept with delight on thy 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! Till now I had envied thy sons and thy shore! Though their virtues are blasted, their liberties fled, There is something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy—their dead! See his Speech on the Catholic Question, in vol. vii. of this edition. 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,—the genius of Moore! The attachment which the noble bard, when in Italy, formed with the Countess Guiccioli' gave rise to several effusions of his muse. His description of the Georgioni in the Manfrini palace at Venice is meant for that lady. The beautiful sonnet prefixed to the Prophecy of Dante was addressed to her; and the following stanzas, written when he was about to quit Venice to join her at Ravenna, will describe the state of his feelings at that pe riod: River,' that rollest by the ancient walls Where dwells the lady of my love, when she What if thy deep and ample stream should be What do I say a mirror of my heart? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? And such as thou art were my passions long. See Medwin's « Conversations of Lord Byron," to be had at the publishers of this edition. 2 The Po. Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever; Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk away— But left long wrecks behind them, and again, Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, The current I behold will sweep beneath eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. She will look on thee; I have look'd on thee, Full of that thought; and from that moment ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name or see, Without the inseparable sigh for her. Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repass me in its flow! The wave that bears my tears returns no more: But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, But the distraction of a various lot, As various as the climates of our birth. |