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Insult so much the claims, the rights of man,
As doth that fettered mob, that free divan,
Of noble tools and honourable knaves,
Of pensioned patriots and privileged slaves !
That party-coloured mass, which nought can warm
But quick corruption's heat-whose ready swarm
Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky,
Buzz for a period, lay their eggs, and die ;-
That greedy vampire which from Freedom's tomb
Comes forth, with all the mimicry of bloom
Upon its lifeless cheek, and sucks and drains
A people's blood to feed its putrid veins !

Heavens, what a picture ! yes, my friend, 'tis dark;
“But can no light be found, no genuine spark
Of former fire to warm us? Is there none,
To act a Marvell's part ?"*-I fear not one.
To place and power all public spirit tends,
In place and power all public spirit ends;
Like hardy plants, that love the air and sky,
When out, 'twill thrive—but taken in, 'twill die

Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung From Sidney's pen or burned on Fox's tongue Than upstart Whigs produce each market night, While yet their conscience, as their purse, is fight; While debts at home excite their care for those Which, dire to tell, their much-loved country owes, And loud and upright, till their prize be known, They thwart the King's supplies to raise their cwn. But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their humSo, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb. And though I feel as if indignant Heaven Must think that wretch too foul to be forgiven Who basely hangs the bright protecting shade Of Freedom's ensign o'er Corruption's trade, And makes the sacred flag he dares to show His passport to the market of her foe, Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear That I enjoy them, though by rascals sung, And reverence Scripture e'en from Satan's tongue. Nay, when the constitution has expired, I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired To sing old “Habeas Corpus” by its side, And ask, in purchased ditties, why it died?

* Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the Court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode. took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then. much changed their paymasters. See the State Poems for some rude bni spirited effusions of Andrew Marvell,

See that smooth lord, whom nature's plastic pains
Seem to have destined for those Eastern reigns
When eunuchs flourished, and when nerveless things
That men rejected were the chosen of Kings ;-
E'en he, forsooth, (oh, mockery accurst !)
Dared to assume the patriot's name at first.
Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes;
Thus devils, when first raised, take pleasing shapes.
But oh, poor Ireland ! if revenge be sweet
For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit
And withering insult-for the Union thrown
Into thy bitter cup, * when that alone
Of slavery's draught was wanting-if for this
Revenge be sweet, thou hast that demon's bliss •
For, oh! 'tis more than hell's revenge to see
That England trusts the men who've ruined thee ;-
That, in these awful days, when every hour
Creates some new or blasts some ancient power,
When proud Napoleon, like the burning shiela
Whose light compelled each wondering foe to yield,
With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free,
And dazzles Europe into slavery,
That, in this hour, when patriot zeal should guide,
When Mind should rule, and--Fox should not have died,
All that devoted England can oppose
To enemies made fiends, and friends made foes,
Is the rank refuse, the despised remains
Of that unpitying power whose whips and chains
Made Ireland first, in wild, adulterous trance,
Turn false to England's bed, and whore with France.
Those hacked and tainted tools, so foully fit
For the grand artizan of mischief, Pitt,
So useless ever, but in vile employ,
So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy!
Such are the men that guard thy threatened shore !
O England ! sinking England ! boast no more.


A SATIRE. “This clamour, which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion, has almost worn out the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth.”-Addison, Freeholder, No. 37.

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START not, my friend, nor think the muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees, and all those thundering scrolls
That took such freedom once with royal souls,
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,
No, no-let D-gen-n search the papal chair *
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there :
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale
Which wizard D-gen-n's gathered sweets exhale.
Enough for me, whose heart has learned to scorn
Bigots alike in Rome or England born,
Who loathe the venom, whencesoe'er it springs,
From popes or lawyers, pastry-cooks or kings, ---
Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,
As mirth provokes, or indignation burns,
As Canning vapours, or as France succeeds,
As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days, When bigot zeal her drunken antics plays So near a precipice that men the while Look breathless on and shudder while they smile If, in such fearful days, thou'lt dare to look To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain, While Gifford's tongue and M-sgr-ve's pen remainI thou hast yet no golden blinkers got To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot, Whose wrongs, though blazoned o'er the world they be, Placemen alone are privileged not to seeOh! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes of Ireland's slavery, and of Ireland's woes, Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes Shall but exist all future knaves to warn, Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn; When Castlereagh, in sleep still more profound Than his own opiate tongue now deals around, Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.

And oh! my friend, wert thou but near me now,
To see the spring diffuse o'er Erin's brow
Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair,

* The “Stella Stercorarin" of the popes. The Right Honourawie and earned Doctor will find an engraving of this chair in Spanheim's “ Disquisitio Historica de Papâ Fominâ” (p. 118); and I recommend it as a model for the fashion of that seat which the Doctor is about to take in the privy-council of Ireland.

E'en through the blood-marks left by Camden * there,
Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot,
And seems by all but watchful France forgot-
Thy heart would burn-yes, e'en thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms,
And filled with social souls and vigorous arms,
Should be the victim of that canting crew,
So smooth, so godly,--yet so devilish too;
Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips,
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,
Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,
Make this life hell, in honour of the next!
Your Redesdales, Percevals, -O gracious Heaven,
If I'm presumptuous be my tongue forgiven,
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest
I'd rather have been born ere man was blest
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes, rather plunge me back in Pagan night
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;
Which, binding policy in spiritual chains,
And tainting piety with temporal stains,
Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both;
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,
Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here!
But no-far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;
He weeps to see his soul's religion twine
The tyrant's sceptre with her wreath divine;
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise.
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.

* Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland:

To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome and well-complexioned, soft-skinned, and very nimble by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this island is in many respects so happy that Giraldus might very well say, 'Nature had regarded with more favourable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.'"

Such was the spirit, grandly, gently bright,
That filled, O Fox ! thy peaceful soul with light;
While blandly spreading like that orb of air
Which folds our planet in its circling care,
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind
Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.
Last of the great, farewell !-yet not the last-
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,
Ierne still one gleam of glory gives,
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

APPENDIX. The following is part of a Preface which was intended by a friend and countryman of mine for a collection of Irish airs, to which he has adapted English words. As it has never been published, and is not inapplicable to my subject, I shall take the liberty of subjoining it here.

Our history, for many centuries past, is creditable neither to our neighbours nor ourselves, and ought not to be read by any Irishman who wishes either to love England or to feel proud of Ireland.

The loss of independence very early debased our character ; and our feuds and rebellions, though frequent and ferocious, but seldom displayed that generous spirit of enterprise with which the pride of an independent monarchy so long dignified the struggles of Scotland. It is true this island has given birth to heroes who, under more favourable circumstances, might have left in the hearts of their countrymen recollections as dear as those of a Bruce or a Wallace; but success was wanting to consecrate resistance, their cause was branded with the disheartening name of treason, and their oppressed country was such a blank among nations that, like the adventures of those woods which Rinaldo wished to explore, the fame of their actions was lost in the obscurity of the place where they achieved them.

- Errando in quelli boschi Trovar potria strane avventure e molte, Ma come i luoghi i fatti ancor son foschi,

Che non se n'ha notizia le più volte. * Hence is it that the annals of Ireland, through a lapse of six hundred years, exhibit not one of those shining names, not one of those themes of national pride, from which poetry borrows her noblest inspiration; and that history, which ought to be the richest garden of the Muse, yields nothing to her but weeds and cypress. În truth, the poet who would embellish his songs with allusions to Irish names and events must be contented to seek them in those early periods when our character was yet unalloyed and original, before the impolitic craft of our conquerors had divided, weakened, and disgraced us; and the only traits of heroism, indeed, which

* Ariosto, canto iv.


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