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Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-

Too late thou leavest the high command
To which thy weakness clung;

All evil spirit as thou art,

It is enough to grieve the heart,

To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean;

And earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own!

And monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne!
Fair freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Or deepen every stain.

If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;

Thy scales, mortality! are just

To all that pass away;
But yet, methought, the living great)
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay;

Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,
T is worth thy vanish'd diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen isle,
And gaze upon the sca;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,
That earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
Thon, Timour! in his captive's cage1
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
But one-« The world was mine:»
'The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.

Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth--
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,'
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!

Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very fiend's arch mock;2

He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!




WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, '
A holy concord and a bright regret,

A glorious sympathy with suns that set?

T is not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness-but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with wordly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame-and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes
When all of genius which can perish dies.
A mighty spirit is eclipsed--a power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd-no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of fame!
The flash of wit-the bright intelligence,
The beam of song--the blaze of eloquence,
Set with their sun-but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul,
Which all embraced-and lighten'd over all,
To cheer-to pierce-to please-or to appal.
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord;

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,

The praised-the proud-who made his praise their prad

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When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan '
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,
His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
The wrath-the delegated voice of God!
Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.
And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
Which knew not what it was to intermit;
The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
But should there be to whom the fatal blight
Of failing wisdom yields a base delight,
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone
Jar in the music which was born their own,
Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know
That what to them seem'd vice might be but woe.
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze

Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel-accuser-judge-and spy,
The foe the fool—the jealous—and the vain,
The envious who but breathe in others' pain,
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of glory to the grave,
Watch every fault that daring genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,
And pile the pyramid of calumny!
These are his portion-but if join'd to these
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,
If the high spirit must forget to soar,
And stoop to strive with misery at the door,«
To soothe indignity-and face to face
Meet sordid rage-and wrestle with disgrace,
To find in hope but the renew'd caress,
The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,-
If such may be the ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail?
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given
Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven,
Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and


But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be-if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanish'd beam--and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.

1 See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr Sheridan a speech on the charges exhibited against Mr Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer cousideration of the question than could then occur after the imme liate effect of that oration

Ye orators! whom yet our council yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!1
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind-as various in their change,
While eloquence-wit-poesy and mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on earth,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!


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 hisbride.

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her


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.

Fox, Pitt, Burke,

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 sate melted or mute,

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If she did let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from ERIN no reptile can spring,

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, his 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 CESAR the dreaded, to GEORGE the despised!

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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, thought outworn, had a throb still for

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sous,

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,-

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 thy 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

T is the glory of GRATTAN, and genius of Moon!
Sept. 16th, 1821.



OUR life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,

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And look like heralds of eternity:

They pass like spirits of the past,-they speak
Like sybils of the future; they have power-
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?-The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own

With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recal a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.


I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave

Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs;-the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing-the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young, yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in her's;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd her's, and saw with her's,
Which colour'd all his objects:-he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all : upon a tone,

A touch of her's, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share :
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more; 't was much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him;
Herself the solitary scion left

Of a time-honour'd race.-It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and why?
Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:
Within an antique oratory stood

The boy of whom I spake;-he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were
With a convulsion-then arose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,

The lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better:-in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,-her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty,-but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

What could her grief be!-she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand
Before an altar-with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The starlight of his boyhood;-
;-as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face

The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see

Not that which was, nor that which should have been-
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love;-oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight familiar were to her's.
And this the world calls phrensy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With hatred and contention; pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, '
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
Mithridates of Pontus.

And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret-Be it so.


My dream was past; it had no further change.

It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.


Oh Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?-any thing but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping strerts.
Oh! agony-that centuries should reap

No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum,
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along

The soft waves, once all musical to song,

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng
Of gondolas—and to the busy hum

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overbeating of the heart,
And flow of too much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations battling with the blood.

But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;

And hope is nothing but a false delay,

The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

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