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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,

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 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

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 bide)
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!

Wear, FINGAL, thy trapping! O'CONNELL, proclaim
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country con-


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, recal
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!

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

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,

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 sous 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 upou

Tis the glory of GRATTAN, and genius of MoORE!
Sept. 16th, 1821.

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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
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
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 hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
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 hers, 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.

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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-enter'd 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 star-light 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 hers.

And this the world calls frenzy, 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.


On Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
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 streves
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 moon-light 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

Of the cold staggering race which death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;—
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek;
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,

And so the film comes o'er him--and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy
At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,-and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.


There is no hope for nations! Search the page
Of many thousand years-the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought or little still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 't is our nature strikes us down the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as high an order-they must go

Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
What? do no yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that time
Bequeaths of free, and history of sublime,
Spring from a different theme!-Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits, who despite of all,
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from freedom's fountains-when the crowd,
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain
Heavy and sore,-in which long yoked they plough'd
The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain,
'T was not for them, their necks were too much bow'd,
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:-
Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause
Those momentary starts from nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With all her seasons to repair the blight
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!


Glory and empire! once upon these towers
With freedom-god-like triad! how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours
When Venice was an envy, might abate,
But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,
Although they humbled-with the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes
She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes

Were of the softer order-born of love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread;
For these restored the cross, that from above
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, earth may thank
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of freedom to her glorious struggles;
Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And call'd the « kingdom» of a conquering foe,-
But knows what all-and, most of all, we know—
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!


The name of commonwealth is past and gone
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time,
For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion,
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand
Full of the magic of exploded science-
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance,
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic!-She has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering: better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by,
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive cye!

And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.
September 14th, 1809.





PASEABASE el Rey moro

Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde la puerta de Elvira
Hasta la de Bivarambla.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Cartas le fueron venidas
Que Allama era ganada.
Las cartas echó en el fuego,
Y al meusagero matara.
Ay de mí, Alliama!

Descavalga de una mula,
Y en un caballo cavalga.
Por el Zacatin arriba

Subido se habia al Alhambra.
Ay de mí, Alhama!

Como en el Alhambra esiuvo,
Al mismo punto mandaba
Que se toquen las trompetas
Con añafiles de plata.
Ay de mí, Alhama!


Y que atambores de
Apriesa toquen alarma;
Por que lo oigan sus Moros,
Los de la Vega y Granada.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Los Moros que el son oyeron,
Que al sangriento Marte Hama,
Uno á uno, y dos á dos,
Un gran escuadron formaban.
Ay de mi, Alhama'

Alli habló un Moro viejo;
De esta manera hablaba :-
«¿Para qué nos llamas, Rey?
¿Para qué es esta llamada ?»
Ay de mi, Alhama!

«Habeis de saber, amigos,
Una nueva desdichada:
Que cristianos, con braveza,
Ya nos han tomado Alhama,»
Ay de mí, Allama

Alli habló un viejo Alfaqui,
De barba crecida y cana :→
Bien se te emplea, buen Rey;
Buen Rey, bien se te empleabr.
Ay de mi, Alhama!

Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que eran la flor de Granada;
Cogiste los tornadizos

De Córdova la nombrada.

Ay de mí, Alhama!

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And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,

That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain.
Woe is me, Alhama!

Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
One by one, and two by two,

To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the king before,
« Wherefore call on us, oh king?
What may mean this gathering?»
Woe is me, Alhama!

«Friends! ye have, alas! to know
Of a most disastrous blow,

That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold.»
Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then spake old Alfaqui,

With his beard so white to see,

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