The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 100

14.

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--his blessings denied![iv]

15.

Or _if_ freedom past hope be extorted at last,[iw]

If the idol of bra.s.s find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be cla.s.sed With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?

16.

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 Caesar the dreaded to George the despised!

17.

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping![597] O'Connell, proclaim[ix]

His accomplishments! _His!!!_ and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest _young_ prince!"[iy]

18.

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 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?

19.

Aye! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite![598]

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen![iz]

Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-- And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!

20.

Spread--spread for Vitellius, the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the gorge!

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called "George!"

21.

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 Baccha.n.a.l's throne, Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.

22.

But let not _his_ name be thine idol alone-- On his right hand behold a Seja.n.u.s appears!

Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!

A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!

23.

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 crawled from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile.[599]

24.

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[ja]

If _she_ ever gave birth to a being so base.

25.

If she did--let her long-boasted proverb be hushed, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring-- See the cold-blooded Serpent, with venom full flushed, Still warming its folds in the breast of a King![jb]

26.

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 gulf still.

27.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right;[600]

My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free; This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,[jc]

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for _thee!_

28.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;[jd]

I have known n.o.ble 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.

29.

For happy are they now reposing afar,-- Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan,[601] all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, And redeemed, if they have not r.e.t.a.r.ded, thy fall.

30.

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[je]

Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

31.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their sh.o.r.e, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;[jf]

There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy--thy _dead_.[jg]

32.

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![jh][602]

Ra. _September_ 16, 1821.

[First published, _Conversations of Lord Byron_, 1824, pp. 331-338.]