He is dead!--he died of a broken heart,
Of a frighten'd soul, and a frenzied brain:
He died--of playing a desperate part
For folly; which others play'd for gain.
Yet o'er his turf the rebels rave!
Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave!
He is dead!--bewilder'd, betray'd, beguiled;
Swept on by faction's fiery blast.
In its blood-stain'd track, a fool, a child!
His doom is fix'd--his lot is cast.
Yet scowls by his bier earth's blackest knave.
Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave!
They dress'd the cold clay in mimic state,
And the peasants came crowding round;
And many a vow of revenge and hate
In that hour on their souls was bound--
Oh! ruthless creed, that never forgave!
Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave!
They bore him along by the village road,
And they yell'd at the village spire!
And they laid him at rest in his long abode,
In a storm of revenge and ire;
And round him their furious banners wave.
Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave!
Then o'er him the bigot chant was sung,
And was said the bigot prayer,
And wild hearts with many a thought were stung,
That left its venom there,
To madden in many a midnight cave.
Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave!
All is done; he is buried--the crowd depart,
He is laid in his kindred clay,
There, freed from the torture that ate his heart,
He rests, till the last great day.
O THOU! who alone canst defend and save,
Wake Ireland wise from this lowly grave.
[Greek: Aion.]
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