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 lov'd like his--bride.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,--
The rainbow-like epoch, where freedom would pause
For the few little years out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause.
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 his 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;
And long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er,--
Could the green on his _hat_ be transferred to his _heart_.
Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise,
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And the 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.
Age 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 improved and denied.
Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest,
With all that Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival, or victor, in all he possess'd.
When TULLY arose, in the zenith of Rome,
Tho' unequalled 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, sat melted, or mute,
And Corruption shrunk, scorch'd, from the glance of his mind.
But back to my theme; back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnished by Famine, rejoicings by Pain;
True Freedom but welcomes, while Slavery still raves,
When a week's Saternalia has loosened 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 blessing for 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 Caesar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell proclaim
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!_"
Will thy yard of blue ribbon, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?
Or will it not bind thee the fastest of all
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?
Aye, build him a dwelling; let each give his mite,
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome has 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 is stuff'd to the gorge,
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The FOURTH of the fools and oppressors,--called 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 Bachanal's throne,
Like the 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 nam'd but with curses and jeers!
Till now, when the isle, which should blush at his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd 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 spring;
See, the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd,
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 to a deeper gulph still.
My voice, though but humble, was rais'd for thy right;
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free;
This hand, tho' but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, tho' outworn, had a throb still for thee!
Yes, I love thee and thine, tho' thou art not my land;
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,
Thy GRATTAN, thy CURRAN, thy SHERIDAN,--all
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;
Tho' 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 their dead!
Or if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so _servile_, tho' sore,
Which, tho' trod like the worm, will not turn upon power,
'Tis the GLORY OF GRATTAN, the GENIUS OF MOORE!
[31:A] _Avater_ is the Hindoo expression for a divinity
assuming the human form, and residing on earth.
Speedily after the queen's death, Lord Sidmouth retired from office, and
was succeeded by Mr. Robert Peel. Several other changes also took place
in the ministry.
There was only _one_ occurrence that could have been more gratifying to
the people of England than the secession of Lord Sidmouth from office,
and that was--his being rendered amenable to the laws for his share in
the frequent outrages of the constitution, and his almost numberless
violations of the liberties of the subject. We had hoped that he would
have remained in office until he had received his FULL REWARD, in the
return of the days of ministerial responsibility, in spite of bills of
indemnity and venal majorities. But, for the honour of justice, we hope
yet to see the day when he shall be subject to an honest tribunal for
his political misdeeds. His name will ever awaken the liveliest
indignation in the bosoms of Englishmen; not, indeed, that his _talents_
made him formidable against the liberties of his country, but because he
so readily lent himself to the dangerous views of his _superiors_.
Personally, he was of no importance. The son of a provincial
medicine-vender, he had neither rank nor birth to command respect. The
tool of Mr. Pitt in early life, Mr. Addington had cunning enough to
stipulate for a peerage just at the time he was found unfit for a
minister. The failure of his attempt to abridge the liberties of the
dissenters covered him with disgrace. Such a design should have been
entrusted to abler hands; but it was not his lordship's fault that the
dissenters escaped religious persecution. His next exploit, however,
proved more successful; he declared eternal hatred of reform and
reformers in 1816. The seizure, the imprisonments, the tortures, and the
outrages, occasioned by the employment of his _moral friend_ Oliver
have, in the language of Pope, occasioned him to be
"Damned to everlasting fame!"
The liberation of his victims, after long confinements, ruined in
circumstances, wounded in mind, and some of them destined to premature
death, through their unwholesome confinement, complete the picture of
this nobleman's LEGISLATION! To prevent an investigation into such cruel
acts, a bill of indemnity screened his lordship, his agents, and
minions, from the tribunals of that day; but if _earthly_ justice should
never be vindicated, there is a tribunal before which he must one day
meet his victims! The part which Lord Sidmouth had in the _reward of the
Manchester massacre_ is well known, and will not be likely to add to the
quiet of his repose. This lamentable portion of his history involves the
double charge of misadvising his prince, and patronising a violation of
the laws, in the most wanton and cruel manner! No man, indeed, has been
more instrumental in the ruin of his country, and he may probably live
to reap some of the bitter fruits himself!
During this year, the _affable_ king made his pompous entrance into
Hanover, where he threw gold and silver amongst the crowd, with as much
confidence as if it had been his own!! If he had allowed some of this
said "gold and silver" to have remained in the pockets of its real
owners, it would have redounded much more to his credit.
In one single week this year, eleven persons were hung for forging Bank
of England notes. Such a sanguinary penal code of laws as our's would
really disgrace a nation of savages! Even our common laws, which ought
to be intelligible to the meanest understanding, are an unfathomable
abyss, and frequently exceed the utmost penetration of even the
"gentlemen of the long robe." Indeed, our laws appear designed to
perplex rather than to elucidate, to breed contentions rather than to
prevent them. The principal MERIT of the English jurisprudence seems to
consist in its _intricacy_, and the learned professors of it may almost
be said _to live upon the vitals of their clients_. It not unfrequently
happens that, for trivial omissions upon some useless observance of
forms, the victim is incarcerated in a prison, and, after enduring all
the horrors of these dens of thieves, expires in want, disease, and
apparent infamy!