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, may 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 heart 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 in thy right; My vote,* as a freeman's, still voted thee free; My arm, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight; And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee! * He spoke on the Catholic Question. Yes! I loved thee and thine, though thou wert not my land; I have known noble hearts and brave souls in thy sons, And I wept with the world on the patriot band For happy are they now reposing afar Thy Curran, thy Grattan, 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 at thy shouts of to-day; Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slavesBe stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay! Till now I had envied thy sons and thy shore! Though their virtues are blunted, their liberties fled, There is 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, though sore, Which, though trod like the worm, will not turn upon power, 'Tis the glory of Grattan- the genius of Moore ! "What a noble fellow," said Lord Byron, 66 after I had finished reading, was Lord Ed "ward Fitzgerald !—and what a romantic "and singular history was his! If it were 66 not too near our times, it would make the "finest subject in the world for an historical "novel." "What was there so singular in his life and adventures ?" I asked. "Lord Edward Fitzgerald," said he, " was “a soldier from a boy. He served in Ame"rica, and was left for dead in one of the "pitched battles, (I forget which,) and re "turned in the list of killed. Having been "found in the field after the removal of the "wounded, he was recovered by the kindness "and compassion of a native, and restored "to his family as one from the grave. On 66 coming back to England, he employed ❝ himself entirely in the duties of his corps "and the study of military tactics, and got a 66 regiment. The French Revolution now "broke out, and with it a flame of liberty "burnt in the breast of the young Irishman. "He paid this year a visit to Paris, where he "formed an intimacy with Tom Paine, and 66 came over with him to England. "There matters rested, till, dining one day "at his regimental mess, he ordered the band "to play Ca iru,' the great revolutionary S "air. A few days afterwards he received a "letter from head-quarters, to say that the 66 King dispensed with his services. "He now paid a second visit to America, "where he lived for two years among the "native Indians; and once again crossing "the Atlantic, settled on his family estate in "Ireland, where he fulfilled all the duties "of a country gentleman and magistrate. "Here it was that he became acquainted "with the O'Connors, and in conjunction "with them zealously exerted himself for the "emancipation of their country. On their 66 imprisonment he was proscribed, and se "creted himself for six weeks in what are "called the liberties of Dublin; but was at 66 'length betrayed by a woman. "Major Sirr and a party of the military "entered his bed-room, which he always kept unlocked. At the voices he started 66 66 up in bed and seized his pistols, when Ma"jor Sirr fired and wounded him. Taken to 66 prison, he soon after died of his wound, be |