XVI.

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 Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised.

XVII.

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!

XVIII.

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?

XIX.

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!

XX.

Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!'

XXI.

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.

XXII.

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.

XXIII.

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'd from her earth, And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!

XXIV.

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 boing so base.

XXV.

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!

XXVI.

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! On! 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.

XXVII.

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!

XXVIII.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though 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.

XXIX.

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.

XXX.

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.

XXXI.

Till now I had envied thy sons 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.

XXXII.

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
"T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore.

September 16, 1821.

STANZAS.

TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAND THEM.

Be it so! we part for ever!

Let the past as nothing be;

Had I only loved thee, never

Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

Had I loved and thus been slighted,
That I better could have borne;
Love is quelled, when unrequited,
By the rising pulse of scorn.

-

Pride may cool what passion heated,
Time will tame the wayward will;
But the heart in friendship cheated
Throbs with woe's most maddening thrill.

Had I loved, I now might hate thee,
In that hatred solace seek,

Might exult to execrate thee,

And, in words, my vengeance wreak.

But there is a silent sorrow,

Which can find no vent in speech,
Which disdains relief to borrow

From the heights that song can reach.

Like a clankless chain enthralling, -
Like the sleepless dreams that mock,

Like the frigid ice-drops falling

From the surf-surrounded rock.

Such the cold and sickening feeling
Thou hast caused this heart to know,
Stabbed the deeper by eoncealing
From the world its bitter woe.

Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee
All that fancy's self could paint,
Once it honoured and esteemed thee,
As its idol and its saint!

More than woman thou wast to me;
Not as man I looked on thee;
Why like woman then undo me!

Why "heap man's worst curse on me."

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming
Friendship's smile, and woman's art,
And, in borrow'd beauty blooming,
Trifling with a trusted heart!

By that lip, its smile bestowing,

Which could soften sorrow's gush;

By that cheek, once brightly glowing
With pure friendship's well-feigned blush;

By all those false charms united, -
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will,
And, without compunction, blighted
What "thou wouldst not kindly kill."

Yet I curse thee not in sadness,
Still, I feel how dear thou wert;
Oh! I could not-e'en in madness-
Doom thee to thy just desert!

Live! and when my life is over,

Should thine own be lengthen'd long,

Thou may'st then, too late, discover

By thy feelings, all my wrong.

But 't is useless to upbraid thee
With thy past or present state;
What thou wast, my fancy made thee,
What thou art, I know too late.

The following Poems, from Manuscripts collected after the death of Lord Byron, were first published in London in 1833.

TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.

THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,

Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,

Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
"T will bind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again 't will ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip

Is not so dear to me as this;

That I but for a moment sip,

And banquet on a transient bliss:

This will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.