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Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or like the thief of fire from heaven,' Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven,

His vulture and his rock? Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst, fiend's arch mock; 2



He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!





WHEN the last sun-shine of expiring day
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes,
While Nature makes that melancholy pause
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord and a bright regret,

A glorious sympathy with suns that set?

"T is not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,
Felt without bitterness, but full and clear,
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame, and secret without pain.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils
When summer's day declines along the hills,
So feels the fulness of our heart aud eyes
When all of genius which can perish dies.
A mighty spirit is eclipsed-a power
Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd—no name,
Focus at once of all the rays of fame!
The flash of wit-the bright intelligence,
The beam of song-the blaze of eloquence,
Set with their sun-but still have left behind
The enduring produce of immortal Mind;
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,
A deathless part of him who died too soon,
But small that portion of the wondrous whole,
These sparkling segments of that circling soul.
Which all embraced-and lighten'd over all,
To cheer-to pierce-to please-or to appal.
From the charm'd council to the festive board,
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ;
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,
The praised--the proud-who made his praise their pride.


2 The fiend's arch mock-
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste.


When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. And here, oh! here, where, yet all young and warm, The gay creations of his spirit charm, The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit, Which knew not what it was to intermit; The glowing portraits, fresh from life that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought To fulness by the fiat of his thought, Here in their first abode you still may meet, Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; A halo of the light of other days, Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing wisdom yields a base delight, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause-Ah! little do they know That what to them seem'd vice might be but woc. Hard is his fate of whom the public gaze Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel-accuser-judge—and spy, The foe the fool-the jealous-and the vain, The envious who but breathe in others' pain, Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of glory to the grave, Watch every fault that daring genius owes Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, And pile the pyramid of calumny! These are his portion-but if join'd to these Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, If the high spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with misery at the door, To soothe indignity-and face to face Meet sordid rage-and wrestle with disgrace, To find in hope but the renew'd caress, The serpent-fold of further faithlessness,If such may be the ills which men assail, What marvel if at last the mightiest fail? Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven, Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorch-and burst.

But far from us and from our mimic scene
Such things should be--if such have ever been;
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,
To give the tribute Glory need not ask,
To mourn the vanish'd beam- and add our mite
Of praise in payment of a long delight.

* See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr Sheridan's speech on the charges exhibited against Mr Hastings in the House of Commons. Mr Pitt entreated the House to adjourn, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question than could then occur after the immediate effect of that oration.

Ye orators! whom yet our councils yield,
Mourn for the veteran hero of your field!
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! ►
Whose words were sparks of immortality!
Ye bards! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,
He was your master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!

He was your brother-bear his ashes hence!
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,
Complete in kind—as various in their change,
While eloquence-wit-poesy-and mirth,
That humbler harmonist of care on earth,
Survive within our souls-while lives our sense
Of pride in merit's proud pre-eminence,
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain,
And turn to all of him which may remain,
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan!


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 loved like his-

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray d not, or crush'd not, or wept not her


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 the 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-
But long live the Shamrock which shadows him o'er!
Could the Green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this 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 browSuch servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, 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 implored and denied.
Fox, Pitt, Burke.

Ever-glorious GRATTAN! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.

Ere TULLY arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begunBut GRATTAN Sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the One!

But back to our theme! back to despots and slaves!
Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week's Saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd,

If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd,
Which proclaims that from ERIN no reptile can

his mind.

Still warming its folds in the breast of a King!

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

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!

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.

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 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!
Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my

•west' in Medwin

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,

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 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.

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

T is the glory of GRATTAN, and genius of MOORE!
Sept. 16th, 1821.


Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence : sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their developement have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,

And look like heralds of eternity:

They pass like spirits of the past, they speak
Like sybils of the future; they have power-
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not-what they will,
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind?-The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recal a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.


I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs;-the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing-the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young, yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood:
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his sight,
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
Which colour'd all his objects;-he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share :
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more; 't was much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Пler infant friendship had bestow'd on him;
Herself the solitary scion left

Of a time-honour'd race.-It was a name
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and why?
Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,

And on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
There was an ancient mansion, and before
Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:
Within an antique oratory stood

The boy of whom I spake ;-he was alone,
And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced
Words which I could not guess of: then he lean'd
His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were
With a convulsion-then arose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear
What he had written, but he shed no tears.
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,
The lady of his love re-enter'd there;

She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved,-she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came;

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles: he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way,
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds
Of fiery climes he made himself a home,
And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt
With strange and dusky aspects; he was not
Himself like what he had been; on the sea
And on the shore he was a wanderer;
There was a mass of many images
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
A part of all; and in the last he lay
Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness,
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds
Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while,
While many of his tribe slumber'd around:
And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better: in her home,
A thousand leagues from his,-her native home,
She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,
Daughters and sons of beauty,-but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

What could her grief be?-she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?-she had loved him not,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.


A change came o'er the spirit of dream.
The wanderer was return'd.-I saw him stand
Before an altar-with a gentle bride;
Her face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood; -as he stood
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel'd around him; he could see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been-
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny came back,
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love;-oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms, impalpable and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!


A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass'd round
With hatred and contention; pain was mix'd
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,'
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars

Mithridates of Pontus.

And the quick spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret-Be it so.


My dream was past; it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality-the one

To end in madness-both in misery.


On Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?—any thing but weep:
And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and crab-like through their sapping streets.
Oh! agony-that centuries should reap

No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum,
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moon-light with the throng
Of gondolas-and to the busy huin

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overbeating of the heart,
And flow of too much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,
And mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And hope is nothing but a false delay,

The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When faintness, the last mortal birth of pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning

Of the cold staggering race which death is winning,
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;-
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirits soaring-albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek;
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,

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