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!