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E'en through the blood-marks left by Camden * there,
Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot,
And seems by all but watchful France forgot-
Thy heart would burn-yes, e'en thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms,
And filled with social souls and vigorous arms,
Should be the victim of that canting crew,
So smooth, so godly, -yet so devilish too;
Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips,
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,
Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,
Make this life hell, in honour of the next!
Your Redesdales, Percevals,- gracious Heaven,
If I'm presumptuous be my tongue forgiver.,
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest
I'd rather have been born ere man was blest
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes,-rather plunge me back in Pagan night
And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;
Which, binding policy in spiritual chains,
And tainting piety with temporal stains,
Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both;
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,
Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here!
But no-far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;
His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;
He weeps to see his soul's religion twine
The tyrant's sceptre with her wreath divine :
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise.
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.

* Not the Camden who speaks thus of Ireland :

"To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome and well-complexioned, soft-skinned, and very nimble by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this island is in many respects so happy that Giraldus might very well say, “Nature had regarded with more favourable eyes than ordinauy this Kingdom-of Zephyr.""

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Such was the spirit, grandly, gently bright,
That filled, O Fox! thy peaceful soul with light;
While blandly spreading like that orb of air
Which folds our planet in its circling care,
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind
Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.
Last of the great, farewell !-yet not the last-
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,
lerne still one gleam of glory gives,
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.

APPENDIX. The following is part of a Preface which was intended by a friend and countryman of mine for a collection of Irish airs, to which he has adapted English words. As it has never been published, and is not inapplicable to my subject, I shall take the liberty of subjoining it here.

Our history, for many centuries past, is creditable neither to our neighbours nor ourselves, and ought not to be read by any Irishman who wishes either to love England or to feel proud of Ireland. The loss of independence very early debased our character; and our feuds and rebellions, though frequent and ferocious, but seldom displayed that generous spirit of enterprise with which the pride of an independent monarchy so long dignified the struggles of Scotland. It is true this island has given birth to heroes who, under more favourable circumstances, might have left in the hearts of their countrymen recollections as dear as those of a Bruce or a Wallace; but success was wanting to consecrate resistance, their cause was branded with the disheartening name of treason, and their oppressed country was such a blank among nations that, like the adventures of those woods which Rinaldo wished to explore, the fame of their actions was lost in the obscurity of the place where they achieved them.

-Errando in quelli boschi
Trovar potria strane avventure e molte,
Ma come i luoghi i fatti ancor son foschi,

Che non se n'ha notizia le più volte.*
Hence is it that the annals of Ireland, through a lapse of six
hundred years, exhibit not one of those shining names, not one of
those themes of national pride, from which poetry borrows her
noblest inspiration ; and that history, which ought to be the richest
garden of the Muse, yields nothing to her but weeds and cypress.
In truth, the poet who would embellish his songs with allusions to
Irish names and events must be contented to seek them in those
early periods when our character was yet unalloyed and original,
before the impolitic craft of our conquerors had divided, weakened,
and disgraced us; and the only traits of heroism, indeed, which

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he can venture at this day to commemorate, with safety to himseh, or perhaps with honour to his country, are to be looked for in those times when the native monarchs of Ireland displayed and fostered virtues worthy of a better age ; when our Malachies wore collars of gold which they had won in single combat from the invader, * and our Briens deserved the blessings of a people by all the most estimable qualities of a king. It may be said, indeed, that the magic of tradition has shed a charm over this remote period to which it is in reality but little entitled, and that most of the pictures, which we dwell on so fondly, of days when this island was distinguished amidst the gloom of Europe, by the sanctity of her morals, the spirit of her knighthood, and the polish of her schools, are little more than the inventions of national partiality,--that bright but spurious offspring which vanity engenders upon ignor. ance, and with which the first records of every people abound. But the sceptic is scarcely to be envied who would pause for stronger proofs than we already possess of the early glories of Ireland ; and were even the veracity of all these proofs surrendered, yet who would not fly to such flattering fictions from the sad degrading truths which the history of later times presents to us?

The language of sorrow, however, is, in general, best suited to our Music, and with themes of this nature the poet may be amply supplied. There is not a page of our annals which cannot afford him a subject, and while the national Muse of other countries adorns her temple with trophies of the past, in Ireland her altar, like the shrine of Pity at Athens, is to be known only by the tears that are shed upon it; “lacrymis altaria sudant." +

There is a well-known story, related of the Antiochians under the reign of Theodosius, which is not only honourable to the powers of music in general, but which applies so peculiarly to the mournful melodies of Ireland that I cannot resist the temptation of introducing it here.— The piety of Theodosius would have been admirable if it had not been stained with intolerance; but his reign, I believe, affords the first example of a disqualifying penal cude enacted by Christians against Christians.I Whether his interfer. ance with the religion of the Antiochians had any share in the alienation of their loyalty is not expressly ascertained by historians; but severe edicts, heavy taxation, and the rapacity and insolence of the men whom he sent to govern them, sufficiently account for the discontents of a warm and susceptible people. Repentance soon followed the crimes into which their impatience had hurried them ; but the vengeance of the Emperor was implacable, and punishments of the most dreadful nature hung over the city of

See Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix.

Statius, Thebaid. lib. xii. I "A sort of civil excommunication," says Gibbon, "which separated them from their fellow-citizens by a pecudida brand of infamy; and this declaration of the supreme magistrate tended justify, or at least to excuse, the insults of a fanatic populace. The sectaries were gradually disqualified for the possession of honourable or lucrative employments, and Theodosius was satisfied with his own justice when he decreed that, as the Eunomians distinguished the nature of the Son from that of the Father, they should be incapable of making their wills, or of receiving any advantage from Lestamentary donations."

Antioch, whose devoted inhabitants, totally resigned to despondence, wandered through the streets and public assemblies, giving utterance to their grief in dirges of the most touching lamentation. At length, Flavianus, their bishop, whom they had sent to intercede with Theodosius, finding all his entreaties coldly rejected, adopted the expedient of teaching these songs of sorrow which he had heard from the lips of his unfortunate countrymen to the minstrels who performed for the Emperor at table. The heart of Theodosius could not resist this appeal ; tears fell fast into his cup while he listened, and the Antiochians were forgiven.-Surely, if music ever spoke the misfortunes of a people, or could ever conciliate forgiveness for their errors, the music of Ircland ought to possess those powers

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Why, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool !
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
“He was, indeed, a tender soul-
No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart !”
Yes, soul of Nature ! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-winged dove.
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hailed me Passion's warmest child !
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my memory, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will scorn the critic's chide.
And I will scorn the fume of pride,
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool !


WHEN, casting many a look behind,

I leave the friends I cherish here

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