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And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His inward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps, in fair fragments, the full-orb'd harvest moon.


Not always should the tear's ambrosial dew
Roll it's soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!
Not always heav'n breath'd tones of suppliance meek,
Beseem thee, Mercy. Yon dark scowler view,
Who with proud words of dear-lov'd freedom came
More blasting than the mildew from the South,
And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth-
(Ah! foul apostate from his father's fame!)
Then fix'd her on the cross of deep distress,
And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance
Pierce her big side! But, oh! if some strange trance
The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd sister press,
Seize, Mercy, tho' more terrible the brand,
And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand.


O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there;
As tho'a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd.
Ah me! they viewed beneath an hireling's sword
Fall'n Koskiusko! Thro' the burden'd air,
(As pauses the tir'd Copac's barb'rous yell
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale

Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
The dirge of murder'd Hope-while Freedom pale,
Bends in such anguish o'er her distin'd bier,
As if from eldest time some spirit meek
Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear,
That ever furrow'd a sad patriot's cheek:
And she had drain'd the sorrows of the bowl,
Ev'n till she reel'd, intoxicate of soul.


As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise :
She spake! not sadder moans the Autumnal gale.
“ Great son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,
Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice,
Blasting with wizard spell my laurelld fame.
Yet never, Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl !
The stormy pity and the cherished lure
Of pomp and proud precipitance of soul,
Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure !
That error's mist had left thy purged eye:
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy."


It was some spirit, Sheridan, that breath'd
O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power;
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymmettian flowrets wreath’d;

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier
Sad music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade ;
Sweet as at dawn the love-lorn serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's list’ning ear.
Now patriot rage and indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance
Meanings of scorn and wit's quaint revelry.
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
Th' apostate by the brainless rout ador'd,
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Mitchael's sword.


Tho' rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude,
Have driven our Priestly o’er the ocean swell ;
Tho' Superstition and her wolfish brood
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ;
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ;
For lo ! Religion, at his strong behest,
Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
And Alings to earth her tinsel-glitt'ring vest,
Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholy;
And Justice wakes to bid the oppressor wail,
Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;
And from her dark retreat by wisdom won,
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron veil
To smile with fondess on her gazing son!


Not Stanhope ! with a patriot's doubtful name
I mark thy worth—friend of the human race!

Since scorning faction's low and partial aim
Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,
Thy self redeeming from that leprous stain,
Nobility; and, aye, unterrified
Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train
That sit complotting with rebellious pride,
'Gainst her, * who from the Almighty's bosom leap'd
With whirlwind arm, fierce minister of love !
Wherefore, ere virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept,
Angels shall lead thee to the throne above :
And thou from forth its clouds shall hear the voice,
“ Champion of Freedom and her god ! rejoice !"


When British Freedom, for a happier land,
Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight
Sublime of hope! For dreadless thou didst stand
(Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)
A hireless priest before th' insulted shrine,
And at her altar pour the stream divine
Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
With blessings heaven-ward breath'd. And when the

doom Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb Thy light shall shine; as sunk beneath the west, Tho' the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze Still burns wide heaven with his distended blaze.

* Gallic Liberty.

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To meet, to know, to love-and then to part,
Is the sad tale of many a human heart.

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