The Irish Slave.

[1]


I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
    "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
    And askt, thro' the dungeon-window, "Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass;
    Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
    That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I lookt thro' the mist of night,
    And askt, "What foe of my race hath died?
"Is it he--that Doubter of law and right,
    "Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide--

"Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
    "Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
"What suitors for justice he'd keep in,
    "Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out--

"Who, a clog for ever on Truth's advance,
    "Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
"Round Sinbad's neck[2]), nor leaves a chance
    "Of shaking him off--is't he? is't he?"

Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
    And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
    Than their funeral howling, answered "No."

But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,
    And again I askt, "What scourge is gone?
"Is it he--that Chief, so coldly great,
    "Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon--

"Whose name is one of the ill-omened words
    "They link with hate on his native plains;
"And why?--they lent him hearts and swords,
    "And he in return gave scoffs and chains!

"Is it he? is it he?" I loud inquired,
    When, hark!--there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
    And slave as I was my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
    He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
    And he now was dead and--I couldn't rejoice!

He had fanned afresh the burning brands
    Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers' hands,
    And them did I curse--but sighed for him.

For, his was the error of head not heart;
    And--oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,
    And carries a smile with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends
    For the fatal fault of an erring head--
Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,
    In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
    To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
    And for Misery ever his purse and tear.

Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
    I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, "Heaven rest his soul!"
    My mates of the dungeon sighed "Amen!"

January, 1827.