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.