C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
The Irish Avatàr
By Lord Byron (1788–1824)
E
And her ashes still float to their home o’er the tide,
Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his—bride.
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause
For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.
The castle still stands, and the senate’s no more;
And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth;
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
Like a goodly leviathan rolled from the waves!
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,
With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!
To perform in the pageant the sovereign’s part—
But long live the shamrock which shadows him o’er!
Could the green in his hat be transferred to his heart!
And a new spring of noble affections arise—
Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.
Were he God—as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow—
Such servile devotion might shame him away.
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride;
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o’er the freedom implored and denied.
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possessed.
Though unequaled, preceded, the task was begun;
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the one!
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny, listening, sate melted or mute,
And corruption shrunk scorched from the glance of his mind.
Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves,
When a week’s Saturnalia hath loosened her chain.
(As the bankrupt’s profusion his ruin would hide)
Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord!
Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed
With what monarchs ne’er give, but as wolves yield their prey?
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince
Half an age’s contempt was an error of fame,
And that “Hal is the rascalliest, sweetest young prince!”
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?
Or has it not bound thee the fastest of all
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?
Till like Babel the new royal dome hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and Helots their pittance unite—
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffed to the gorge!
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors called “George”!
Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal’s throne,
Like their blood which has flowed, and which yet has to flow.
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own!
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers!
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawled from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!
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.
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring:
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flushed,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a King!
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!
My vote, as a freeman’s, still voted thee free;
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for thee!
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.
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all
Who for years were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day,—
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves
Be stamped in the turf o’er their fetterless clay.
Though 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—thy dead.
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,
’Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!