And there he happily learned a lore far better than books,
  A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land,
That Liberty’s self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks,
  If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand.

The steps of honour were barred:  it was not for him to climb,
  No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life,
And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time
  To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife.

But the glorious youth returning
  Back from France the fair and free,
Rage within his bosom burning,
  Such a servile sight to see,
  Vowed to heaven it should not be. 
“No!” the youthful champion cried,
“Mother Ireland, widowed bride,
If thy freedom can be won
By the service of a son,
  Then, behold that son in me. 
I will give thee every hour,
Every day shall be thy dower,
In the splendour of the light,
In the watches of the night,
In the shine and in the shower,
I shall work but for thy right.”

1782-1800.

A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory,
  Had passed away, and all was dark once more,
One golden page had lit the mournful story,
  Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore.

One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching,
  Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove,
When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan’s teaching,
  As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove.

Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken,
  How all the land with quickening fire was lit! 
What golden words of deathless speech were spoken,
  What lightning flashes of immortal wit!

Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming,
  Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails,
And with “Free Trade” upon their standard gleaming,
  Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales.

Across the stream the graceful arch extended,
  Above the pile the rounded dome arose,
The soaring spire to heaven’s high vault ascended,
  The loom hummed loud as bees at evening’s close.

And yet ’mid all this hope and animation,
  The people still lay bound in bigot chains,
Freedom that gave some slight alleviation,
  Could dare no panacea for their pains.

Yet faithful to their country’s quick uprising,
  Like some fair island from volcanic waves,
They shared the triumph though their claims despising,
  And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves.

But soon had come the final compensation,
  Soon would the land one brotherhood have known,
Had not some spell of hellish incantation
  The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown.

In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded,
  No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean’s green,
But in its stead, deserted and degraded,
  The barren strand of Slavery’s shore was seen.