"
[2] A gentleman, who distinguished himself by his evidence before the
Irish Committees.
THE IRISH SLAVE.[1]
1827.
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.
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