POETRY. 19 



Ah, little he thought when he traced those words, 

 That his sun should go down in a sky so dim. 



That a scaffold should break his hearfs fine chords, 

 And the grave of the felon be dug for him ! 



Ah little he thought, when he wrote that name, 



It ever would act as a talisman-spell, 

 To awaken the blush of his country's shame, 



That in vain the Wallace of Erin fell ! 

 Yet, happy in death, since he now no more 



Shall gaze with a heart to madness stung, 

 On the curse that withers his parent shore. 



And the tears from her friendless millions wrung ; — 



Since he now no more can share or see 

 The chains from the depth of his soul abhorred — 



The chains of the race, whom he rose to free. 

 When he drew in their name the sacred sword ! 



Could he now return, and behold the land 

 For which he had felt with a lover's love — 



Could he hear a nation in vain demand 

 The mercy denied, except above ; — 



Could he feel the weight of his country's load — 

 See her fields of dearth, and her homes of pain — 



He would hate the light for the scenes it showed. 

 And kneel for the boon of a grave again ! 



And was it for nought that he breathed his last 

 By the death that the brave most fear to die — 



That victorious Guilt with her trumpet-blast. 

 Gave his name to the winds of infamy ? 



Has he won but this — that over his tomb 

 Even Hate for a moment blushed to smile. 



And that they, who had sealed it, mourned the doom, 

 Of him who died for his Orphan Isle ? 



Believe it not ! — Oh, rather believe 



That his spirit, like those of the Saints on high. 

 The cloudy glooms of the grave will cleave 



From beneath the Golden Shrine to cry ! 



Nor yet in earth will his free blood sink — 

 It shall rise ere long in a fount of flame. 



While a nation's hearts of the bright wave drink. 

 Which for ever murmurs of his name ! 



And the harp, too long in darkness hung, 

 Shall awaken in Liberty's sunbright smile. 



Till her Martyr's meed of flame be flung 

 Upon all the winds of his own Green Isle ! 



Dews of Castalie, 



