George Gordon Byron

The Irish Avatar

      "And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, 
      kneeling to receive the paltry rider." —

      [Life of Curran, ii. 336.]

1.

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
⁠     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.


2.

True, the great of her bright and brief Era are gone,
⁠     ⁠The rain-bow-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.


3.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
⁠     ⁠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.


4.

To her desolate shore—where the emigrant stands
⁠⁠     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.


5.

But he comes! the Messiah of Royalty comes!
⁠⁠     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!

6.

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
⁠⁠     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!


7.

Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again,
⁠⁠     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.


8.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
⁠⁠     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.


9.

Aye, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
⁠     ⁠Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride—
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
⁠⁠     His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.


10.

Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
⁠⁠     So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
⁠⁠     And his rival, or victor, in all he possessed.


11.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
⁠⁠     Though unequalled, preceded, the task was begun—
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb
⁠⁠     Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!


12.

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
⁠⁠     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.


13.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
⁠     ⁠Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain!
True Freedom but welcomes, while Slavery still raves,
⁠     ⁠When a week's Saturnalia hath loosened her chain.


14.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford,
⁠⁠     (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!


15.

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
⁠⁠     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?


16.

Each brute hath its nature; a King's is to reign,—
⁠     ⁠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!

17.

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping![12] O'Connell, proclaim
⁠⁠     His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
⁠⁠     And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"


18.

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
⁠     ⁠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?


19.

Aye! "Build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
⁠     ⁠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!


20.

Spread—spread for Vitellius, the royal repast,
⁠     ⁠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!"


21.

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
⁠     ⁠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.


22.

But let not his name be thine idol alone—
⁠     ⁠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!


23.

Till now, when the Isle which should blush for his birth,
⁠⁠     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.


24.

Without one single ray of her genius,—without
⁠⁠     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.


25.

If she did—let her long-boasted proverb be hushed,
⁠⁠     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!


26.

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
⁠⁠     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.

27.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right;
⁠     ⁠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!


28.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;
⁠⁠     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.


29.

For happy are they now reposing afar,—
⁠     ⁠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.


30.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
⁠⁠     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.


31.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
⁠     ⁠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.


32.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
⁠     ⁠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!