INTOLERANCE,

Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain

Her classic fingers with the dust profane

Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls

Which took such freedom once with royal souls,

When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,

And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,

No, no — let Duigenan search the papal chair

For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;

And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks

That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,

Let sallow Perceval snuff up the gale

Which wizard Duigenan's gathered sweets exhale.

Enough for me whose heart has learned to scorn

Bigots alike in Rome or England born,

Who loathe the venom whence-soe'er it springs,

From popes or lawyers,pastrycooks or kings,—

Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,

As mirth provokes or indignation burns,

As Canning Vapors or as France succeeds,

As Hawkesbury proses, or as Ireland bleeds!

And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,

When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays

So near a precipice, that men the while

Look breathless on and shudder while they smile —

If in such fearful days thou'lt dare to look

To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook

Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,

While Gifford's tongue and Musgrave's pen remain —

If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got

To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,

Whose wrongs tho’ blazoned o'er the world they be,

Placemen alone are privileged not to see —

Oh! turn awhile, and tho’ the shamrock wreathes

My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes

Of Ireland's slavery and of Ireland's woes

Live when the memory of her tyrant foes

Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,

Embalmed in hate and canonized by scorn.

When Castlereagh in sleep still more profound

Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,

Shall wait the impeachment of that awful day

Which even his practised hand can n't bribe away.

Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now,

To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow

Smiles that shine out unconquerably fair

Even thro’ the blood-marks left by Camden there,—

Couldst thou but see what verdure paints the sod

Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,

And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,

That warms the soul of each insulted slave,

Who tired with struggling sinks beneath his lot

And seems by all but watchful France forgot —

Thy heart would burn — yes, even thy Pittite heart

Would burn to think that such a blooming part

Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms

And filled with social souls and vigorous arms,

Should be the victim of that canting crew,

So smooth, so godly,— yet so devilish too;

Who, armed at once with prayer-books and with whips,

Blood on their hands and Scripture on their lips,

Tyrants by creed and tortures by text,

Make this life hell in honor of the next!

Your Redesdales, Percevals,— great, glorious Heaven,

If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,

When here I swear by my soul's hope of rest,

I'd rather have been born ere man was blest

With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,

Yes,— rather plunge me back in Pagan night,

And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,

Than be the Christian of a faith like this,

Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway

And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;

Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,—

Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold,—

Corrupts both state and church and makes an oath

The knave and atheist's passport into both;

Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know

Nor bliss above nor liberty below,

Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,

And lest he‘ scape hereafter racks him here!

But no — far other faith, far milder beams

Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;

His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,

By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;

He weeps to see abused Religion twine

Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine;

And he, while round him sects and nations raise

To the one God their varying notes of praise,

Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,

That serves to swell the general harmony.

Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright,

That filled, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light;

While free and spacious as that ambient air

Which folds our planet in its circling care,

The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind

Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.

Last of the great, farewell!— yet not the last —

Tho’ Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,

Ierne still one ray of glory gives

And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.