A Lament
I.
Gone from us — dead to us — he whom we worshipped so!
Low lies the altar we raised to his name;
Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it low —
Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame.
He whose proud bosom once raged with humanity,
He whose broad forehead was circled with might,
Sunk to a time-serving, driv'lling inanity —
God! why not spare our loved country the sight?
II.
Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted him?
Ah! we'd have pledged to him body and soul;
Toiled for him — fought for him — starved for him — died for him —
Smiled, tho' our graves were the steps to his goal.
Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whispering,
Wealth, crown, and kingdom, were laid at his feet;
Raised he his right hand, the millions would round him cling —
Hush! 'tis the Sassenach ally you greet.
III.
Leaders have fallen — we wept, but we triumphed, too —
Patriot blood never sinks in the sod;
He falls, and the jeers of the nation he bent to sue
Rise like accusing weird spirits to God.
Weep for him — weep for him — deep is the tragedy —
Angels themselves now might doubt of God's truth;
Souls from their bloody graves, shuddering, rise to see
How he avenges their lost, murdered youth.
IV.
Tone, and Fitzgerald, and the pale-brow'd enthusiast —
He whose heart broke, but shrank not from the strife;
Davis, the latest loved — he who in glory passed,
Kindling Hope's lamp with the chrism of life.
Well may they wail for him — power and might were his —
Loved as no mortal was loved in the land —
What has he sold them for? Sorrow and shame it is,
Fair words and false from a recreant band.
V.
Time's shade was on him; what matter? we loved him yet;
Aye, would have torn the veins with our teeth,
Made him a bath of our young blood to pay the debt —
Purchased his life, tho' we brough it by death.
Pray for him — pray: an archangel has fallen low;
There's a throne less in Heaven, there is sorrow on earth.
Weep, angels — laugh, demons! When his hand could strike the blow,
Where shall we seek for truth, honour, or worth?
Gone from us — dead to us — he whom we worshipped so!
Low lies the altar we raised to his name;
Madly his own hand hath shattered and laid it low —
Madly his own breath hath blasted his fame.
He whose proud bosom once raged with humanity,
He whose broad forehead was circled with might,
Sunk to a time-serving, driv'lling inanity —
God! why not spare our loved country the sight?
II.
Was it the gold of the stranger that tempted him?
Ah! we'd have pledged to him body and soul;
Toiled for him — fought for him — starved for him — died for him —
Smiled, tho' our graves were the steps to his goal.
Breathed he one word in his deep, earnest whispering,
Wealth, crown, and kingdom, were laid at his feet;
Raised he his right hand, the millions would round him cling —
Hush! 'tis the Sassenach ally you greet.
III.
Leaders have fallen — we wept, but we triumphed, too —
Patriot blood never sinks in the sod;
He falls, and the jeers of the nation he bent to sue
Rise like accusing weird spirits to God.
Weep for him — weep for him — deep is the tragedy —
Angels themselves now might doubt of God's truth;
Souls from their bloody graves, shuddering, rise to see
How he avenges their lost, murdered youth.
IV.
Tone, and Fitzgerald, and the pale-brow'd enthusiast —
He whose heart broke, but shrank not from the strife;
Davis, the latest loved — he who in glory passed,
Kindling Hope's lamp with the chrism of life.
Well may they wail for him — power and might were his —
Loved as no mortal was loved in the land —
What has he sold them for? Sorrow and shame it is,
Fair words and false from a recreant band.
V.
Time's shade was on him; what matter? we loved him yet;
Aye, would have torn the veins with our teeth,
Made him a bath of our young blood to pay the debt —
Purchased his life, tho' we brough it by death.
Pray for him — pray: an archangel has fallen low;
There's a throne less in Heaven, there is sorrow on earth.
Weep, angels — laugh, demons! When his hand could strike the blow,
Where shall we seek for truth, honour, or worth?
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