“Forget not the field where they perished, The truest, the last of the brave! All gone, and the bright hope we cherished Gone with them, and quenched in their grave. Oh, could we from Death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high heaven to fight over This combat for freedom once more.” The phrase used in the speeches of the late “Agitator,” till it grew ridiculous by the repetition, will be found in the following fine lines:— “Remember thee! yes, while there’s life in this heart, It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art, More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy showers, Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, _First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea_, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But, oh, could I love thee more deeply than now? No! thy chains, as they rankle, thy blood, as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons, Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest, Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.” It would be _cruel_ to ask for the evidence of all this tyranny—a link of the chains that rankle on the limbs of Ireland, or a drop of the blood that so perpetually oozes from her wounds. But poetry is privileged to be as “unhappy” as it pleases—to weep over sorrows unfelt by the world—and to fabricate wrongs, only to have the triumph of sweeping them away. We would tolerate half the harangues of the Irish disturbers for one poet like Moore.