While we wander'd round the bay, Came the gayest of the gay, Pouring from a painted barge, Anchor'd by the flowery marge; Sporting round its cliffs and caves:-- Ireland is the land of slaves! Next we met an infant group, Never was a happier troop; Dancing o'er the primrose plain. "Joyous infancy!" said Jane; "Free from care as winds and waves." --"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!" On we walk'd--a garden shade Show'd us matron, man, and maid, Laughing, talking, _all_ coquetting, "Here," said Jane, "I see no fretting: Mammon makes but fools or knaves." --"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!" On we walk'd--we saw a dome, Fill'd with furious dupes of Rome, Ranting of the sword and chain. "Let us run away," said Jane: "How that horrid rebel raves!" --"No, my darling, _these_ are slaves!" As we ran, a monster-crowd Stopp'd us, uttering vengeance loud; Giving nobles to the halter, Cursing England's throne and altar, Brandishing their pikes and staves. "Love," said Jane, "are all _these_ slaves?" [Greek: Aion] * * * * * THE PRIEST'S BURIAL. He is dead!--he died of a broken heart, Of a frighten'd soul, and a frenzied brain: He died--of playing a desperate part For folly; which others play'd for gain. Yet o'er his turf the rebels rave! Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave! He is dead!--bewilder'd, betray'd, beguiled; Swept on by faction's fiery blast. In its blood-stain'd track, a fool, a child! His doom is fix'd--his lot is cast. Yet scowls by his bier earth's blackest knave. Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave! They dress'd the cold clay in mimic state, And the peasants came crowding round; And many a vow of revenge and hate In that hour on their souls was bound-- Oh! ruthless creed, that never forgave! Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave! They bore him along by the village road, And they yell'd at the village spire! And they laid him at rest in his long abode, In a storm of revenge and ire; And round him their furious banners wave. Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave! Then o'er him the bigot chant was sung, And was said the bigot prayer, And wild hearts with many a thought were stung, That left its venom there, To madden in many a midnight cave. Be silent, wretches!--spare the grave! All is done; he is buried--the crowd depart, He is laid in his kindred clay, There, freed from the torture that ate his heart, He rests, till the last great day. O THOU! who alone canst defend and save, Wake Ireland wise from this lowly grave. [Greek: Aion.] * * * * * PRUDENCE. "Bide your time."--_Rebel Song_.