And generous hearts are Erin’s. Think not they Who storm the loudest are the deepest felt. Fair shines the Moon, though dogs unquiet bay, And rusts the sword that rattled in the belt; Ere crost, how would the clamorous phalanx melt? In scurril threats, that wound not, most they shine. Too base the altars where they’ve groveling knelt, To feel--true Celts--the valourous glow divine That led thy “hope forlorn” in many a battle line. XLII. Let selfish virulence its coffers fill, Let half-formed striplings dream that they have minds; But vaunts mistake not for a nation’s will, Nor lucre’s lust for what the true heart binds. Some fervent spirits still the mockery blinds Of patriot zeal, but fades the dream amain, And scatters the weak bubble to the winds. Not Erin’s heart partakes the traitor-stain; Sound to the core the breast that bled for thee in Spain! XLIII. Yet gently deal with that distracted land; With generous flood of bounty soothe her woes. Mete Justice with no nice or niggard hand, But heap like coals of fire upon thy foes Magnanimous replies to dastard blows! Not false the people--every boon be theirs, Each healing measure quivering wounds to close. Forget not that thy fame Ierne shares; Forget not that she gave great Arthur to thy wars! XLIV. Fulfil thy destiny! Resistless spread Through boundless Asia, forced to bear thy arms. O’er Scindian waters be thy spirit shed, Divulging ev’n in Conquest Freedom’s charms! Earth shaketh still with Battle’s late alarms, Yet peace and joy pervade the fields thou’st won; VICTORIA blesses with her hand--not harms. Beneath Britannia’s sway shall millions run; Earth’s labouring head art thou, her Cyclop eye and sun! XLV. Yet robed in power and grandeur, bate thy pride, And ’mid thy glory shudder at thy shame, For starves the vagrant by the palace side, And misery’s blight is tarnishing thy fame. Your bosoms, boundless wealth and luxury, tame; Nor rags nor squalor all your laws can ban. Deal, deal more kindly with the poor, nor frame A felon statute each offence to scan; And let not Ignorance mar the Eternal’s image, Man! XLVI. Oh England! to thyself be true, nor fear But every hostile voice will soon be dumb. Smile on majestic ev’n while thou dost hear O’er subject Ocean roll the doubling drum. There sleep their wrath, or let the Invader come! To thee indifferent--thou wilt strike no blow, Save for such cause as Heaven descendeth from. Live, Arbitress of Peace and War, that so All Earth may court thy smile, and dread thee as a foe!