True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags; The castle still stands, and the senate's no more; And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. To her desolate shore--where the emigrant stands For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes! Like a goodly leviathan rolled from the waves! Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves! He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-- But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er! Could the green in his _hat_ be transferred to his _heart_! Could that long-withered spot but be verdant again, And a new spring of noble affections arise-- Then might Freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain, And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies. Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God--as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-- Such servile devotion might shame him away. Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride; Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted, endued, And his rival or victor in all he possessed. Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, Though unequaled, preceded, the task was begun; But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the savior, the _one_! With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny, listening, sate melted or mute, And corruption shrunk scorched from the glance of his mind. But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves! Feasts furnished by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True Freedom but _welcomes_, while slavery still _raves_, When a week's Saturnalia hath loosened her chain. Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord! Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied! Or _if_ freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be classed With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?