“Fair Freedom, fledged and imped with lies, Takes flight by night where murder lurks, And broods on murderous ways and works, Yet seems not hideous in our eyes As Austrians or as Turks. “Be it ours to undo a woful past, To bid the bells of concord chime, To break the bonds of suffering crime, Slack now, that some would make more fast; Such teaching comes of time.” So pleads the gentlest heart that lives, Whose pity, pitiless for all Whom darkling terror holds in thrall, Toward none save miscreants yearns, and gives Alms of warm tears――and gall. Hear, England, and obey; for he Who claims thy trust again to-day, Is he who left thy sons a prey To shame whence only death sets free; Hear, England, and obey. Great shrieker of the shrieking crew, The lyric recreant raves and rails At Justice, who adjusts her scales, At last, at last, for Erin too, His fire of freedom fails. When Italy was militant For liberty, his muse could rage In rolling rhetoric page on page, His poet bosom swell and pant With wrath――which songs assuage. But blame not British hands that smite Their brethren in fierce pride of power, Leave Ireland not one chainless hour. Is ruling not our native right, Our Heaven-appointed dower? “The dower that freedom brings the slave She weds, is vengeance.” Aye, the free In other lands may strike; but we Are sacrosanct; the fools who brave Our wrath, must cease to be. At kings they strike in Russia; there Tis duty, bliss, to stab, to slay Kings; but the Landlord, whose harsh sway Drives pillaged thralls to mad despair, He is no patriot’s prey. Those whom the thought of fathers slain, Of roofless children doomed to die Starved, maddens by its memory―― These poets pardon not, nor deign To lift a lyric sigh. A sigh of pity for such deeds As hapless Ireland harass? Nay, Justice shall not make straight our way Till ruthless Law hath crushed like weeds All who dare disobey. Shall soulmongers be held of us Blood-guilty? Hands that grab the gold, Whereon blood rests, from the weak hold Of poor men homeless? Nay, not thus, Lest British Mammon scold. Dear Mammon, fledged and fed with lies, The tale of suffering blurs and burkes, Hides his own murderous ways and works. Great Heaven, such shame would shock our eyes―― In Russians, or in Turks. What, prate about a shameful past? Ask who began the tale of crime? Smirch England’s robes with tyrant slime? The patriot poet in full blast Shall brand you to all time.