A tyrant drops his head upon the scaffold, and they weep!--an innocent queen is poisoned, and they "show no sign of sorrow!"--a cruel, cowardly yeomanry, and a brutal, sanguinary soldiery, massacre an unarmed populace, and thanks and a subscription acknowledge and reward their heroism!--_here_ a people are stripped of their rights and privileges, and content themselves with complaining!--_there_ a country is everwhelmed in penury and wretchedness, and finds a cure for all its distresses in the casual visit of its despotic ruler, and his unmeaning and stupid speeches! The despicable figure which the king made at this period, and the fulsome flatteries bestowed upon him by the Irish people, did not escape the keen penetration of the illustrious and patriotic Lord Byron. We had the pleasure of his lordship's acquaintance for some years before his lamented death; and he was in the habit of sending us many brilliant effusions of his muse, which he probably never intended for publication. But the following verses, on the subject of which we have just been speaking, possess so much poetical beauty and justness of expression, that we cannot refrain from gratifying our readers by inserting them in this place. THE IRISH AVATER[31:A]. Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide; Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave To the long-cherish'd isle, which he lov'd like his--bride. True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,-- The rainbow-like epoch, where freedom would pause For the few little years out of centuries won, Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause. 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 roll'd from his 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 three-score, To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part; And long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er,-- Could the green on 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 the shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.