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. Age 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 improved and denied. Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest, With all that Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival, or victor, in all he possess'd. When TULLY arose, in the zenith of Rome, Tho' unequalled preceded, the task was begun; But GRATTAN sprung up like a god from the tomb! Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one. With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute, With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind, Even Tyranny, listening, sat melted, or mute, And Corruption shrunk, scorch'd, from the glance of his mind. But back to my 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 Saternalia has loosened her chain. Let the poor squalid splendour 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 for 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 class'd With what monarchs ne'er give but as wolves yield their prey? Each brute hath its nature,--a king's is to reign; To reign!--in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised! Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell proclaim His accomplishments!--His!!!--and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that "_Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!_" Will thy yard of blue ribbon, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs? Or will it not bind thee the fastest of all The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns? Aye, build him a dwelling; let each give his mite, Till, like Babel, the new royal dome has arisen; Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite, And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison. Spread, spread for Vitellius the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot is stuff'd to the gorge, And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last The FOURTH of the fools and oppressors,--called GEORGE!