THE LIFE, TRIAL AND CONVERSATIONS OF ROBERT EMMET, ESQ. =Leader of the Irish Insurrection of 1803:= ALSO, THE CELEBRATED SPEECH MADE BY HIM ON THE OCCASION. O breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night dew that falls on the grass o’er his head But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.—MOORE _Stereotyped from the last Dublin Edition._ NEW-YORK: PUBLISHED BY ROBERT CODDINGTON NO. 366 BOWERY, 1850. THE UNINSCRIBED TOMB OF EMMET. “Let my tomb remain uninscribed, and my memory in oblivion, until other times and other men can do justice to my character.” “Pray tell me,” I said, to an old man who stray’d, Drooping over the grave which his own hands had made, “Pray tell me the name of the tenant who sleeps ’Neath yonder lone shade where the sad willow weeps; Every stone is engrav’d with the name of the dead, But yon black slab declares not whose spirit is fled.” In silence he bow’d, then beckon’d me nigh, Till we stood o’er the grave—then he said with a sigh, “Yes, they dare not to trace e’en a word on this stone, To the memory of him who sleeps coldly alone; He told them—commanded—the lines o’er his grave, Should never be traced by the hand of a slave! “He bade them to shade e’en his name in the gloom, Till the morning of freedom should shine on his tomb, ‘When the flag of my country at liberty flies, Then—then let my name and my monument rise.’ You see they obey’d him—’tis thirty-three years, And they still come to moisten his grave with their tears. “He was young like yourself, and aspir’d to o’erthrow The tyrants who fill’d his lov’d island with woe; They crush’d his bold spirit—this earth was confin’d, Too scant for the range of his luminous mind.” He paus’d, and the old man went slowly away, And I felt, as he left me, an impulse to pray. Grant, Heaven! I may see, ere my own days are done, A monument rise o’er my country’s lost son! And oh! proudest task, be it mine to indite The long-delay’d tribute a freeman must write; ‘Till then shall its theme in my breast deeply dwell, So peace to thy slumbers, dear shade, fare thee well!