V.
What then? She can massacre wretched Chinese—
Can rob the Ameers of their lands, if she please—
And when Hanover wrings from her duties not due,
She can still vent her wrath, enslav'd Erin, on you!
VI.
Thus—but why, belov'd land, longer sport with thy shame?
If my life could wipe out the foul blot from thy fame,
How gladly for thee were this spirit outpoured
On the scaffold, as free as by shot or by sword!
VII.
Yet, oh! in fair field, for one soldier-like blow,
To fall in thy cause, or look far for thy foe—
To sleep on thy bosom, down-trodden, with thee,
Or to wave in thy breeze the green flag of the free!
VIII.
Heaven! to think of the thousands far better than I,
Who for thee, sweetest mother, would joyfully die!
Then to reckon the insult—the rapine—the wrong—
How long, God of love!—God of battles!—how long?
THE INVOCATION.
Sweet Lyrist, wreath a song for me,
Such as my fathers loved of old—
Thy theme our cause, the melody
The sweetest on thy strings of gold.
