eart.

But lo! fresh streaming from the Hibernian[*] height
Her own red torrent wild-eyed faction pours;
While, 'mid her falling ranks, ignobly great,
Loud vengeance raves, and desperation scours.

Denouncing murderous strife, the rebel train
Wave their red ensigns of inhuman hate
O'er every hamlet, every peaceful plain;
Rejecting reason, and despising fate.

Oh! that again our raptur'd eyes could see
Their ripening crops bloom yellow o'er the land;
Their happy shepherds, like their pasture, free--
No more a factious race, a ruffian band.

That albion, once again with concord blest,
May still support that great, that glorious name,
Which ardent glows in every patriot's breast,
And crowns her hoary cliffs with matchless fame.

Then, then, might foreign foes, around our shores,
Pour the big tempest of their arms in vain;
Then, might they learn that freedom still is ours,
That Britons still control the subject main.

Oh! all ye kindred pow'rs, awake, arise!
On boundless glory's giant pinions soar;
Let Gallia tremble! while the sounding skies
Proclaim us free--'till time shall be no more!

[Footnote*: This piece was written when Ireland was
in a most distracted state.]

_SONNET_.

ON THE DEATH OF
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nurs'd by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!

EPITAPH

ON MATILDA.

SACRED to pity! is uprais'd this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,
And add to misery's scroll another name.
Poor, lost Matilda! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made,
Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view'd, thro' life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne'er, with stoic apathy, repress'd
The heart-felt sigh for loveliness distress'd.
That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave;
'Tis all