Than that whose halos gild ST. PATRICK'S name!

Twelve times the centuries builded up their store
Of plots, rebellions, gibbets, tears and gore;
Twelve times centennial annivers'ries came,
To bless the seraph in St. Patrick's name.
In that long night of treach'ry and gloom,
How many myriads found a martyr's tomb!
Beside the waters of the dashing Rhone
In exile starved the bold and blind TYRONE.
Beneath the glamour of the tyrant's steel
Went out in gloom the soul of great O'NEILL.
What countless thousands, children of her loin,
Sank unanneal'd beneath the bitter Boyne!
What fathers fell, what mothers sued in vain,
In Tredah's walls, on Wexford's gory plain,
When Cromwell's shaven panders slaked their lust,
And Ireton's fiends despoiled the breathless dust!

Still came no seraph, incarnate in man,
To rescue Erin from the bandit clan.
Still sad and lone, she languished in her chains,
That clank'd in chorus o'er her martyrs' manes.

At length, when Freedom's struggle was begun
Across the seas, by conq'ring Washington,
When CURRAN thunder'd, and when GRATTAN spoke,
The guardian seraph from his slumber woke.
Then guilty Norbury from his vengeance fled,
FITZGERALD fought, and glorious WOLFE TONE bled.
Then EMMET rose, to start the battle-cry,
To strike, to plead, to threaten, and to die!
Immortal Emmet! happier in thy doom,
Though uninscrib'd remains thy seraph tomb,
Than the long line of Erin's scepter'd foes,
Whose bones in proud mausoleums repose;
More noble blood through Emmet's pulses rings
Than courses through ten thousand hearts of kings!

Thus has the seraph twice redeem'd his fate,
And roamed a mortal through this low estate;
Again obedient to divine command,
His final incarnation is at hand.

THE PROPHECY.

Scarce shall yon sun _five times_ renew the year,
Ere Erin's guardian Angel shall appear,
Not as a priest, in holy garb arrayed;
Not as a patriot, by his cause betray'd,
Shall he again assume a mortal guise,
And tread the earth, an exile from the skies.
But like the lightning from the welkin hurl'd,
His eye shall light, his step shall shake the world!

Ye sons of Erin! from your slumbers start!
Feel ye no vengeance burning in your heart?
Are ye but scions of degenerate slaves?
Shall tyrants