the Irish Slave.
I heard as I lay, a wailing sound,
“He is dead–he is dead,” the rumor flew;
And I raised my chain and turned me round,
And askt, thro’ the dungeon-window, “Who?”
I saw my livid tormentors pass;
Their grief ’twas bliss to hear and see!
For never came joy to them alas!
That didn’t bring deadly bane to me.
Eager I lookt thro’ the mist of night,
And askt, “What foe of my race hath died?
“Is it he–that Doubter of law and right,
“Whom nothing but wrong could e’er decide–
“Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,
“Hath never yet felt a qualm or doubt
“What suitors for justice he’d keep in,
“Or what suitors for freedom he’d shut out–
“Who, a clog for ever on Truth’s advance,
“Hangs round her (like the Old Man of the Sea
“Round Sinbad’s neck), nor leaves a chance
“Of shaking him off–is’t he? is’t he?”
Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled,
And thrusting me back to my den of woe,
With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered “No.”
But the cry still pierced my prison-gate,
And again I askt, “What scourge is gone?
“Is it he–that Chief, so coldly great,
“Whom Fame unwillingly shines upon–
“Whose name is one of the ill-omened words
“They link with hate on his native plains;
“And why?–they lent him hearts and swords,
“And he in return gave scoffs and chains!
“Is it he? is it he?” I loud inquired,
When, hark!–there sounded a Royal knell;
And I knew what spirit had just expired,
And slave as I was my triumph fell.
He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,
He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,
But sealed that hate with a Name Divine,
And he now was dead and–I couldn’t rejoice!
He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers’ hands,
And them did I curse–but sighed for him.
For, his was the error of head not heart;
And–oh! how beyond the ambushed foe,
Who to enmity adds the traitor’s part,
And carries a smile with a curse below!
If ever a heart made bright amends
For the fatal fault of an erring head–
Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,
In the orphan’s tear be his glory read.
A Prince without pride, a man without guile,
To the last unchanging, warm, sincere,
For Worth he had ever a hand and smile,
And for Misery ever his purse and tear.
Touched to the heart by that solemn toll,
I calmly sunk in my chains again;
While, still as I said, “Heaven rest his soul!”
My mates of the dungeon sighed “Amen!”
 Written on the death of the Duke of York.
 “You fell, said they, into the hands of the Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks.”–Story of Sinbad.