wringings of our hearts, to prevent our being again reduced to the same state of distress. Neither is it we, in the Liberty here only, who are concerned, but every weaver in the North, and every digger in the South, and every landlord too, who lives by the industry of these. If, therefore, I can prove, that such distress may not only be prevented during the approaching war, but that this country may be enriched and benefitted by it, to a degree which we could not by any other event have expected, I hope, Sir, that you will print, and that the public will read, what even I can say on this interesting subject. And, even though we were sure that it would be of some little advantage to England, that we should be involved with her in the approaching contest, the contrary of which I expect hereafter to prove, yet, even so, I would, with all humility, submit it to the consideration of both our Houses of Parliament, whether it would be wise, or merciful, that we should be all sacrificed to any such little advantage of hers? We ought, certainly, and we do certainly submit to a great deal for the good kingdom of England; but I trust this occasion will prove, that this country is not now in the deplorable state, in which it was represented to have been in the days of Swift, when, if a finger of England was sore, and it was imagined that a poultice made of the vitals of this country would have given it any case, at a word it would have been done.
POEM ON THE STATE OF IRELAND.
HOW long, O slav'ry, shall thine iron mace
Wave o'er this isle, and crouch its abject race?
Many a dastard century we've bent
Beneath thy terrors, wretched and content,
Nor yet has Ireland done one deed, whose name
Can give a record in the rolls of fame.
What though, by virtue's trumpet late inspir'd,
Our youth stood forth, in freedom's arms attir'd,
And peal'd, in thunders, to the British shore
The ills, for ages, we ignobly bore ;
'Twas a brief dream; a meteor of an hour;
Fled is that spirit; gone, its short lived pow'r.
Look all the island round, and what's display'd ?
Buyers and bought, betrayers and betray'd:
Self, like a plague, through ev'ry class has ran,
Nor left one thought to dignify one man.
What though a crown imperial now we claim,
And, with the empty title, gild our shame :
In rank co-ordinate with Britain vie ;
Boast Thrones and Senates, pompous pageantry;
With all the play-house trappings of a State:
Where are the acts or men which speak us great?
Who kings it here? or who our Senate rules?
Or who, yet meaner, are of these the tools?
Their merits; stations; name them man by man;
And then vaunt of your country if you can.
First a raw Peer-a creeping, unknown thing,
In England flouted at, sent here a king:
A sorry aid-de-camp, with sage conceit,
Beneath him wields the thunders of the state,
And at his feet, in humble rev'rence, crawl
Ireland's proud Nobles, Prelates, Commons, all.
O, glorious picture! Who would not be proud
To lick the dust with this right noble crowd?
To bask his crest in H-b-t's haughty rays,
Or shine in W-stm-l-d's mock-royal blaze?
To crouch to such a twain, search earth around
No other people could on earth be found
But thine, Ireland. Then still be it thine,
In matchless, meanest thraldom still to pine.
What though, with haughty arrogance of pride,
England shall o'er this long dup'd country stride,
And lay on stripe on stripe, and shame on shame,
And brand, to all eternity, its name;
"Tis right well done: bear all, and more, I say;
Nay, ten times more; and then for more still pray.
What state in something would not foremost be?
She strives for fame; thou for servility.
The other nations of the earth, now fired
To noblest deeds, by noblest minds inspir'd,
High in the realms of glory write a name,
Wreath'd round with liberty's immortal flame :
'Tis thine to creep a path obscure, unknown,
The palm of ev'ry meanness all thy own.
"But why all this? Has nature struck this isle "With blasting slav'ry? Is't our air? our soil ?" Search your own breast; in abject letters, there Read why you still the tinsel'd slav'ry wear. Though Britain, with a trembling hand, unti'd The fetters, fashion'd in her pow'r and pride, Still are you slaves, in baser chains entwin'd;
For, though your limbs are free, you're slaves in mind.
Imperial Ireland !-silly, taunting sound,
Say in what deed thy empire yet is found?
From either pole, unto the burning zone,
Where art thou fear'd, lov'd, hated—nay, or known?
When did the Spaniard ever dread thy name?
Or Gallia, trembling, vie with thee for fame?
Or Portugal, cut from the Spaniard's wing,
A tribute to thy conqu'ring glory bring?
Or sturdy Hollander, who, from his fen,
Banish'd the tyrant seas, and tyrant men,
And taught a proud example to our race,
How Kings and nature must to man give place,
When tow❜ring virtue his high aims inspires,
Say, can he light thy breast with rival fires?
Or now, while storms of war o'er Europe low'r,
To move or stay their thunders where's thy pow'r?
Does no one wish escape thee to be great?
Or, is thy heart as petty as thy state?
If so, then rest contented, and contemn'd,
And, as you rose obscure, proceed and end;
Nor let the page of hist'ry ever flame
With one great deed, to dignify thy name.
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