For the shower of crimson rain,
That o'erflow'd that fatal plain,
Cries aloud, and not in vain,
To the most high God.
IX.
Tho' the Saxon snake unfold
At thy feet his scales of gold,
And vow thee love untold,
Trust him not, Green Land;
Touch not with gloveless clasp
A coil'd and deadly asp,
But with strong and guarded grasp
In your steel-clad hand.
YOUNG ENGLAND TO YOUNG IRELAND.
[The subjoined powerful address was written by an English Puseyite, and may be fairly taken to represent the sentiments of many of that great party. They cannot but sympathise with a people not only oppressed for conscience sake, but for opinions differing little from their own; and it is natural that the sympathy of the young and earnest should exhibit the bold and emphatic spirit which breathes through this poem:—]
Brothers, arise! the hour has come
To strike the blow for truth and God;
Why sit ye folded up and dumb—
Why bending kiss the tyrant's rod?
Is there no hope upon the earth—
No charter in the starry sky?
Has freedom no ennobling worth?
And man no immortality?
Ah, brothers! think ye what ye are!
What glorious work ye have to do,
And how they wait ye near and far
