THE PRIEST'S BURIAL.
He is dead!—he died of a broken heart,
Of a frighten'd soul, and a frenzied brain:
He died—of playing a desperate part
For folly; which others play'd for gain.
Yet o'er his turf the rebels rave!
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
He is dead!—bewilder'd, betray'd, beguiled;
Swept on by faction's fiery blast.
In its blood-stain'd track, a fool, a child!
His doom is fix'd—his lot is cast.
Yet scowls by his bier earth's blackest knave.
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
They dress'd the cold clay in mimic state,
And the peasants came crowding round;
And many a vow of revenge and hate
In that hour on their souls was bound—
Oh! ruthless creed, that never forgave!
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
They bore him along by the village road,
And they yell'd at the village spire!
And they laid him at rest in his long abode,
In a storm of revenge and ire;
And round him their furious banners wave.
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
Then o'er him the bigot chant was sung,
And was said the bigot prayer,
And wild hearts with many a thought were stung,
That left its venom there,
To madden in many a midnight cave.
Be silent, wretches!—spare the grave!
All is done; he is buried—the crowd depart,
He is laid in his kindred clay,
There, freed from the torture that ate his heart,
He rests, till the last great day.
O THOU! who alone canst defend and save,
Wake Ireland wise from this lowly grave.
[Greek: Aion.]