On an Irish Landlord.
"Love thou thy Land!" So sang the Laureate.
Were that sole Landlord duty, you'd fulfil it!
But land makes not a Land, nor soil a State.
Loving your land, how sullenly you hate—
The People—who've to till it!
Of the earth, earthy is that love of soil
Which for wide-acred wealth will sap and spoil
The souls and sinews of the thralls of Toil.
Churl! Bear a human heart, a liberal hand!
Then thou may'st say that thou dost "love thy Land."
When a Stag has once been uncarted, and has been given so many minutes law to get away, the Huntsman may correctly allude to him as "The Deer Departed."