XXI.
O Ireland, spot accurs’d—tho’ glorious fair,
Shines there the sun, the flowers enamell’d blow,
And scent, with fragrance sweet, the balmy air,
Rippling the gliding pools that softly flow;
No noxious reptile there to man a foe
Abides, but black revenge with cautious plan,
Cool-blooded cruelty with torments slow,
Springs rank; with weeds the goodly soil’s o’er-ran,
And all the reptile’s venom rankles in the man.