And fan her into dreams of promis’d good,
Of hope, of freedom—but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss
That Vengeance loves, there’s yet more sweet than this,—
That ’twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fall’n and tarnish’d thing thou art;
That, as the Centaur gave th’ infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror’s breast,
We send thee C——gh:—as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,