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ON THE DEATH OF EARL FITZWILLIAM.

O ye who died, trampled, at Peterloo,
By England's Juggernaut! Ye too who drank
Slowly life's bitterest cup, not drugg'd with rue,
But brimm'd with hopeless pain; and ye who sank
In blood at Wexford, rolling rank o'er rank,
Like storm-swept waves! the golden door throw wide,
(It needs no golden key,) and hail and thank
The meek, the merciful, who ne'er denied
His aid to want and grief, when they for succour cried.

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But ye who plough the flint with curses! ye
Who scalding tears o'er wrongs inflicted weep,
And drink them from your eyes of misery,
To quench with fire the burning soul, or creep
To cold discomfort's bed, and, dreaming, steep
Your straw in agonies! keep, pallid slaves,
Who still wear chains! your worm that dies not keep!
And kneeling, in your hearts, on tyrants' graves,
Swear deathless hate to them, their gods, their fools and knaves.