THE NEW RACE.
I
O ye who have vanquish'd the Land and retain it,
How little ye know what ye miss of delight!
There are worlds in her heart, could ye seek it or gain it,
That would clothe a true Noble with glory and might.
What is she, this Isle which ye trample and ravage,
Which ye plough with oppression and reap with the sword,
But a harp, never strung, in the hall of a savage
Or a fair wife embraced by a husband abhorr'd?
II
The chiefs of the Gael were the People embodied;
The chiefs were the blossom, the People the root!
Their conquerors the Normans, high-soul'd, and high-blooded,
Grew Irish at last from the scalp to the foot.
But ye! ye are hirelings and satraps not Nobles!
Your slaves, they detest you; your masters, they scorn!
The river lives on; but its sun-painted bubbles
Pass quick, to the rapids insensibly borne.
