No More Learning

Without one single ray of her genius,--without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race--
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt[ja]
If _she_ ever gave birth to a being so base.

25.

If she did--let her long-boasted proverb be hushed,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring--
See the cold-blooded Serpent, with venom full flushed,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a King! [jb]

26.

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

27.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right;[600]
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free;
This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight,[jc]
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for _thee! _

28.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land;[jd]
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sons,
And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once.

29.

For happy are they now reposing afar,--
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan,[601] all
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeemed, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

30.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day--
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves[je]
Be stamped in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.

31.

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled;[jf]
There was something so warm and sublime in the core
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy--thy _dead_. [jg]

32.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! [jh][602]

Ra. _September_ 16, 1821.
[First published, _Conversations of Lord Byron_, 1824, pp. 331-338. ]




STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. [603]

1.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story--
The days of our Youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. [604]


2.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary,
What care I for the wreaths that can _only_ give glory?

3.