For this (mysterious fate of virtue) exiled from his native land,
   In America, the land of Freedom,
   He found a second country,
   Which paid his love by reverencing his genius. 
   Learned in our laws, and in the laws of Europe,
   In the literature of our times, and in that of antiquity,
   All knowledge seemed subject to his use. 
   An orator of the first order, clear, copious, fervid,
   Alike powerful to kindle the imagination, touch the affections,
   And sway the reason and will. 
   Simple in his tastes, unassuming in his manners,
   Frank, generous, kind-hearted, and honourable,
   His private life was beautiful,
   As his public course was brilliant. 
   Anxious to perpetuate
   The name and example of such a man,
   Alike illustrious by his genius, his virtues, and his fate;
   Consecrated to their affections by his sacrifices, his perils,
   And the deeper calamities of his kindred,
   IN A JUST AND HOLY CAUSE;
   His sympathising countrymen
   Erected this Monument and Cenotaph.]

* * * * *

JOHN MITCHEL

Subsequent to the melancholy tragedy of 1803, a period of indescribable depression was experienced in Ireland.  Defeat, disaster, ruin, had fallen upon the national cause; the power on whose friendly aid so much reliance had been placed was humbled, and England stood before the world in the full blaze of triumph and glory.  Her fleet was undisputed mistress of the ocean, having swept it of all hostile shipping, and left to the enemy little more than the small craft that sheltered in narrow creeks and under the guns of well-defended harbours.  Her army, if not numerically large, had proved its valour on many a well-fought field, and shown that it knew how to bring victory to light upon its standards; and, what was not less a matter of wonder to others, and of pride to herself, the abundance of her wealth and the extent of her resources were shown to be without a parallel in the world.  Napoleon was an exile on the rock of St. Helena; the “Holy Alliance”—­as the European, sovereigns blasphemously designated themselves—­were lording it over the souls and bodies of men by “right divine;” the free and noble principles in which the French Revolution had its origin were now sunk out of sight, covered with the infamy of the Reign of Terror and the responsibility of the series of desolating wars which had followed it, and no man dared to speak for them.  Those were dark days for Ireland.  Her parliament was gone, and in the blighting shade of the provincialism to which she was reduced, genius and courage seemed to have died out from the land.  Thousands of her bravest and most devoted children had perished in her cause—­some on the scaffold, and others on the field of battle—­and many whose presence at home would have been invaluable to her were obliged to seek safety in exile.  So Erin, the crownless Queen, sat in the dust with fetters on her limbs, her broken sword fallen from her hand, and with mournful memories lying heavy on her heart.  The feelings of disappointment and grief then rankling in every Irish breast are well mirrored in that plaintive song of our national poet, which open with these tristful lines:—–­