XXI.

O IRELAND, spot accurs’d—tho’ glorious fair, Shines there the sun, the flowers enamell’d blow, And scent, with fragrance sweet, the balmy air, Rippling the gliding pools that softly flow; No noxious reptile there to man a foe Abides, but black revenge with cautious plan, Cool-blooded cruelty with torments slow, Springs rank; with weeds the goodly soil’s o’er-ran, And all the reptile’s venom rankles in the man.