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and murder them? Will he deflower our wives, and burn our houses ? Beware, that we mistake not friend for foe. But no ! we know him by his warlike standards. He bears the picket, pitch-cap, and the firebrand. His music is, the cry of women's grief—that's our invader—that our mortal enemy-look to him well-he'll rob us of our LIPERTY.

But, e'er we fight, go, call at Edward's tomb*-cry in his ears—bid him who sleeps to wakebid him to rise and fight his enemies. Brave as the lion--gentler than the lamb—the sparkling jewel of an ancient house the noblest blood of any in our land, and nobler than your king's, ran through his veins. He hears you not-he sleeps to wake no more ! Of all his country, and of all he owned, there rests no more to him than the cold grave he lies in !!

Oh gallant, gallant Edward, fallen in the flower of youth, and pride of manly beauty ; had you

lived to see your country free, the proudest conqueror that wears a sword, dared not invade it.

Go call his children, by their noble sire, to come and fight the battles of their country.—What sire ? what country? They have no father, for you murdered him! They have no country, but the green sod that rests upon his grave! You robbed their guiltless infancy_tainted their innocent blood-plundered their harmless cradles ! !

Go then to Crosby's tomb! His only crime was,

* Lord Edward Fitzgerald, brother to the late Duke of Leinster.

† Sir Edward Crosby, Bart.

that he was beloved.-Call Colclough, Esmond, Grogan, Harvey; still nobler in their viriues than in their station, and their ancient heritage.

Call whole devoted families, whom you have swept from off the surface of their native soil ;-they cannot fail but rise and stand for you.

Call those two brothers, whose hearts in life were joined-in death united-hung on one gibbet-beheaded with one ax.- Bid the two Shearses rise and fight for you, and die again together, in their country's cause they will betriend you.

There were two brother Tones, no ordinary souls. Bid them rise too from out their common grave

and fight together for you. He that first led his countrymen to union, will lead them now to victory.

Call on the multitude of reverend men of all the various sects of christian faith, whom you have murdered —Call on them by the sacred office of their priesthood, and by that God, whose holy word they taught—to pray

for
you.

But if they sleep too sound, or will not hearken, go to the flocks they led, and they will follow you with many and many a blessing.

Call from the earth where Porters' ashes lie, the gentle emanations of his genius—the lucid beams of mild philosophy-you want such lights they will be very serviceable.

Go to Belfast, and parley with the heads you there impaled—those silent witnesses of your humanity, who gave to all that looked askance and terrified upon them, such moving lessons of your mild persuasion, as won all hearts to love you-thuse tongueless mo

nitors, were passing eloquent-bid them now speak for youấthey will recruit you soldiers that will honor you, and draw their willing swords to fight your battles.

Call upon Russel, whose once gentle heart you turned to desperate madness, and slew him like a ruffian.

Invoke the croud of brave and gallant victims, whom «

memory cannot count, nor choice select,"'* and you will have an army strong in numbers stronger in well-tried courage, and in Union.

But if this cannot be, and victory declares against your ruffian banners, remember ORR ! He was the first that gave his life to Union--EMMET the last that sealed it with his blood. Their parting words may teach

you

how to die !! But no, you will not, dare not, die like them ! You will betray your country first an hundred times; and rather than meet death as men should do, lay at the conqueror's feet your city's charters, and your monarch's crown.

* See the Answer of Mrs. Tone, to the Hibernian Provident Society, on receiving a medallion, presented by them in honor of her busband, where this sentiment is elegantly conveyed. (See Appendix No. XVI.)

† Jeffreys and Kirk were as treacherous as they were atrocious.

+

LETTER XXXVI.

The Irish Emigrant.

BORN in the country of affliction—his days were days of sorrow. He tilled 'the soil of his fathers, and was an alien in their land. He tasted not of the fruits which grew by the sweat.of his brow. He fed a foreign landlord, whose face he never saw, and a minister of the gospel, whose name he hardly knew-an unfeeling bailiff was his tyrant, and the tax-gatherer, his oppressor. Hunted by unrighteous magistrates, and punished by unjust judges. The soldier devoured his substance, and laughed his complaints to scorn. He toiled the hopeless day, and at night lay down in weariness. Yet noble he was of heart, though his estate was lowly. His cottage was open to the poor. He brake his children's bread, and ate of it sparingly, that the hungry might have share. He welcomed the benighted traveller, and rose with the stars of the morning, to put him on his way. But his soul repined within him, and he sought relief in change. He had heard of a land where the poor were in peace, and the labourer thought

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worthy of his hire-where the blood of his fathers
had purchased an asylum. He leads the aged parent
whom love grappled to his heart. He bears his
infants in his arms. His wife followed his weary
steps. They escape from the barbarous laws that
would make their country their prison. They cross
the trackless ocean--they descry the promised land;
and hope brightens the prospect to their view ; but
happiness is not for him. The ruthless spirit of perse-
cution pursues him through the waste of the ocean.
Shall his foot never find rest, nor his heart repose ?
No! The prowling bird of prey hovers on Columbia's
coast. Wafted on eagle wings, the British pirate
comes-rayishes the poor fugitive from the partner
of his sorrows, and the tender pledges of their love.
See the haggard eyes of a father, to which nature
denies a tear ! a stupid monument of living death.
He would interpose his feeble arm, but it is motion-
less he would bid adieu, but his voice refuses its of-
fice. The prop of his declining years torn remorse-
lessly from before him, he stands like the blasted oak,
dead to hope and every earthly joy !!
· Was it not then enough, that this victim of oppres-
sion had left his native land to the rapacity of its in-
vaders ? Might he not have been permitted to seek
a shelter in the gloom of the wilderness ? No! the
ruthless spirit of persecution is not yet sated with his
sufferings. The torments of one element exhausted
those of another, are now prepared for him. Enslav-
ed to scornful masters, the authors of his misery, and

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