The Irish Avatar

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave, And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, To the long-cherished Isle which he loved like his--bride. True, the great of her bright and brief Era are gone, The rain-bow-like Epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won, Which betrayed not, or crushed not, or wept not her cause.…