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his emotions—his gesture, his action, every thing about him seemed subservient to the impulses of his feelings, and harmonized with the emanations of a noble intellect.
The portrait, prefixed to this memoir, is from the original copper-plate engraving of a sketch taken at his trial by Petrie. At the sale of his effects, three or four years ago, a large colcollection of casts were sold, among them were casts of several of the United Irishmen. One of these, which turned out to be a cast of Robert Emmet, was purchased by a dealer in curiosities, and exposed for sale in Liffey-street. There it was seen, and recognized by the brother-in-law of Mr. T. A. Emmet. On a subsequent inquiry of mine, and of that gentleman, at the house of the person who had purchased the cast of Robert Emmet, as well as the others, it was ascertained that the whole collection had been disposed of by the latter to Mr. Ray. On application to that gentleman, the cast presumed to be that of Emmet, as described by his friend, was found, on my showing it to the latter, the various points of resemblance to Robert's features left no doubt of its identity. The peculiarities, which chiefly established it, were the marks of the small pox on certain parts of the face, and the serrated appearance of two of the upper teeth which was preserved in the cast. The gentleman I refer to, considers Petrie's sketch of Robert Emmet, as having the fault of all the portraits of Robert Emmet, a sombre and austere expression of countenance, which did not belong to the original.*
In bringing this memoir to a cluse, I present to my readers some pieces of poetry of Robert Emmet, which never have been published. They were evidently written during the reign of terror in 1797, or '98, the first piece in the latter year, all of them under the influence of feelings harrowed by the atrocities committed on the people at that period. One of them bears his initials—another, in his hand writing, in the original, had been written in what is called “invisible ink,” and which, by some chemical process, had been rendered barely legible, in
* There is another portrait of Robert Emmet wl was published by John Binns—shortly after his arrival in this country, which Judge Robert Emmet says corresponds with his early recollections of his uncle, but as it makes Robert Emmet appear at least fifty years of age, it was thought more judicious to insert the one prefixed to this work.
purple characters. For these interesting documents I am indebted to Miss Mary M‘Cracken.*
“ ARBOUR HILL,” | BY ROBERT EMMET.
No rising column marks this spot
Where many a victim lies,
To heaven for justice cries.
It claims it on the oppressor's head,
Who joys in human woe,
And mocks them as they flow.
* It has been already observed, that whatever records of the lives and histories of the United Irishmen have been rescued from oblivion, the preservation of them (in most instances which have come to our knowledge,) had been owing to the fidelity of female friendship, or affection on the part of their surviving relatives, the sisters and daugh. ters of the men who were engaged in the struggle of 1798, which neither time, nor obloquy, nor new ties and interests had estranged, nor had been able to extinguish. The name of Mary M'Cracken has become associated in the North with that of her beloved brother, Henry Joy M'Cracken. The recollection of every act of his seems to have been stored up in her mind, as if she felt the charge of his reputation had been committed to her especial care. In that attachment there are traits to be noticed indicative not only of singleness of heart, and benevolence of disposition, but of a noble spirit of heroism, strikingly displayed in the performance of perilous duties, of services rendered at the hazard of life, at great pecuniary sacrifices, not only to that dear brother, but at a later period to his faithful friend, the unfortunate Thomas Russell. Perhaps to those who move in the busy haunts of life, and become famlliarized with the circumscribed views and actions of worldly-people, the rare occurrence of qualites of another kind, which seem to realize the day-dreams of one's early years, an excellence of disposition devoid of all selfishness, devoted to all goodness, capable of all sacrifices, and constant in all trials,—that shakes not in adversity, and becomes insensible to fear where the safety of friends and kindred is in question,-in one who seems to be utterly unconscious of her own nobleness of mind, may appear worthy of admiratton.—Madden's United Irishmen.
+ Arbour Hill, at the rear of the Royal Barracks, in Dublin, was a place where a great number of executions took place, and the burial of those executed for treason. The spot chosen for their interment
croppies hole,” it was a piece of waste ground where rubbish used to be deposited.-R. R. M.
It claims it on the callous Judge,
Whose hands in blood are dyed, Who arms injustice with the sword,
The balance throws aside.
It claims it for his ruined Isle,
Her wretched children's grave; Where withered Freedom droops her head,
And man exists—a slave.
Oh! sacred justice, free this land
From tyranny abhorred; Resume thy balance and thy seat,
Resume—but sheath thy sword.
No retribution should we seek
Too long has horror reigned;
Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix,
With those our martyred dead; This is the place where Erin's sons,
In Erin's cause have bled.
And those who here are laid at rest,
Oh! hallowed be each name; Their memories are for ever blest
Consigned to endless fame.
Unconsecrated is this ground,
Unblest by holy hands;
No monument here stands.
But here the patriot's tears are shed,
The poor man's blessing given; These consecrate the virtuous dead,
These waft their fame to heaven.
LINES BY ROBERT EMMET.
Genius of Erin tune thy harp
To Freedom, let its sound awake Thy prostrate sons, and nerve their hearts,
Oppression's iron bonds to break,
Long and strong then strike the lyre,
Strike it with prophetic lays, Bid it rouse the slumbering fire,
Bid the fire of freedom blaze.
Tell them glory waits their efforts,
Strongly wooed, she will be won, Freedom, show, by peace attended,
Waits to crown each gallant son.
Greatly daring, bid them gain her,
Conquerors, bid them live or die; Erin in her children triumphs,
Marked by glory if they die. But, if her sons, too long opprest,
No spark of freedom's fire retain, And, with sad and servile breast,
Basely wear the galling chain.
Vainly then you'd call to glory,
Vainly freedom's blessings praise, Man debased to willing thraldom,
Freedom's blessing cannot raise. Check thy hand, and change thy strain,
Change it to a sound of woe, Ireland's blasted hopes proclaim,
Ireland's endless sufferings show. Show her fields with blood ensanguined,
With her children's blood bedewed, Show her desolate plains,
With their murdered bodies strewed.
Mark that hamlet, how it blazes,
Hear the shrieks of horror rise,
See! a tortured victim dies.
Ruin stalks his haggard round,
O’er the plains his banner waves, Sweeping, from her wasted land,
All but tyrants and their slaves. All but tyrants and their slaves
Shall they live in Erin's isle ? O'er her martyred patriots' graves,
Shall Oppression's minions smile.
Erin's sons, awake!-awake!
Oh! too long, too long, you sleep; Awake! arise ! your fetters break, Nor let your country bleed and weep.
Ah! where is now my peaceful cot,
Ah! where my happy home? No peaceful cot, alas! is mine,
An exile now I roam.
Far from my country I am driven,
A wanderer sent from thee, But, still, my constant prayer to heaven, Shall be to make thee free.
LINES BY ROBERT EMMET.
Brothers rise, your country calls,
Let us gain her rights, or die
And Freedom's genius o'er his bier,
Long by -'s power opprest,
’s ill-used power detest,
The standard raise to liberty,
Brothers, march, march on to glory,
In your country's cause unite,
-'s legions we 'defy,