“Emmet, No!
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up,
that I should now be silent, … that my soul
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink,
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice,
Of that divinest impulse never more
Worthy, if implious I withheld it now,
Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free Isle,
To which in thy young virtue’s erring zeal
Though wert so perilous an enemy,
Here in free England shall an English hand
Build they imperishable monument;
O, … to thine own misfortune and to ours,
By thine own deadly error so beguiled,
Here in free England shall an English voice
Raise up the mourning-song. For thou has paid
The bitter penalty of that misdeed;
Justice hath done her unrelenting part,
if she in truth be Justice who drives on,
Bloody and blind, the chariot of death.

“So young, so glowing for the general good,
Oh what a lovely manhood had been thine,
When all the violent workings of thy youth
Had pass’d away, hadst thou been wisely spared,
Left to the slow and certain influence
Of silent feeling and maturing thought.
How had that heart, … that noble heart of thine,
Which even how had snapt one spell, which beat
With such brave indignation at the shame
And guilt of France, and of her miscreant Lord,
How had it clung to England! With what love,
What pure and perfect love, return’d to her,
Now worthy of thy love, the champion now
For freedom, … yea, the only champion now,
And soon to be the Avenger. But the blow
Hath fallen, the indiscriminating blow,
That for its portion to the grave consign’d
Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. Oh, grief, grief!
Oh, sorrow to reproach! Have ye to learn,
Deaf to the past, and to the future blind,
Ye who thus irremissibly exact
The forfeit of life, how lightly life is staked,
When in distemper’d times the feverish mind
To strong delusion yields? Have ye no hearts
To feel and understand how Mercy tames
The rebel nature, madden’d by old wrongs,
.and binds it in the gentle bands of love,
When steel and adamnant were weak to hold
The Samson-strength subdued!

                                  “Let no man write
They epitaph! Emmet, nay, thou shalt not go
Without they funeral strain! O young and good
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go
Unhonour’d or unsung. And better thus
beneath the indiscriminating stroke,
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn,
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse,
Thine own disastrous triumph; to have seen,
If the Almighty at that aweful [sic] hour
Had turn’d away his face, wild Ignorance
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark Zeal,
and all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires
Of Persecution once again ablaze.
How had it sunk into they soul to see,
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France
In thy dear native country lording it!
How happier thus, in that heroic mood
That takes away the sing of death, to die,
By all the good and all the wise forgiven,
Yes, in all ages by the wise and good
To be remember’d, mourn’d, and honour’d still.’