The Gloat Bowl

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If we may judge of matter by the mind, Emasculated to the marrow It Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind, Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, Eutropius of its many masters,- blind To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless- because no feeling dwells in ice, Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, For I will never feel them?- Italy! Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee- Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me. Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

The Gloat Bowl

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