Classic Poem

Old Flood Ireson! all too long
Have jeer and gibe and ribald song
Done thy memory cruel wrong.

Old Flood Ireson, bending low
Under the weight of years and woe,
Crept to his refuge long ago.

Old Flood Ireson sleeps in his grave;
Howls of a mad mob, worse than the wave,
Now no more in his ear shall rave!
. . . . . . . .

Gone is the pack and gone the prey,
Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day
Is hunted still down Time's highway.

Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare
Hooting and tooting the same old air,
Drags him along the old thoroughfare.

Mocked evermore with the old refrain,
Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,
Jingling and jolting he comes again

Over that road of old renown,
Fair broad avenue, leading down
Through South Fields to Salem town,

Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong,
Mounted high on the car of song,
Sight that cries, O Lord! how long

Shall heaven look on and not take part
With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?

Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame
Wipes away with tears of shame
Stains from many an injured name,

Shall not, in the tuneful line,
Beams of truth and mercy shine
Through the clouds that darken thine?

Take henceforth, perturbèd sprite,
From the fever and the fright,
Take the rest,—thy well-earned right.

Along the track of that hard ride
The form of Penitence oft shall glide,
With tender Pity by her side;

And their tears, that mingling fall
On the dark record they recall,
Shall cleanse the stain and expiate all.