Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,

Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon power,

'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore![jh] [602]

Ra. September 16, 1821.

[First published, Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824, pp. 331-338.]