An Epitaph
Robert Stewart (“Castlereagh”), 1769-1822
A vulgar tool, an empty mask, a poison-blooded
viper underfoot: the court and horde alike
denied my lustre, drubbed my name.
Though I cast the present century in vermillion,
no record that I ever lived exists. Sedition
wins by merely festering, a hidden epidemic
no history can cure! Repressed with vigour,
the Irish insurrection proved invaluable –
as a test of our endurance, regal reign.
Once the hoggish rebels mucked the field,
rampaging through the kingdom, martial law,
efficient force, became a requisite for peace.
Wexford lay possessed by superstitious frenzy:
pedlars of conspiracy, the priests themselves
led pikers into battle. Marching, intermittently
they knelt and prayed, shoring up resolve.
Reputed Orangemen were put to death,
or otherwise coerced, at barrel-point, to swear
a Popish creed: heated bigotry the fuel
the foremen of the mob ignit. The insurgents
daily filled their ranks. Our yeoman boys
and troopers cut them back – strengthening
the Crown, up-routing havoc to the hills.
Transient excess was but the price of order
long-prevailing. Excepting grim banditti,
mountain-squatters, tough to lure, a system
reappeared beyond the bodied mess
our musket-fire conjured. Today the people
see the State, and trust it for protection:
my legacy and gift. I gave as I was able –
the tyrant Jacobins I likewise outmanoeuvered.
They say when Tone was barrack-tried
the day of his arrival, he held himself
with firmness, shunning grief or protestation –
manly form, his eloquence renowned,
the lunacy redeemed, perhaps, in dying.
I understand his end was self-selected,
his final act an epitaph, ineffable and true.
Defamed, despised, a miscreant, still
shackled in a soldier’s coat, the traitor
drew a doctor’s knife across his beating throat.
