The heart sometimes swells with a forethought of approaching
dissolution; and Glenarvon, as he had cast many a homeward glance upon
his own native mountains, knew that he beheld them for the last time.
Turning with sadness towards them, “Farewell to Ireland,” he cried;
“and may better hearts support her rights, and revenge her wrongs!
I must away.” Arrived in England, he travelled in haste; nor paused
till he gained the port in which his ship was stationed. He sailed in
a fair frigate with a gallant crew, and no spirit amongst them was so
light, and no heart appeared more brave. Yet he was ill in health;
and some observed that he drank much, and oft, and that he started
from his own thoughts; then laughed and talked with eagerness, as if
desirous to forget them. “I shall die in this engagement,” he said,
addressing his first lieutenant. “Hardhead, I shall die; but I care
not. Only this remember—whatever other ships may do, let the Emerald
be first and last in action. This is Glenarvon’s command.—Say, shall
it be obeyed?”——Upon the night after Lord Glenarvon had made his
escape from Ireland, and the heir of Delaval had been restored to his
father, a stranger stood in the outer gates of St. Alvin Priory—It
was the maniac La Crusca, denouncing woe, and woe upon Glenarvon. St.
Clare marked him as she returned to the Wizzard’s Glen, and, deeply
agitated, prepared to meet her followers. It was late when the company
were assembled. A flash of agony darted from her eyes, whilst with
a forced smile, she informed them that Lord Glenarvon had disgraced
himself for ever; and, lastly, had abandoned his country’s cause.
“Shame on the dastard!” exclaimed one. “We’ll burn his castle,” cried
another. “Let us delay no longer,” was murmured by all. “There are
false friends among us. This is the night for action. To-morrow—who
can look beyond to-morrow?” “Where is Cormac O’Leary?” said St. Clare.
“He has been bribed to forsake us.” “Where is Cobb O’Connor?” “He
is appointed to a commission in the militia, but will serve us at
the moment.” “Trust not the faithless varlet: they who take bribes
deserve no trust.”
“Oh, God!” cried St. Clare indignantly; “have I lived to see my
country bleeding; and is there not one of her children firm by her
to the last?” “We are all united, all ready to stand, and die, for
our liberty,” replied her eager followers. “Lead on: the hour is at
hand. At the given signal, hundreds, nay, thousands, in every part of
the kingdom, shall rush at once to arms, and fight gallantly for the
rights of man. The blast of the horn shall echo through the mountains,
and, like the lava in torrents of fire, we will pour down upon the
tyrants who oppress us. Lead on, St. Clare: hearts of iron attend
you. One soul unites us—one spirit actuates our desires: from the
boundaries of the north, to the last southern point of the island,
all await the signal.” “Hear it kings and oppressors of the earth,”
said St. Clare: “hear it, and tremble on your thrones. It is the
voice of the people, the voice of children you have trampled upon,
and betrayed. What enemy is so deadly as an injured friend?”
Saying this, and rushing from the applause with which this meeting
concluded, she turned to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, and gazed
with melancholy upon the turrets of Belfont. Splendid was the setting
ray of the sun upon the western wave: calm was the scene before her:
and the evening breeze blew softly around. Then placing herself near
her harp, she struck for the last time its chords. Niel Carter and
Tyrone had followed her. Buchanan, and de Ruthven, Glenarvon’s cousin,
stood by her side. “Play again on thy harp the sweet sounds that are
dear to me. Sing the songs of other days,” he said. “Oh, look not
sad, St. Clare: I never will abandon thee.” “My name is branded with
infamy,” she cried: “dishonour and reproach assail me on every side.
Black are the portals of hell—black are the fiends that await to
seize my soul—but more black is the heart of iron that has betrayed
me. Yet I will sing the song of the wild harper. I will sing for you
the song of my own native land, of peace and joy, which never more
must be mine.”
“Hark! what shriek of agony is that?”—“I hear nothing.” “It was his
dying groan.——What means your altered brow, that hurried look?” It was
the sudden inspiration of despair. Her eye fixed itself on distant
space in wild alarm—her hair streamed—as in a low and hurried tone
she thus exclaimed, whilst gazing on the blue vault of heaven:
“Curs’d be the fiend’s detested art,
Impress’d upon this breaking heart.
Visions dark and dread I see.
Chill’d is the life-blood in my breast.
I cannot pause—I may not rest:
I gaze upon futurity.
“My span of life is past, and gone:
My breath is spent, my course is done.
Oh! sound my lyre, one last sad strain!
This hand shall wake thy chords no more.
Thy sweetest notes were breath’d in vain:
The spell that gave them power is o’er.”
“Dearest, what visions affright you?” said de Ruthven. “When shall
the wishes of the people be gratified? What sudden gloom darkens over
your countenance?” said her astonished followers. “Say, prophetess,
what woe do you denounce against the traitor?” In a low murmuring
voice, turning to them, she answered:
“When turf and faggots crackling blaze;
When fire and torch-lights dimly burn;
When kine at morn refuse to graze,
And the green leaf begins to turn;
Then shall pain and sickness come,
Storms abroad, and woes at home.
When cocks are heard to crow at ev’n,
And swallows slowly ply their wing;
When home-bound ships from port are driv’n,
And dolphins roll, and mermaids sing;
Then shall pain and sickness come,
Storms abroad, and woes at home.
When the black ox shall tread with his foot
On the green growing saplin’s tender root;
Then a stranger shall stand in Glenarvon’s hall,
And his portals shall blaze and his turrets shall fall.
Glenarvon, the day of thy glory is o’er;
Thou shalt sail from hence, but return no more.
Sound mournfully, my harp; oh, breath a strain,
More sad than that which Sion’s daughters sung,
When on the willow boughs their harps they hung,
And wept for lost Jerusalem! A train
More sorrowful before my eyes appear:
They come, in chains they come! The hour of fate is near.
Erin, the heart’s best blood shall flow for thee.
It is thy groans I hear—it is thy wounds I see.
Cold sleep thy heroes in their silent grave:
The leopard lords it o’er their last retreat.
O’er hearts that once were free and brave,
See the red banners proudly wave.
They crouch, they fall before a tyrant’s feet.
The star of freedom sets, to rise no more.
Quench’d is the immortal spark in endless night:
Never again shall ray so fair, so bright,
Arise o’er Erin’s desolated shore.”
No sooner had St. Clare ended, than Buchanan, joining with her and the
rest of the rebels, gave signal for the long expected revolt. “Burn
his castle—destroy his land,” said St. Clare. Her followers prepared
to obey: with curses loud and repeated, they vented their execration.
Glenarvon, the idol they had once adored, they now with greater show
of justice despised. “Were he only a villain,” said one, “I, for my
part, would pardon him: but he is a coward and a hypocrite: when he
commits a wrong he turns it upon another: he is a smooth dissembler,
and while he smiles he stabs.” All his ill deeds were now collected
together from far and near, to strengthen the violence of resentment
and hate. Some looked upon the lonely grave of Alice, and sighed as
they passed. That white stone was placed over a broken heart, they
said: another turned to the more splendid tomb of Calantha, and cursed
him for his barbarity to their lady: “It was an ill return to so
much love—we do not excuse her, but we must upbraid him.” Then came
they to the wood, and Buchanan, trembling with horror, spoke of his
murdered mother. “Burn his castles,” they cried, “and execrate his
memory from father to son in Belfont.” St. Clare suddenly arose in
the midst of the increasing crowd, and thus, to inforce her purpose,
again addressed her followers:—
“England, thou hast destroyed thy sister country,” she cried. “The
despot before whom you bow has cast slavery and ruin upon us. O man—or
rather less, O king, drest in a little brief authority, beware, beware!
The hour of retribution is at hand. Give back the properties that
thy nation has wrested from a suffering people. Thy fate is decreed;
thy impositions are detected; thy word passes not current among us:
beware! the hour is ripe. Woe to the tyrant who has betrayed his
trust!”—These were the words which Elinor uttered as she gave the
signal of revolt to her deluded followers. It was even during the
dead of night, in the caverns of Inis Tara, where pikes and bayonets
glittered by the light of the torch, and crowds on crowds assembled,
while yells and cries reiterated their bursts of applause.
The sound of voices and steps approached. Buchanan, de Ruthven, and
St. Clare, parted from each other. “It will be a dreadful spectacle
to see the slaughter that shall follow,” said St. Clare. “Brothers
and fathers shall fight against each other. The gathering storm has
burst from within: it shall overwhelm the land. One desperate effort
shall be made for freedom. Hands and hearts shall unite firm to shake
off the shackles of tyranny—to support the rights of man—the glorious
cause of independence. What though in vain we struggle—what though the
sun that rose so bright in promise may set in darkness—the splendid
hope was conceived—the daring effort was made; and many a brave heart
shall die in the sacred cause. What though our successors be slaves,
aye, willing slaves, shall not the proud survivor exult in the memory
of the past! Fate itself cannot snatch from us that which once has
been. The storms of contention may cease—the goaded victims may bear
every repeated lash; and in apathy and misery may kneel before the
feet of the tyrants who forget their vow. But the spirit of liberty
once flourished at least; and every name that perishes in its cause
shall stand emblazoned in eternal splendour—glorious in brightness,
though not immortal in success.”