第66章 THE SKETCH BOOK(2)

patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troublesin Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge oftreason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was soyoung- so intelligent- so generous- so brave- so every thing that weare apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was solofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled thecharge of treason against his country- the eloquent vindication of hisname- and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour ofcondemnation- all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, andeven his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated hisexecution.

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible todescribe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won theaffections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a latecelebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterestedfervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maximarrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgraceand danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardentlyfor his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken thesympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whosewhole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have hadthe portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the beingthey most loved on earth- who have sat at its threshold, as one shutout in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely andloving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored!

there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang ofseparation- none of those tender though melancholy circumstances,which endear the parting scene- nothing to melt sorrow into thoseblessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart inthe parting hour of anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurredher father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was anexile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kindoffices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in byhorror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for theIrish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The mostdelicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealthand distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kindsof occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean herfrom the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. Thereare some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul- whichpenetrate to the vital seat of happiness- and blast it, never again toput forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts ofpleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude;walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the worldaround her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at allthe blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of thecharmer, charm he never so wisely."The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. Therecan be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking andpainful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like aspectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay- to see itdressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan andwobegone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into amomentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through thesplendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, shesat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking aboutfor some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility tothe garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sicklyheart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice;but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathedforth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute andsilent around her, and melted every one into tears.

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite greatinterest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won theheart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thoughtthat one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to theliving. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocablyengrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted inhis suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He wasassisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her owndestitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on thekindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gainingher hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart wasunalterably another's.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scenemight wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable andexemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothingcould cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered intoher very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and atlength sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed thefollowing lines:

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers around her are sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking-Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love- for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him-Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,Where they promise a glorious morrow;They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,From her own loved island of sorrow!

THE END

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1819-20