GLENARVON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,

1816.

London: Printed by Schulze and Dean, 13, Poland Street.

Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme

Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.

CHAPTER LXXII.

Love, though, when guilty, the parent of every crime, springs forth in the noblest hearts, and dwells ever with the generous and the high-minded. The flame that is kindled by Heaven burns brightly and steadily to the last, its object great and superior, sustained by principle, and incapable of change. But, when the flame is unsupported by these pure feelings, it rages and consumes us, burns up and destroys every noble hope, perverts the mind, and fills with craft and falsehood every avenue to the heart. Then that which was a paradise, becomes a hell; and the victim of its power, a maniac and a fiend. They know not the force 4 of passion, who have not felt it—they know not the agony of guilt, who have not plunged into its burning gulf, and trembled there. O! when the rigorous and the just turn with abhorrence from the fearful sight—when, like the pharisee, in the pride of their unpolluted hearts, they bless their God that they are not as this sinner—let them beware; for the hour of trial may come to all; and that alone is the test of superior strength.

When man, reposing upon himself, disdains the humility of acknowledging his offences and his weakness before his Creator, on the sudden that angry God sees fit to punish him in his wrath, and he who has appeared invulnerable till that hour, falls prostrate at once before the blow; perhaps then, for the first time, he relents; and, whilst he sinks himself, feels for the sinner whom, in the pride and presumption of his happier day, he had mocked at and despised. There are trials, which human frailty 5 cannot resist—there are passions implanted in the heart’s core, which reason cannot subdue; and God himself compassionates, when a fellow-creature refuses to extend to us his mercy or forgiveness.

Fallen, miserable Calantha! where now are the promises of thy youth—the bright prospects of thy happiness? Where is that unclouded brow—that joyous look of innocence which once bespoke a heart at ease? Is it the same, who, with an air of fixed and sullen despondency, flying from a father’s house, from a husband’s protection, for one moment resolved to seek the lover whom she adored, and follow him, regardless of every other tie? Even in that hour of passion and of guilt, the remembrance of her husband, of her sacred promise to her aunt, and of that gentle supplicating look with which it was received, recurred. A moment’s reflection changed the rash resolve; and hastening forward, 6 she knew not where—she cared not to what fate—she found herself after a long and weary walk at the vicar’s house, near Kelladon—a safe asylum and retreat.

The boat which had conveyed her from the shore returned; and a few hours after brought Glenarvon to the other side of the rocks, known in the country by the name of the Wizzard’s Glen, and ofttimes the scene of tumult and rebellious meeting. Calantha little expected to see him. He met her towards evening, as weary and trembling she stood, uncertain where to fly, or what to do. The moment of meeting was terrible to both; but that which followed was more agonizing still. A servant of her father’s had discovered her after a long search. He informed her of her aunt’s illness and terror. He humbly, but firmly, urged her instantly to return.

Calantha had resolved never to do so; but, lost as she was, the voice of her 7 aunt still had power to reach her heart.—“Is she very ill?” “Very dangerously ill,” said the man; and without a moments delay, she immediately consented to return. She resolved to part from him she adored; and Glenarvon generously agreed to restore her to her aunt, whose sufferings had affected his heart—whose prayers had moved him, as he said, to the greatest sacrifice he ever was called upon to make. Yet still he upbraided her for her flight, and affirmed, that had she but confided herself in him, she had long before this have been far away from scenes so terrible to witness, and been spared a state of suspense so barbarous to endure. Whilst he spoke, he gazed upon her with much sadness.

“I will leave you,” he said; “but the time may come when you will repent, and call in vain for me. They may tear my heart from out my breast—they may tear thee from me, if it is their mad desire. I shall or die, or recover, or forget thee. 8 But oh! miserable victim—what shall become of thee? Do they hope their morality will unteach the lessons I have given; or pluck my image from that heart? Thou art mine, wedded to me, sold to me; and no after-time can undo for thee, what I have done. Go; for I can relinquish thee. But have they taught thee, what it is to part from him you love? never again to hear his voice—never again to meet those eyes, whose every turn and glance you have learned to read and understand?”

Calantha could not answer. “You will write kindly and constantly to me,” at length she said. “May God destroy me in his vengeance,” cried Glenarvon eagerly, “if, though absent, I do not daily, nay, hourly think of thee, write to thee, live for thee! Fear not, thou loved one. There was a time when inconstancy had been a venial error—when insecure of thy affections, and yet innocent, to fly thee had been a 9 duty, to save thee had been an angel’s act of mercy and of virtue;—but now when thou art mine; when, sacrificing the feelings of thy heart for others, thou dost leave me—can you believe that I would add to your grief and increase my own. Can you believe him you love so base as this? Oh! yes, Calantha, I have acted the part of such a villain to your lost friend, that even you mistrust me.” She re-assured him: “I have given my very soul to you, O! Glenarvon. I believe in you, as I once did in Heaven. I had rather doubt myself and every thing than you.”

She now expressed an anxiety to return and see her aunt. “Yet, Calantha, it may perhaps be said that you have fled to me. The stain then is indelible. Think of it, my beloved; and think, if I myself conduct you back, how the malevolent, who are ever taunting you, will say that I wished not to retain you. They know me not; they guess not 10 what I feel; and the world, ever apt to judge by circumstances imperfectly related, will imagine”.... “At such a moment,” said Calantha, impatiently, “it is of little importance what is thought. When the heart suffers keenly, not all the sayings of others are of weight. Let them think the worst, and utter what they think. When we fall, as I have done, we are far beyond their power: the venomed shaft of malice cannot wound; for the blow under which we sink is alone heeded. I feel now but this, that I am going to part from you.”

Glenarvon looked at her, and the tears filled his eyes. “Thy love,” he said, “was the last light of Heaven, that beamed upon my weary pilgrimage: thy presence recalled me from error: thy soft voice stilled every furious passion. It is all past now—I care not what becomes of me.” As he spoke, they approached the boat, and entering it, sailed with a gentle breeze across the bay. Not a 11 wave rippled over the sea—not a cloud obscured the brightness of the setting sun. “How tranquil and lovely is the evening!” said Glenarvon, as the bark floated upon the smooth surface. “It is very calm now,” she replied, as she observed the serenity of his countenance. “But, ah! who knows how soon the dreadful storms may arise, and tear us to destruction.”

The boat now touched the shore, where a crowd of spectators were assembled—some watching from the top of the high cliff, and others idly gazing upon the sea. The figure of Elinor distinctly appeared amongst the former, as bending forward, she eagerly watched for Glenarvon. Her hat and plume distinguished her from the crowd; and the harp, her constant companion, sounded at intervals on the breeze, in long and melancholy cadences. Her dark wild eye fixed itself upon him as he approached. “It is my false lover,” 12 she said, and shrieked. “Hasten, dearest Calantha,” he cried, “from this spot, where we are so much observed. That wretched girl may, perhaps, follow us. Hasten; for see with what rapidity she advances.” “Let her come,” replied Calantha. “I am too miserable myself to turn from those that are unhappy.” Elinor approached: she gazed on them as they passed: she strained her eyes to catch one last glimpse of Glenarvon as he turned the path.

Many of his friends, retainers and followers were near. He bowed to all with gracious courtesy; but upon Elinor he never cast his eyes. “He’s gone!” she cried, shouting loudly, and addressing herself to her lawless associates, in the language they admired. “He is gone; and peace be with him; for he is the leader of the brave.” They now passed on in silence to the castle; but Elinor, returning to her harp, struck the chords with enthusiasm, whilst the caverns of the 13 mountains re-echoed to the strain. The crowd who had followed loudly applauded, joining in the chorus to the well-known sound of

“Erin m’avourneen—Erin go brah.”

14

CHAPTER LXXIII.

The moment of enthusiasm was past; the setting sun warned every straggler and passenger to return. Some had a far distant home to seek; others had left their wives or their children. Elinor turned from the golden light which illuminated the west, and gazed in agony upon the gloomy battlements of St. Alvin Priory, yet resplendent with the last parting ray. Of all who followed her, few only now remained to watch her steps. She bade them meet her at the cavern at the accustomed hour. She was weary, and feigned that till then she would sleep. This she did to disembarrass herself of them.

Upon raising herself after a little time, they were gone. It was dark—it was 15 lonely. She sat and mused upon the cliff, till the pale moon broke through the clouds, and tipped every wave with its soft and silvery light.—“The moon shines bright and fair,” she said: “the shadows pass over it. Will my lover come again to me? It is thy voice, Glenarvon, which sings sweetly and mournfully in the soft breeze of night.”

My heart’s fit to break, yet no tear fills my eye,

As I gaze on the moon, and the clouds that flit by.

The moon shines so fair, it reminds me of thee;

But the clouds that obscure it, are emblems of me.

They will pass like the dream of our pleasures and youth;

They will pass like the promise of honor and truth;

And bright thou shalt shine, when these shadows are gone,

All radiant—serene—unobscur’d; but alone.

“And did he pass me so coldly by? And did he not once look on me?” she said. “But I will not weep: he shall not break my spirit and heart. Let him 16 do so to the tame doves for whom he has forsaken me. Let such as Alice and Calantha die for his love: I will not.”—She took her harp: her voice was tired and feeble. She faintly murmured the feelings of her troubled soul. It sounded like the wind, as it whispered through the trees, or the mournful echo of some far distant flute.

SONG.

And can’st thou bid my heart forget

What once it lov’d so well;

That look—that smile, when first we met;

That last—that sad farewell?

Ah! no: by ev’ry pang I’ve prov’d,

By ev’ry fond regret,

I feel, though I no more am lov’d,

I never—can forget.

I wish’d to see that face again,

Although ’twere chang’d to me:

I thought it not such madd’ning pain

As ne’er to look on thee.

17

But, oh! ’twas torture to my breast,

To meet thine alter’d eye,

To see thee smile on all the rest,

Yet coldly pass me by.

Even now, when ev’ry hope is o’er

To which I....

“Are these poetical effusions ended?” said a soft voice from behind.—She started; and turning round, beheld the figure of a man enveloped in a dark military cloak, waiting for her upon the cliff.—“What a night it is! not a wave on the calm sea: not a cloud in the Heavens. See how the mountain is tinged with the bright moonshine. Are you not chilled—are you not weary; wandering thus alone?” “I am prepared to follow you,” said Elinor, “though not as a mistress, yet as a slave.” “I do not love you,” said the man, approaching her. “Oh, even if you were to hang about and kneel to me as once, I cannot love you! Yet it once was pleasant to be so loved; was it 18 not?” “I think not of it now,” said Elinor, while a proud blush burned on her cheek. “This is no time for retrospection.” “Let us hasten forwards, by the light of the moon: I perceive that we are late.—Have you forgiven me?” “There are injuries, Glenarvon, too great to be forgiven: speak not of the past: let us journey on.”

The lashing of the waves against the rocks, alone disturbed the silence of this scene. They walked in haste by each others side, till they passed Craig Allen Point, and turned into the mouth of a deep cavern. Whispers were then heard from every side—the confusion of strange voices, the jargon of a foreign dialect, the yells and cries of the mutineers and discontented. “Strike a light,” said Elinor’s companion, in a commanding tone, as he advanced to the mouth of the rock.—In a moment, a thousand torches blazed around, whilst shouts of joy proclaimed a welcome to the visitor, 19 who was accosted with every mark of the most obsequious devotion.

“How many have taken the oath to-night?” said a stout ill-looking man, advancing to the front line. “Sure, Citizen Conner, fifty as brave boys as ever suck’d whiskey from the mother country,” answered O’Kelly from within. The ferocious band of rebels were now ordered forward, and stood before their leader; some much intoxicated, and all exhibiting strange marks of lawless and riotous insubordination. “We’ll pay no tythes to the parsons,” said one. “We’ll go to mass, that we will, our own way.” “We’ll be entirely free.” “There shall be no laws amongst us.” “We’ll reform every thing, won’t we?” “And turn all intruders out with the tyrants.” “Here’s to the Emerald Isle! Old Ireland for ever! Erin for ever!” “Come, my brave boys,” shouted forth one Citizen Cobb, “this night get yourselves pikes—make yourselves arms. Beg, buy, 20 or steal, and bring them here privately at the next meeting. We’ll send your names in to the directory. Fear nothing, we will protect you: we’ll consider your grievances. Only go home peaceably,

some one way, and some another—by twos, by threes. Let us be orderly as the king’s men are. We are free men; and indeed free men can make as good soldiers.”

“I would fain speak a few words, citizen, before we part to-night. The hour is not yet ripe; but you have been all much wronged. My heart bleeds for your wrongs. Every tear that falls from an Irishman is like a drop of the heart’s best blood: is’t not so, gentlemen? Ye have been much aggrieved; but there is one whom ye have for your leader, who feels for your misfortunes; who will not live among you to see you wronged: and who, though having nothing left for himself, is willing to divide his property amongst you all to the last shilling. See 21 there, indeed, he stands amongst us. Say, shall he speak to you?” “Long life to him—let him speak to us.” “Hear him.” “Let there be silence as profound as death.” “Sure and indeed we’ll follow him to the grave.” “Och, he’s a proper man!” A thousand voices having thus commanded silence:

“Irishmen,” said Glenarvon, throwing his dark mantle off, and standing amidst the grotesque and ferocious rabble, like some God from a higher world—“Irishmen, our country shall soon be free:—you are about to be avenged. That vile government, which has so long, and so cruelly oppressed you, shall soon be no more! The national flag—the sacred green, shall fly over the ruins of despotism; and that fair capital, which has too long witnessed the debauchery, the plots, the crimes of your tyrants, shall soon be the citadel of triumphant patriotism and virtue. Even if we fail, let us die defending the rights of man—the 22 independence of Ireland. Let us remember that as mortals we are liable to the contingencies of failure; but that an unalterable manliness of mind, under all circumstances, is erect and unsubdued. If you are not superior to your antagonist in experience and skill, be so in intrepidity. Art, unsupported by skill, can perform no service. Against their superior practice, array your superior daring; for on the coward, who forgets

his duty in the hour of danger, instant punishment shall fall; but the brave, who risk their lives for the general cause, shall receive immediate distinction and reward.—Arise then, united sons of Ireland—arise like a great and powerful people, determined to live free or die.”

Shouts of applause for a moment interrupted Glenarvon. Then, as if inspired with renewed enthusiasm, he proceeded: “Citizens, or rather shall I not say, my friends; for such you have proved yourselves to me, my own and 23 dear countrymen; for though an exile, whom misfortune from infancy has pursued, I was born amongst you, and first opened my delighted eyes amidst these rocks and mountains, where it is my hope and ambition yet to dwell. The hour of independence approaches. Let us snap the fetters by which tyrants have encompassed us around: let us arouse all the energies of our souls; call forth all the merit and abilities, which a vicious government has long consigned to obscurity; and under the conduct of great and chosen leaders, march with a steady step to victory.”

Here Glenarvon was again interrupted by the loud and repeated bursts of applause. Elinor then springing forward, in a voice that pierced through the hearts of each, and was echoed back from cave to cave—“Heard ye the words of your leader?” she cried: “and is there one amongst you base enough to desert him?” “None, none.” “Then arm 24 yourselves, my countrymen: arm yourselves by every means in your power: and rush like lions on your foes. Let every heart unite, as if struck at once by the same manly impulse; and Ireland shall itself arise to defend its independence; for in the cause of liberty, inaction is cowardice: and may every coward forfeit the property he has not the courage to protect! Heed not the glare of hired soldiery, or aristocratic yeomanry: they cannot stand the vigorous shock of freedom. Their trappings and their arms will soon be yours. Attack the tyrants in every direction, by day and by night.—To war—to war! Vengeance on the detested government of England! What faith shall you keep with them? What faith have they ever kept with you?

Ireland can exist independent. O! let not the chain of slavery encompass us around.—Health to the Emerald isle! Glenarvon and Ireland for ever!” 25

CHAPTER LXXIV.