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.