Sadly silent she sits, with her head on her hand,
While she prays, in her heart, to the Ruler above,
To protect, and to guide to some happier land,
The joy of her soul and the spouse of her love:
And she marks by her pulses, so wild in their play,
The slow progress of time, as it straggles along;
And she lists to the wind, as 'tis moaning away,
And she deems it the chaunt of some funeral song.
Then anon does she start in her struggles with fear,
And she strains at the whispers of every one round,
While she brushes away, half indignant, the tear,
That will gush, tho' unbidden, at every fresh sound;
And she strives to conceal—oh! how idle the task—
The deep lines in her cheek, and the rent in her heart;
But her neighbours grow pale as they gaze on the mask,
And more lowly and slowly they talk, as they part.
When her babes are at rest will she breathe to their breath,
And keep vigil, how wistfully, over their sleep,
As it mirrors, poor mourner, the stillness of death,
And she stirs them, and calls, for she deems it too deep;
But again does she hush them, first telling them pray,
Till at length overcharged by the tears yet unshed,
Will she sink, and as consciousness passes away,
O'er her pale furrowed cheek, see the hectic o'erspread.
Slowly thus, day by day, does the fever-fire trace
Its incessant course down her fast-withering cheek,
Till the smile that made light in the glow of her face,
But the faint, fading glimpses of vigour bespeak,
And her reason will fitfully pass into night—
Into night even deeper than that of the blind,
As the shade of the gibbet-tree looms in her sight.
And she fancies a death-scream in th' echoing wind.
In the house where I slept—as indeed in every house of the same character in the county—the whole stock of the family, consisting chiefly of cows and sheep, were locked in at night. Such was the extreme poverty of the people that they would not be otherwise safe. The weather was excessively wet, and, for the season, cold. There was a slight partition between the room where my bed was and the kitchen, where there were three cows, a man, his wife and four children. It is impossible to convey any idea of the sensations which crowd upon one in such a scene. I fell asleep at last, lulled by the heavy breathing and monotonous ruminating of the cows. Never was deeper sleep. On being awakened next morning by my watchful friend, it required some time before I could satisfy myself of my position. An excellent breakfast was provided for me, and I parted from my stout-hearted and magnanimous ally. He had sent my baggage, and also provided me with a guide who would lead me across the mountains. He taught me the password of his clan, which I was to use on certain contingencies. The morning was fearfully wet, and we did not travel many miles before we were wet to the skin. The circumstance was the most auspicious that could occur, as it enabled us to pass unobserved.
James Stephens (Circa 1867)
