Or why should I call thee mine own, love,
To sport with the life that was thine,
Or risk for a land overthrown, love,
A stake that no longer was mine;
Or why should I pledge for the fallen
What only belonged to the free;
For had I not gauged life and all on
The faith that was plighted to thee?
And here, while I wander alone, love,
Beneath the cold shadows of night,
Or lie with my head on a stone, love,
Awaiting the dawning of light,
My spirit unthralled is returning,
Where far from the coward and slave,
Her beacon of love is still burning,
To light, to direct me and save.
And she, too, who watches beside thee,
And loves as none other could love,
To counsel, to cherish and guide thee.
To weep with, but never reprove—
Yes, she too, is lone and unguarded,
The reed she had leant on in twain,
And though her trust thus be rewarded,
She'd love that love over again.
COOLMOUNTAIN WOOD.
At Cork two families were compromised by my prolonged stay, one of them irretrievably, if I were arrested. However, they placed themselves entirely and unconditionally at my disposal. I stated my objections to the proposed conveyance of a coal boat to Wales, where I would be equally exposed as in Ireland, and have infinitely less sympathy or assistance. I suggested one of the London steamers instead, which they agreed to. After some preliminary negotiations, a person connected with one of those vessels promised to secrete me and have me landed at Southampton, where I could easily procure a passage to France. Just as this arrangement was concluded, news arrived that Tipperary was again in arms, under the command of my friend, O'Mahony. The report added that I was associated with him in command. Hour after hour brought some story stranger than that which preceded it; but in each and all I found myself figuring in some character or other, all, of course, contrary to the truth. This fact led at once to a suspicion of the accuracy of the whole. But I was aware that caution was a leading characteristic of O'Mahony's genius, and I felt assured he would not attempt any open movement without strong probabilities of success. The fabrications about myself I reconciled to the belief that he wished it to appear he had my sanction and support. The vessel was to sail next day, and I should determine at once, or risk the safety of the family who protected me. I endeavoured to find a middle course, and suggested the impossibility of leaving the country while even a vague report confirmed the belief that some at least of its people were prepared to vindicate her liberty, or die nobly in its assertion. They acquiesced, and the vessel was allowed to sail. I insisted, however, that after nightfall I should leave the house and take up my quarters in some obscure lodging house. Meantime it was arranged that if the next mail confirmed the accounts from Tipperary, I should be provided with a horse and car, and be able to leave Cork as I entered it. When night came, the lady of the house sternly and resolutely opposed my leaving it. She would not consent to free herself from a risk she took so much honest pleasure in encountering. Another day and night left us in the same uncertainty. The reports were still more unsatisfactory and contradictory. But that there should be reports at all, satisfied my mind, and I finally prepared to start for Tipperary on the morning of the 29th of September.
Information at length reached me that the party under O'Mahony were dispersed and himself fled. The difficulty of my position, with respect to my protectors, left me no alternative. Any chance that presented itself should be embraced. The Bristol boat was in the river, panting to escape her anchorage; and following the horse, which was to bear me to Tipperary, to the quay, I walked on board the Juverna, just as she was loosing her cables. My baggage, made up in a small box, was put on board as a parcel addressed to a young friend of mine in London. The few moments that intervened were fraught with most intense suspense. I stood on the fore deck among cattle, covered with rags and dirt, my eyes fixed on two detectives who stood at the cabin entrance, scrutinising narrowly the figure and features of every cabin passenger. The bell rang, the detectives stepped on shore, one of my friends who watched my movements from a distance, waved a kind adieu, the Juverna slipped her cables, and by one bound was out in the river. The first motion of her paddles sounded to me like the assurance of fate, and I looked on the curling foam with measureless exultation. The Juverna made a momentary halt at Passage, and then glanced gaily through Cove harbour out into the sea. As she cleared the road I turned back to look for the last time upon my fatherland. Her prospects, her promise, her strength, her hopes, her failure and her fall rushed in burning memory through my brain. I endeavoured to embody in the following verses the feelings that agitated and almost paralysed my every faculty of body and mind. I wrote them on a piece of paper that had been wrapped round some cheese:—
Away, away, the good ship swings;
One heave, one bound, and off she's dashing,
Expanding wide her snowy wings,
The white foam round her paddles flashing.
Away, away, the land recedes,
Far into dim and dreary distance,
As gallantly our packet speeds.
Unconscious of the gale's resistance.
Away, away, how oft before,
With paling cheek and aching stomach,
I've trembled at the billow's roar.
And crouched me in my narrow hammock.
But now, I bless the wildest waves
That bear me from a land of slaves.
Away, away, yon crimson cloud,
Which, mounting the blue vault of Heaven,
Soars calmly o'er the murky shroud
That palls the close of boisterous even,
Is scarcely fairer than the form,
The light, the grace, from stem to stern—a
Fairy riding on the storm—
Of the fleet, trusty, dight Juverna,
Away, away, one last look more:
One blessing on the naked land—
Though the too glorious dream be o'er—
One blessing for her truthful hand,
Her proud old faith, though darkly grown,
Still lingering by each cold hearth-stone.
Away, away; poor fool of fate,
Couldst thou but dream this mournful end,
This midnight of a hope so great,
Where shame and sorrow darkly blend—
Couldst thou divine that thus bedecked,
With rags and dirt, thine eyes downturned:
Thou'dst flee, thy whole life's labour wrecked.
Thy very heart within thee burned.
—Away, away, in all the past,
There's not an act I would recall,
I bow me to the o'erwhelming blast,
But 'tis the heart alone can fall,
And mine may once again defy.
The fate that mocks it scoffingly.
Away, away, if o'er the sea,
My voice could reach the prison grate.
Where daylight creeping gloomily,
Comes to deride the captives' fate;
Could I but prove by word or act,
How firm my heart and purpose still,
Their life's worst pang to counteract,
Before their proud young hearts were still—
To live but that the land they loved
Should yet assert its native right,
That the immortal faith they proved,
Should yet be robed in victory's light,
And, oh, to feel such promise high,
Were last to light their dying eye.