GLORVINA, THE MAID OF MEATH.
BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
Ireland has had her heroines. Glorvina, the daughter of Malachi, king of Meath, was the joy and pride of her father, yet at the same time his anxious, never-resting care; for the Dane was in the land. The rovers were led by Turgesius, a voluptuous prince, though advanced in years. Turgesius approached the gate of Malachi with the smile of peace upon his countenance, but with the thoughts of rapine in his heart. He was hospitably received; the banquet was spread for him; and when he was weary with feasting and hilarity, he was conducted to the richest, softest couch.
He had not yet seen Glorvina, but he had heard of her surpassing beauty; and one day he requested of the king that his daughter should sit at the feast. A shade came over the brow of Malachi; but he bowed his head, and it was gone. With a timid, yet stately step, the virgin entered the hall. Thick and clustering, and reaching far below her tapering waist, hung her auburn hair; her eyes were cast down; her fair skin mantled and faded, as her colour came and went; and she spake not as she sank in modest, graceful obeisance, to the salutation of Turgesius.
The Dane had no appetite for the banquet that day. He seemed to be conscious of nothing but the presence of Glorvina. Alarm and ire were painted in the countenance of the king, but Turgesius noted it not. He never removed his eyes from the royal maid; they wandered incessantly over her features and her form, and followed the movements of her white, roundly-moulded arms, as she accepted or returned the cup or the viands which were proffered for her use. Haughty for the first time was the fair brow of Glorvina: the bold stare of man was a stranger to her. Again and again she offered to retire, but was withheld by the dissuasions of Turgesius, seconded by the admonishing glances of her father. At last, however, in spite of all opposition, she withdrew.
The Dane sat abstracted with a clouded brow; deep sighs came thick and strugglingly from his breast. Malachi tried to rouse his guest, and succeeded at last, with the aid of the cup. Turgesius waxed wildly joyous; he spoke of love, and of the idol before which the passion bows; and he asked for the strain that was in unison with the tone of his soul; the song of desire was awakened at his call; and as it flowed, swelling and sinking with the mood of the fitful theme, the rover's cheek flushed more and more, and his eyes more wildly flamed.
Turgesius did not sleep at the castle that night. He was summoned on a sudden to a distance: oppression had produced reaction. In the place of the slave, the man had started up; and the air all at once was thick with weapons, where for months the glare of brass or of steel had not been seen, except in the hand of the foreigner. Outposts had been driven in; large bands were retracing steps which they had no right to take; the sway of the freebooter was tottering. His presence saved it, and the native again bowed sullenly to resume the yoke.
After the lapse of a few weeks, Turgesius once more drew near the gate of Malachi. Loudly the blast of his herald demanded the customed admission, and with impatience the Dane awaited the reply to his summons. It came; but there was wailing in the voice of welcome, and the visitor felt that he grew cold. The mourner received him in the hall:—Glorvina was no more! Turgesius turned his face away from the house of death, and departed for his own stronghold, where with alternate sports and revels he endeavoured to assuage disappointment and obliterate recollection.
Dusk fell. Silent and gloomy was the aisle of the royal chapel. Before a monument, newly erected, stood a lonely figure gazing upon the name of Glorvina, which was carved upon the stone. The figure was that of a youth, tall, and of matchless symmetry. His arms were folded, his head drooped, he uttered no sound; his soul was with the inmate of the narrow house. He heard not the step of the bard who was approaching, and who presently stood by his side unnoted by him.
Long did the reverend man gaze upon the youth without attempting to accost him. More and more he wondered who it could be whom sorrow so enchained in abstraction. At length the lips of the figure moved, and a sigh, deep-drawn, ushered forth the name of Glorvina. No stranger to the bard was the voice that fell upon his ear. "Niall!" he exclaimed. The youth started and turned; it was Niall. He threw himself upon the neck of the bard. The flood of the eyes began to flow: he sobbed forth aloud and incontinently the name of Glorvina!