Have ye brave sons'? 4. Look in the next fierce brawl distained, To see them die'. Have ye fair daughters'? Look (1) Yet this-is Rôme, 5. Was greater than a king! And once again,— (hh) Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread XLVI. THE BROKEN HEART-A SKETCH. FROM IRVING. WASHINGTON IRVING, born in 1783, ranks among the first of American authors. In early life, he followed literary pursuits only as an amusement, but meeting with reverses, he devoted himself to literature as a profession. Late in life, he purchased an old Dutch Mansion, on the Hudson, which he fitted up, and in which he resided until his death, in 1859. 1. EVERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. He was so young', so intelligent', so generous', so brave', so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies' lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. 2. But there was one' heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes', he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl', the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name', she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes', what must have been the agony of her', whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth'—who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 3. But then the horrors of such' a grave! so frightful, so dishonored'! there was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pang of separation', none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene', nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit. so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation'; for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love. 5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude'; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." 6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such' a scene; to find it wandering, like a specter, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay', to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching', it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears. She 7. The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions', for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation', for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's. 8. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline', and, at length, sank into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. XLVII. THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. FROM WHITTIER. 1. Look on him! through his dungeon grate; His hand upholds his drooping head; 2. No grateful fire before him glows, And yet the winter's breath is chill: A sound, half murmur and half groan', Of old age chained and desolate. 3. Just God! why lies that old man there? And the rude oath and heartless jeer 4. What has the gray-haired prisoner done? Has murder stained his hands with gore? Not so: his crime's a fouler' one; God made the ōld man pōōr! For this, he shares a felon's cell, The fittest earthly type of hell! For this, the boon for which he poured His young blood on the invader's sword, And counted light the fearful cost, 5. And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, poured thy blood as rain Look forth, thou man of many scars', 6. Go, ring the bells', and fire the guns', Let boastful eloquence declaim 7. But when the patriot cannon jars That prison's cold and gloomy wall, Think ye that prisoner's aged ear Rejoices in the general cheer? Think ye his dim and failing eye Is kindled at your pageantry? 8. Down with the law that binds him thus! No refuge from the withering curse To the free sun and air of God; Bunker Hill Monument. |