The Rhode Island Republican

From the Percy Anecdotes.

Fidelity.—Every one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmet the Irish Patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. 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 opponents lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

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 the 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 sufferings. Since his fate could awaken sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose 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 lovely and loving had departed.

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 attention were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, wean her from the tragical story of her love, but it was all in vain! There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul; that 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 she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer: charm he ever so wisely."

The person, says the eloquent author of the Sketch Book, who told me her story, had seen her at a masquerade. 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. She had an exquisite voice; but on the 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.

The story of one so true and tender could 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 though 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 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.

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one: but nothing could cure the silent melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and at last sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on this lady that Moore composed the following lines;

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps.
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking:
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love'for his country he died.
They were all that to life had entwin'd him,
Nor so soon shall the tears of his country be dried.
Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west
From her own loved Island of sorrow !