Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E—， theIrish patriot； it was too touching to be soon forgotten. Duringthe troubles in Ireland， he was tried， condemned， and executed，on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impressionon public sympathy. He was so young—so intelligent—sogenerous—so brave—so every thing that we are apt to like ina young man. His conduct under trial， too， was so lofty andintrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled thecharge of treason against his country—the eloquent vindicationof his name—and his pathetic appeal to posterity， in thehopeless hour of condemnation，—all these entered deeply intoevery generous bosom， and even his enemies lamented thestern policy that dictated his execution.
But there was one heart whose anguish it would beimpossible 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 lovedhim with the disinterested fervor of a woman’s first and earlylove. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him；when blasted in fortune， and disgrace and danger darkened hisname， 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 wasoccupied by his image？ Let those tell who have had the portalsof the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being theymost loved on earth—who have sat at its threshold， as one shutout in a cold and lonely world， whence all that was most lovelyand loving had departed.
But then the horrors of such a grave！—so frightful， sodishonored！ There was nothing for memory to dwell on thatcould soothe the pang of separation—none of those tender，though melancholy circumstances which endear the partingscene—nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears， sentlike the dews of heaven， to revive the heart in the parting hourof anguish.
To render her widowed situation more desolate， she hadincurred her father’s displeasure by her unfortunate attachment，and was an exile from the parental roof. But could the sympathyand kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shockedand driven in by horror， she would have experienced no wantof consolation， for the Irish are a people of quick and generoussensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions werepaid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led intosociety， and they tried all kinds of occupation and amusementto dissipate her grief， and wean her from the tragical story ofher loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes ofcalamity that scathe and scorch the soul—which penetrateto the vital seat of happiness—and blast it， never again toput forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent thehaunts of pleasure， but was as much alone there as in thedepths of solitude； walking about in a sad revery， apparentlyunconscious of the world around her. She carried with her aninward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship，and “heeded not the song of the charmer， charm he never sowisely.”
The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade.
There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness morestriking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find itwandering like a spectre， lonely and joyless， where all aroundis gay—to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth， and lookingso wan and woe-begone， as if it had tried in vain to cheat thepoor heart into momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. Afterstrolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with anair of utter abstraction， she sat herself down on the steps of anorchestra， 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 littleplaintive air. She had an exquisite voice； but on this occasionit was so simple， so touching， it breathed forth such a soul ofwretchedness—that she drew a crowd， mute and silent， aroundher and melted every one into tears.
The story of one so true and tender could not but excite greatinterest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completelywon the heart of a brave officer， who paid his addresses to her，and thought that one so true to the dead， could not but proveaffectionate to the living. She declined his attentions， for herthoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of herformer lover. He， however， persisted in his suit. He solicitednot her tenderness， but her esteem. He was assisted by herconviction of his worth， and her sense of her own destituteand dependent situation， for she was existing on the kindnessof friends. In a word， he at length succeeded in gaining herhand， though with the solemn assurance， that her heart wasunalterably another’s.
He took her with him to Sicily， hoping that a change ofscene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. Shewas an amiable and exemplary wife， and made an effort to bea happy one； but nothing could cure the silent and devouringmelancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wastedaway in a slow， but hopeless decline， and at length sunk intothe grave， the victim of a broken heart.
It was on her that Moore， the distinguished Irish poet，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 loved 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 entwined him—Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried，Nor long will his love stay behind him！
Oh！ make her a grave where the sunbeams 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！