Nellie Netterville; or, One of the Transplanted, Chapter III-V [pp. 175-190]

Nellie Netterville.
I75
NELLIE NETTERVILLE; OR, ONE OF THE TRANSPLANTED.
CHAPTER III.
"SET is the sun of the Netterville's glory I
Down in the dust its bright banners are trailing!
Hoarse in our anguish we whisper the story,
And men, as they listen, like women are wailing.
"Woe! woe to us-woe! we shall see him no more;
Our tears like the rains of November are flowing;
Woe! woe to us-woe! for the chief we deplore
Alone to his exile of sorrow is going.
"Alone?-not alone! for our dastardly foemen As cruel as base in the day of their power Have lifted their hands against maidens and
women:
Uprooted the tree, and then trampled the flower.
"And so they have sent her to weep by strange
waters The joy of our hearts and the light of our eyes The latest and fairest of Netterville's daughters,
In whom the last link of their destiny lies.
"Sad will be, mother, thy waking to-morrow I
Waking to weep o'er thy dove-rifled nest;
Widowed and childless-two-fold is thy sorrow,
And two-edged the sword that is lodged in thy
breast.
"Well may we mourn her-when we too deplore her The vassals and serfs of thy conquering race;
If blood could but do it, our blood should restore
her Restore her to thee and thy loving embrace.
"Yet not for her only, or thee, are we weeping;
WVe weep for our country, fast bound in that chain
Which in blood from her wrung heart the foeman is
steeping,
Till it looks as if reddened and rusted by rain.
"Oh! when shall a leader to true hearts be given,
To fall on the stranger and force him to flee?
And when shall the shackles that bind her be riven?
And Erin stand up in her strength, and be free I"
So sung Hamish, the son of the
last of the long line of minstrels who,
with harp and voice, had recorded the
triumphs of the house of Netterville,
or mourned over the death or sorrow
of its chieftains. For, in spite of the
law by which it was strictly forbidden,
the English of the Pale had persisted
in the national Custom of keeping a
bard or minstrel-whose office was
always, or almost always, hereditary
-attached to their households; and
in its palmy days of power the family
of Netterville was far too jealous of
its own importance not to have been
always provided with a similar appendage. Its last recognized minstrel
had fallen, however, in the same battle
which had deprived Nellie of her
father, and, Hamish being then too
young to take up his father's office,
the harp had ever since, literally as
well as figuratively, hung mute and
unstrung in the halls of Netterville.
But grief and indignation over its utter ruin had unlocked at last the tide
of poetry and song, ever ready to flow
over in the Celtic breast, and Hamish
felt himself changed into a bard upon
the spot. Forgetting the presence of
the English soldiers, or, more probably, exulting in the knowledge that
they did not understand the language
in which he gave expression to his
feelings, he stepped out into the midst
of the people, pouring forth his lamentations, stanza after stanza, with
all the readiness and fire of a born
improvisatore; and when at last he
paused, more for want of breath than
want of matter, the keeners took up
the tale, and told, in their wild, wailing
chant, of the goodness and greatness,
the glory and honour of their departed chieftain and his heiress, precisely
as they would have done had the
twain over whom they were lamenting
been that very day deposited in their
graves. Up to this moment Mrs.
Netterville had preserved in a marvellous degree that statue-like calmness of outward bearing which hid,
and even at times belied, the workings of a heart full of generous emotions; but the wild wailing of the
keeners broke down the artificial restraint she had put upon her conduct,
and, unable to listen quietly to what
seemed to her ears a positive pro