Original. NEW-YORK, JUNE, 1838. THE MONTMORENCY FALLS. BY MRS. ANN. S. STEPHENS. THERE is a legend of these waterfalls, Which haunts my fancy like a formless dream, Whispered unto my heart in other years. Where, or how, the story found a form I cannot well remember me-but still, It flings a vague and gloomy shadowing Upon the pictured treasures of the mind, And takes a form as if of waking truth. 'Twas of the time when the red warrior chose His camping-ground among those frowning rocks, And laid him down for stern, unbroken sleep, Within the booming thunders of the Fall. His council fires gleamed redly on the hills, And shot their arrowy light along the ledge Which girds the waters to their downward leap. The sea of waving foliage, dense and green, Spread from the margin of the misty East, To the rich crimson of the setting sunThe gloomy precipice-the tangled dell, The sounding cataract and purple hillsWhere the fierce wolf prowled freely for his preyWhere crafty panthers slumbered on the boughs, And the huge buffalo a track had worn Along the margin of the rushing stream: These were the red man's glorious heritage! It was the prime of summer; mossy glades Were flush with blossoms, and the ripe, warm sun Floated among them, like a smile from heaven. The trees were burthened with rich leafiness, And from that wild and verdant solitude The anthem of that waterfall went up With a most solemn melody. The sky Brooded above the earth with bending love. The sunshine smiled upon the leaping waves; And all things whispered of a Maker's power. But human life, and woe, and deadly hate, Had found a home in that deep solitude; For there, beneath the green and leafy gloom Of the hush'd wilderness, a circling flame Crept upward round the huge and knotted trunk Of an old forest oak. The splintered pine Blazed o'er the tangled roots-flashed bright and high, And then with red, warm tongues devouring leaped To the hoar moss that bearded every bough— Spread broadly upward through the dusky leaves, 'Till the dark forest reddened with the glare. In double ranks, circling that glowing tree, VOL. IX-7. Sat fierce brow'd warriors, like a ring of fiends, The winds swept through the hot and burning boughs, Showered o'er the stirless forms; while upward sprung Yet was it dashed with light; for through the trees There stood the victims! On the wild pageant there! Bound by many a twisted thong, Original. A TALE OF THE IRISH REBELLION. In the wildest part of the coast of Wicklow, there stands, or at least, there stood, towards the close of the year 17-, a neatly thatched cottage; remarkable not only on account of its romantic situation, but also for a superior air of comfort which it bore in comparison with that most miserable of all dwelling-places, an Irish peasant's cabin. Would that it were possible to describe the beauties of that forest spot! When nature formed it she must have been in a fantastic mood indeed; for it was wild as the poet's dream, when at the height of his frenzy. To the North, stretched out the famous Dublin Bay, or as it is called in the native language "The black lake of the sea;" Eastward, naught could be seen but the broad and treacherous Irish Channel; and on all other sides it was completely shut in by the "Sugar-loaf" mountains. present bowed down by grief, there was that in her appearance which said she might "have sung a song of better days," before her father was ruined and crushed to the earth, through hatred of his religion and liberal opinions, by the oppressors of his country. I said she started, as she did, three distinct raps were heard on the window-shutter. She fell on her knees, and marking the Shileth of her faith, the sign of the Cross, on her bosom, she murmured the words, "May the souls of the departed rest in peace!" and then rose to open the door to the person that knocked. 66 "Ah, dearest Dermot! thank God that you are safe!" Cathleen, my own darling sister, how have you lived through this long dreadful day?" "Oh, it has been terrible; but, Dermot, our poor mother-" "Great God! yes, we should not think of ourselves while she remains to be consoled and comforted." He entered and sat down. It was night when our story begins. The cold east'Well, my poor boy," said his mother; "you saw wardly winds sent the clouds scudding athwart the hea-him take his last look of this dreary world: I hope in vens at a fearful rate; and as now and then the moon God, he did not linger long-did not suffer much ?” shining fitfully through, reflected her beams on the white washed walls of the cottage, a superstitious beholder would have thought it was some troubled ghost stalking in its shroud through the scenes of its former crimes and woc. "No, mother, no-he died, brave as a lion to the last. I followed with the crowd through the streets of Dublin to the green; and there he wished to say a few words to the people; but his voice was drowned by the beating of the drums of those hell-hounds-the red-coats. When he found his efforts to speak useless, he grew paler for a second, his lip quivered slightly, and the next minute he was with his God! Stop, mother, cease weeping and listen to me, I have something yet to tell you. As the sheriff was descending from the platform, a paper was thrown towards him from the midst of the crowd, which astonished him so much that he read it aloud, before he hardly understood its meaning. It was to warn him, that before a fortnight had elapsed a victim would be required in revenge for the death of my father. It was signed by that terrible name, which made the boldest soldier grow pale when he heard it— Gerald O'Bryan, the Outlaw." "Ah!" cried the mother, jumping up and shaking her arm wildly, "mny heaven pour its choicest blessings on his head during all eternity! the noble-hearted youth!" In one corner of the principal room in the house, sat a female rocking herself to and fro and singing to a Ichild she held in her arms, that low and monotonous sing-song with which Irish women are wont to lull their babes to sleep. Tears were chasing each other slowly down her cheeks, and as ever and anon, some seeming ly unutterable thought darted through her brain, she seemed the very image of desperate grief. Alas! she had terrible cause for her sorrow. That very morning her husband had been found guilty of joining the secret society of United Irishmen," and had been executed as a rebel. But she was not the only one left to mourn his untimely and disgraceful death. There was another inmate of that chamber, whose grief, though less loud, was as sincere, and who to the last day of her life bewailed her unhappy father's fate; for she was the rebel's only daughter. Cathleen O'Neale, for such was her name, sat with her arms crossed over a small table,|| on which she leant her throbbing forehead; and as her hair, usually confined within duo bounds, was now loose and tangled, it nearly hid her whole person. Had Ovid seen her as she sat perfectly motionless, he would have been inspired to write an ode on some beautiful Hebe turned to stone: indeed, the only sign she showed was a long and bitter sob which escaped as if it would break her heart. As a gust of wind swept by the house, she started, (for those were times when a less circumstance would send a chill to the heart of young and old through-protection of God and every true friend of his country, out Ireland) and throwing back her hair, displayed a countenance of surpassing loveliness. One glance would have told you she was of the posterity of Milesius, for she had the dark eye and rich complexion which his descendents to this day have preserved as the mark of their Spanish origin. Though coarsely dressed, and at "Amen! amen!" was all that Cathleen replied to her mother's invocation, and then hid her face which was covered with deep blushes, in her hands. "But," continued Dermot, "the officer immediately perceiving the error he had committed in giving publicity to such a daring defiance, offered, within hearing of almost all the assembled multitude, the immense reward of three thousand guineas for the Outlaw's head." "Good God!" groaned Cathleen, who had now grown white as alabaster, "he is lost!" "Never!" cried her brother, "as long as he has the the man will be safe; ay, in the very palace of the Lord Lieutenant himself! As a proof of what I say—the sheriff had scarcely ceased speaking when I heard a hoarse bitter laugh behind me, and on turning round beheld the flash of that eye that can never be forgotten-Gerald himself stood beside me!" |