Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.
Emmeline Talbot
By Thomas Davis (1814–1845)The scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow.
’T
In Glenismole,
Emmeline Talbot lay
On a green knoll.
She was a lovely thing,
Fleet as a falcon’s wing,
Only fifteen that spring,—
Soft was her soul.
Much did she scorn,
And from her father’s keep
Stole out that morn.
Towards Glenismole she hies;
Sweetly the valley lies,
Winning the enterprise,—
No one to warn.
High in the vale,
Emmeline found her strength
Suddenly fail.
Panting, yet pleasantly,
By Dodder-side lay she—
Thrushes sang merrily,
“Hail, sister, hail!”
Made a sweet lawn,
Out from the thicket broke
Rabbit and fawn.
Green were the ciscirs round,
Sweet was the river’s sound,
Eastwards flat Cruach frowned,
South lay Sliabh Bán.
Like a tall Moor
Full of impassioned zeal,
Peeped brown Kippure.
Dublin in feudal pride,
And many a hold beside,
Over Finn-ghaill preside,—
Sentinels sure!
Glares from the green?
Is that a thrush’s cry
Rings in the screen?
Mountaineers round her sprung,
Savage their speech and tongue,
Fierce was their chief and young,—
Poor Emmeline!
Shouted the kerne,
“Off to the mountains wild,
Faire, O’Byrne!”
Like a bird in a net,
Strove the sweet maiden yet,
Praying and shrieking, “Let—
Let me return.”
Forward he sprung,
With his sword flashing out,
Wrath on his tongue.
“Touch not a hair of hers,
Dies he who finger stirs!”
Back fell his foragers;
To him she clung.
Kneeling was he,
When burst old Talbot’s spears
Out on the lea.
March-men, all stanch and stout,
Shouting their Belgard shout,—
“Down with the Irish rout,
Prets d’accomplir.”
Some fled amain;
Fighting like forest bears,
Others were slain.
To the chief clung the maid,—
How could he use his blade?—
That night upon him weighed
Fetter and chain.
Lying forlorn,
Since, mid the wassail song,
These words were borne:
“Nathless your tears and cries,
Sure as the sun shall rise,
Connor O’Byrne dies,
Talbot has sworn.”
Flashes the sun;
Strained at his window-sill,
How his eyes run
From lonely Sagart slade
Down to Tigh-bradán glade,
Landmarks of border raid,
Many a one.
Belgard’s main wall
Will, to his naked blows,
Shiver and fall,
Ere in his mountain hold
He shall again behold
Those whose proud hearts are cold,
Weeping his thrall.
Bucklers and brands!
Freely I could have died
Heading my bands,
But on a felon tree”—
Bearing a fetter key,
By him all silently
Emmeline stands.
Late rose the castellan,
He had drunk deep,—
Warder and serving-man
Still were asleep,—
Wide is the castle-gate,
Open the captive’s grate,
Fetters disconsolate
Flung in a heap.
’T is an October day,
Close by Loch Dan
Many a creach lay,
Many a man.
’Mongst them, in gallant mien,
Connor O’Byrne ’s seen
Wedded to Emmeline,
Girt by his clan!