The Revenge of Donal Cam

‘Tis midnight and November’s gale
Sweeps hoarsely down Glengarriff’s vale
Thro’ the thick rain its fitful tone
Shrieks like a troubled Spirit’s moan
The moon that from her cloud at eve
Looked down on oceans gentle heave,
And bright on lake and mountain shone,
Now wet and darkling journeys on;
From the veiled Heaven there breaks no ray
To guide the traveller on his way,
Save when the lightning gilds awhile,
The craggy peak of Sliabh-na-gCoill,
Or its far streaming flashes fall
Upon Glengarriff’s mountain wall,
And kindles with its angry streak
The rocky zone it may not break-
At times is heard the distant roar
Of billows warring ‘gainst the shore,
And rushing from their native hills
The voices of a thousand rills,
Come shouting down the mountain side
When the deep thunder’s peal hath died.
How fair at sunset to the view
On its lov’d rock th’ Arbutus grew,
How motionless the heather lay
In the deep gorge of that wild bay,
Thro’ the tall forest not a breeze
Disturbed the silence of the trees,
O’er the calm scene their foliage red
A venerable glory shed,
And sad and sombre beauty gave
To the wild hill and peaceful wave.

To-morrow’s early dawn will find
That beauty scattered on the wind;
Tomorrow’s sun will journey on
And see the forest’s glory gone,
Th’ Arbutus shiver’d on the rock
Beneath the tempest’s angry shock.
The monarch Oak all scathed and riven
By the red arrowy bolt from heaven,
While not a leaf remains behind
Save some lone mourner of its kind,
Withered and drooping on the bough
Like him who treads the valley now.

Alone he threads-still on the blast
The sheeted rain is driving fast,
And louder peals the thunder’s crash,
Louder the ocean’s distant dash-
Amid the elemental strife
He walks as reckless, as if life
Were but a debt he’d freely pay
To the next flash that crossed his way;
Yet is there something in his air
Of purpose firm that mocks despair,
What that, and whither he would go
Thro’ storm and darkness none may know,
But his unerring step can tell,
There’s not a deer in that wild dell,
Can track its mazy depths so well.

He gains the shore-his whistle shrill
Is answer’d-ready at his will;
In a small cove, his pinnace lay.
‘Weigh quick, my lads, across the bay’.
No questions ask they, but a cheer
Proclaims their bosoms know not fear
Sons of the mountain and the wave,
They shrink not from a billowy grave.
Their hearts have oft braved death before,
‘Mid Erin’s rocks and Biscay’s roar;
Each lightly holds the life he draws,
If it but serves his chieftain’s cause;
And thinks his toil full well he pays,
If he bestows a word of praise.

At length they’ve cleared the narrow bay,
Up with the sails, away! away!
O’er the broad surge she flies as fleet
As on the tempest’s wing the sleet,
And fearless as the sea-bird’s motion
Across his own wild fields of ocean.
Tho’ winds may wave and seas o’erwhelm,
There is a hand upon that helm,
That can control its trembling pow’r,
And quits it not in peril’s hour;
Full frequently from sea to sky
The chieftain looks with anxious eye,
But nought can he distinguish there
More desperate than his heart’s despair.

On yonder shore what means that light
Which flings its murky flame thro’ night?
Along the margin of the ocean
It moves with slow and measured motion;
Another follows and behind
Are torches flickering in the wind.
Hark! Heard you on the dying gale
From yonder cliffs the voice of wail?
Twas but the tempest’s moaning sigh,
Or a wild sea-bird’s lonely cry.
Hush! there again, I know it well,
It is sad Ullula’s swell,
That mingles with the death-bell’s toll
In grief for some departed soul.

Inver na Marc thy rugged shore
Is altered since the days of yore,
Where once ascending from the town
A narrow path looked fearful down,
O’er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave
Their rocky bosoms to the wave.
A beauteous and unrivalled sweep
Of beach extends along the deep;
Above is seen a sloping plain,
With princely house and fair domain,
Where erst the deer from covert dark
Gazed wildly on the anchor’d bark,
Or listened the deep copse among
To hear the Spanish seaman’s song,
Come sweetly floating up the bay,
With the last purple gleam of day.
All changed, even yon projecting steep
That darkly bends above the deep,
And mantles with its joyless shade
The waste that man and time have made;
There mid its tall and circling wood,
In olden times an Abbey stood;
It stands no more-no more at even
The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven;
No more the sound of Matin bell
Calls forth each father from his cell,
Or breaks upon the sleeping ear
Of Leim-an-tSagairt’s mountaineer,
And bids him on his purpose pause,
Ere yet the foraying brand he draws.
Where are they now?-go climb that height,
Where depth of shade yields scanty light,
Where the deep alders droop their head
O’er Ard-na-mBrathar’s countless dead,
And nettle tall and hemlock wave
In rank luxuriance o’er the graves;
There fragments of the sculptured stone,
Still sadly speak of grandeur gone,
And point the spot where dark and deep
The fathers and their abbey sleep.
That train hath reached the abbey ground,
The flickering lights are ranged around,
And resting on the bier,
Amid the attendants’ broken sighs,

And pall’d with black the coffin lies;
The Monks are kneeling near.
The abbot stands above the dead,
With grey and venerable head,
And shallow cheek and pale.
The Miserere hymn ascends,
And its deep solemn sadness blends
With the hoarse and moaning gale.
The last ‘Amen’ was breath’d by all,
And now they had removed the pall,
And up the coffin reared;
When a stern ‘Hold’ was heard aloud,
And wildly bursting through the crowd,
A frantic form appeared.

He paused a while and gasped for breath:
His look had less of life than death,
He seemed as from the grave;
So all unearthly was his tread
And high above his stately head,
A sable plum did wave.
Clansmen and fathers looked aghast,
And when their first surprise was past,
Yet louder grew their grief;
For when he stood above the dead,
And took the bonnet from his head,
All knew Iveragh’s chief;
No length of time could e’er erase,
Once seen that chieftain’s form and face;
Calmly he stood amid their gaze,
While the red torch’s shifting blaze,
As strong it flickered in the breeze
That wildly raved among the trees,
Its fitful light upon him threw,
And Donal Cam stood full in view.

His form was tall, but not the height
Which seems unwieldy to the sight;
His mantle as it backward flowed,
An ample breadth of bossom showed;
His sabre’s girdle round his waist
A golden buckle tightly braced;
A close set trews displayed a frame
You could not all distinctly name
If it had more of strength or grace;
But when the light fell on his face,
The dullest eye beheld a man
Fit to be chieftain of his clan.

His cheek tho’ pale retained the hue
Which from Iberian blood it drew;
His sharp and well-form’d features bore
Strong resemblance to his sires of yore;
Calm, grave and dignified, his eye
Had an expression proud and high,
And in its darkness dwelt a flame
Which not even grief like this could tame;
Above his bent brow’s sad repose,
A high heroic forehead rose;
But o’er its calm you marked the cloud
That wrapped his spirit in its shroud;
His clustering locks of sable hue,
Upon the tempest wildly flew.
Unrecked by him the storm may blow,
His feelings are with her below.

‘Remove the lid’ at length he cried.
None stirred, they thought it strange; besides,
Her kinsman muttered something-‘Haste,
I have no breath or time to waste
In parley now-Iveragh’s chief
May be permitted one, last, brief
Farewell with her he loved, and then,
Eva is yours and earth’s again’.
At length reluctant they obeyed.
Slowly he turned aside his head,
And pressed his hand against his brow,
‘Tis done at last, he knows not how;
But when he heard one piercing shriek,
A deadlier paleness spread his cheek,
Sidelong he looked and fearfully,
Dreading the sight he yet would see;
Trembled his knees, his eyes grew dim,
His stricken brain began to swim;
He staggered back against a Yew
That o’er the bier its branches threw;
Upon his brow the dews of death
Collected and his quick low breath
Seemed but the last and feeble strife,
Ere yet it yield of parting life.
There lay his bride-death had not quite
O’ershadowed all her beauty’s light;
Still on her brow and on her cheek,
It linger’d like the sun’s last streak
On Sliabh-na-gCoill’s head of snow
When all the vales are dark below.
Her lips in languid stillness lay
Like lilies o’er a stream-parched way
Which kiss no more the weave of light
That flashed beneath them purely bright;
Above her forehead fair and young,
Her dark brown tresses clustering hung,
Like summer clouds that still shine on
When he who gilds their folds is gone.
Her features breathed a sad sweet tone
Caught ere the spirit left her throne,
Like that the night wind often makes
When some forsaken lyre it wakes,
And minds us of the master hand,
That once could all its voice command.

‘Cold be the hand and curst the blow’
Her kinsman cried ‘that laid thee low;-
Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart.’
Forth sprung that Chief with sudden start,
Tore off the scarf that veiled her breast,
That dark deep wound could tell the rest.
He gazed a moment then his brand
Flashed out so sudden in his hand,
His boldest clansmen backward reeled,
Trembling the aged abbot kneeled.
‘Is this a time for grief’ he cried
‘And thou thus low, my murdered bride,
Fool to such boyish feelings bow,
For other task hath Donal now;
Hear me ye thunder upon high!
And thou blest ocean hear my cry!
Hear me, sole resting friend, my sword,
And thou dark wound attest my word!
No food, no rest shall Donal know,
Until he lays thy murderer low-
Until each severed quivering limb
In its own lustful blood shall swim;
When my heart gains this poor relief,
Then Eva wilt thou bless thy chief-
Bless him! -no, no that word is o’er,
My sweet one! thou canst bless no more
No more returning from the strife
Where Donal fought to guard thy life
And free his native land, shalt thou
Wipe the red war drops from his brow,
And hush his toils and cares to rest
Upon thy fond and faithful breast.’
He gazed a moment on her face
And stooped to take the last embrace,
And as his lips to hers he prest,
The coffin shook beneath his breast
That heaved convulsive as ‘twould break;
Then in a tone subdued and meek,
‘Take her’ he said and calmly rose
And thro’ the friends that round him close,
Unheeding what their love would say,
All silently he urged his way,
Then wildly rushed down the steep
He plunged amid the breakers’ sweep.

Awfully the thunder
Is shouting thro’ the night,
And o’er the heaven convulsed and riven
The lightning streams are bright,
Beneath their fitful flashing,
As from hill to hill they leap,
In ridgy brightness dashing
Comes on loud ocean’s sweep.

Fearfully the tempest
Sings out his battle song,
His war is with the unflinching rocks
And the forests tall and strong;
His war is with the stately bark;
But ere the strife be o’er,
Full many a pine, on land and brine,
Shall rise to Heaven no more.

The storm shall sink in slumber
The lightning fold its wing
And the morning star shall gleam afar
In the beauty of its king.
But there are eyes shall sleep in death
Before they meet its ray
Avenger! on thine errand speed
Haste Donal on thy way.

Carriganassig from thy walls
No longer now the warder calls;
No more is heard o’er goblets bright
Thy shout of revelry at night;
No more the bugle’s merry sound
Wakes all thy mountain echoes round,
When for the foray or the chase,
At morn rushed forth thy hardy race,
And northward as it died away
Roused the wild deer of Keimaneigh.
All bare is now the mountain’s side,
Where rose the forest’s stately pride;
No solitary friend remains
Of all that graced thy fair domains;
But that dark stream still rushes on
Beneath thy walls the swift Ouvane,
And kisses with its sorrowing wave,
The ruins which it could not save;
Fair castle I have stood at night,
When summer’s moon gave all her light,
And gazed upon thee till the past,
Came o’er my spirit sad and fast.
To think thy strength could not avail
Against the Saxon’s iron hail,
And thou at length didst cease to be
The shield of mountain liberty.

From Carriganassig shone that night
Thro’ storm and darkness many a light,
And loud and noisy was the din
Of some high revelry within;
At times was heard the warder’s song
Upon the night wind borne along,
And frequent burst upon the ear
The merry soldiers’ jovial cheer;
For their dark Chieftain in his hall
That day held joyous festival,
And showed forth all his wealth and pride
To welcome home his beauteous bride.

Hush’d was the music’s sprightly sound,
The wine had ceased to circle round,
And to their chambers one by one,
The drowsy revelers had gone;
Alone that chieftain still remains,
And still by starts the goblet drains;
He paced the hall with hurried tread,
Oft look’d behind and shook his head,
And paused and listened as the gale
Swell’d o’er his ear with wilder wail,
And where the tapers faintly flung
Their light, and where the arras hung,
He’d start and look with fearful glance
And quivering lip, then quick advance,
And laugh in mockery of his fear
And drink again.
‘FitzEustace here,
Close well that door and sit awhile,
Some foolish thought I would beguile,
Fill to my bride and did’st e’er
See form so light and face so fair?
I little deemed this savage land
Such witching beauty could command;
That rebel Erin’s mountain wild
Could nurse McCarthy’s matchless child;
Then drink with me in brimming flow
The heiress of Clan-Donal-Roe.’
FitzEustace quaff’d his cup and said,
‘I saw one more-she’s with the dead,
You best know how.’
That chieftain frown’d
And dashed the goblet to the ground;
‘Curse on thy tongue-that deed is past,
But one word more and ‘tis thy last;
And thou t’upbraid me also doomed.’
He paused a while and then resum’d-

‘Eustace, forgive me what I say,
In sooth, I’m not myself to-day,
Some demon haunts me since my pride
Urged me to stab that outlaw’s bride,
Each form I see, each sound I hear,
Her dying threat assails my ear,
Which warned me I should shortly feel
The point of Donal’s vengeful steel;
I know that devil’s desperate ire
Would seek revenge thro’ walls of fire,
Even now upon the bridal night,
When bridegroom’s heart beats ever light
No joy within my bosom beams:
Beside, yon silly maiden deems,
That ‘twas thro’ love I sought her hand-
No-Eustace ‘twas her father’s land:
He hath retainers many a one
Who with this wench to us are won.
Yon know our cause, we still must aid
As well by policy as blade;
I loathe each one of Irish birth,
As the vile worm that crawls the earth;
But come, say can’st thou aught impart
Could give some comfort to my heart;
Fell Donal Cam into our snare,
Or does the wolf still keep his lair?’

‘Neither;-the wolf now roams at large,
‘Twas but last evening that a barge
Well mann’d was seen at the close of day
To make Glengarriff’s lonely bay,
Tis said;-but one who more can tell
Now lodges in the eastern cell;
A monk who loudly doth complain
Of plunder driven and brethren slain
By Donal Cam and from the strife
This night fled here with scarcely life’.

‘Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer,
Good Eustace thou await me here;
I’ll see him straight and if he show
Where I may find my deadly foe,
That haunts my ways-the rebel’s head
‘Shall grace my walls.’

With cautious tread?
He reached the cell and gently drew
The bolts,-that monk then met his view
Within that dungeon’s farthest nook
He lay;-one hand contained a book
The other propp’d his weary head
Some scanty straw supplied his bed
His order’s habit coarse and grey
Told he had worn it many a day
Threadbare and travel-soil’d;-his beads
And cross hung o’er the dripping weeds,
Whose ample folds were tightly brac’d
By a rough chord around his waist;
No wretch on earth seemed lower than
That outcast solitary man.

He spoke not;-moved not from the floor;
But calmly looked to where the door
Now closed behind the intruding knight,
Who slow advanced and held the light
Close to the captive’s pallid face.
Who shrunk not from his gaze;-a space
St Leger paused before he spoke,
And thus at length his silence broke.

‘Father, thy lodging is but rude.
Thou seem’st in need of rest and food,
If but escaped from Donal’s ire,
And wasting brand and scathing fire;
But prudent reasons still demand,
And stern St Leger’s strict command,
That every stranger, friend or foe,
Be held in durance, ’til he show
What, whence, and whither he would go.
For thee;-if thou cans’t tell us right,
Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night,
To-morrow’s sun shall see thee freed
With rich requital for thy meed;
If false thy tale then father hope
For a short shrift and shorter rope.’

He ceased and as the chief he eyed
With searching glance, the monk replied.
‘I fear no threat,-no meed I crave,
I ask no freedom but the grave,
There was a time when life was dear;
For, Saxon, tho’ this garb I wear,
This hand could once uplift the steel,
This heart could love and friendship feel;
That love is sever’d, friends are gone,
And I am left on earth alone.
Curs’d be the hand that sear’d my heart,
And smote me in the tenderest part,
Laid waste my lands and left me roam
On the wild world without a home,
I took these weeds but why relate
The spoiler’s ravage and my hate;
Vengeance I would not now forego
For saint above or man below.
Yes, Donal Cam, but let me hear.
Fling the glad story to mine ear;
How fell the outlaw’s beauteous bride?
Say was it by thy hand she died?
Twill be some solace, and I swear
By the all-saving sign I wear,
Before to-morrow’s sun to show
To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe.’

‘Tis well!’ exclaimed the exulting chief,
Have now thy wish the tale is brief-
Some few days since as I pursued
A stately stag from yonder wood,
Straight northwards did he bend his way,
Thro’ the wild Pass of Keimaneigh.
Then to the west with hoof of pride
He took the mountain’s heathery side,
And evening saw him safely sleep
In far Glencrochty’s forest deep.
Returning from that weary chase,
We met a strange and lonely place;
Dark bosom’d in the hills around,
From its dim silence rose no sound,
Except the dreary dash and flow
Of waters to the lake below;
There was an island in that lake,-
(What ails thee monk? why does’t thou shake?
Why blanch’d thy cheek?) from whence I brought
A richer prey than that I sought;
It were but feeble praise to swear
That she was more than heavenly fair;
I tore her from Finbarr’s shrine
Amid her tears and she was mine;
I woo’d her like a love-sick swain;
I threaten’d-would have forced,-in vain;
She proudly scorn’d my fond embrace,
She curs’d my land and all my race,
And bade me hope for vengeance from
The sure strong hand of Donal Cam.
I stabb’d her! twas a deed of guilt,
But then ’twas Donal’s blood I spilt’.

That monk sprang forward from the bed,
Flung back his cowl and furious said,
‘Monster behold my promise free,
Tis Donal Cam himself you see.’-
He started back with sudden cry,
And raised the lantern. O that eye
And vengeful smile he knew too well;
For him not all the fiends of hell
With tortures from their burning place,
Had half the horrors of that face-
One rush he made to gain the door,
’Twas vain, the monk stood there before.
He shouted loud, and sudden drew
A dagger which lay hid from view;
At Donal’s breast one plunge he made;
That watchful arm threw off the blade-
But hark! what noise comes from below
Surely that cry hath roused the foe;
They come, they come, with hurrying tramp
And clashing steel; the fallen lamp,
That mountaineer snatch’d from the ground,
A moment glanc’d his prison round,
Heav’d quickly back a massy bar,
A narrow doorway flew ajar;
A moment cast the light’s red glow
Upon the flood far far below.
‘ No flight is there,’ St Leger cried,
‘Thou’rt mine--now, now, my murdered bride,’
He answer’d, and with furious bound
One arm had clasp’d his foeman round;
A moment with a giant’s might,
He shook him o’er that dreadful height;
‘Saxon! tis Eva gives this grave’
He said, and plunged him in the wave.

One piercing shriek was heard, no more.
Up flash’d the billow dyed with gore.
When in they burst-O, where to fly?
He fixed his foot and strained his eye,
And o’er that deep and fearful tide
Sprung safely to the farther side.
Above they crowd in wild amaze,
And by hurrying torches’ blaze
They saw where fearlessly he stood,
And down, far tossed upon the flood
St Leger’s body.-‘Quick to horse-
Pursue the fiend with all your force,
Tis Donal Cam.’ Light held he then
Pursuit, while mountain wood and glen
Before him lay;-a moment’s space
He ran and in the appointed place
His courser found; then as his hand
Drew from the copse his trusty brand,
‘Twas well I left thee here my blade,
That search my purpose had betray’d;
But here they come, now, now my steed
Son of the hills exert thy speed.’
He said, and on the moaning wind
Heard their faint foot tramps die behind.

‘Tis morning and the purple light
On Cnoc na bFhia gleams coldly bright,
And from his heathery brow the streams
Rush joyous in the kindling beams;
O’er hill and wave and forest red,
One wide blue sea of mist is spread;
Save where more brightly deeply hue
Iveragh’s mountains meet the view,
And falls the sun with mellower streak
On Sliabh-na-gCoill’s giant peak.
Still as its dead is now the breeze,
In Ard-na-mBrathair’s weeping trees,
So deep its silence, you might tell
Each splashing raindrop as it fell;
Beneath its brow the waters wild
Are sleeping, like a weary child
That sinks from fretful fit to rest,
On its fond mother’s peaceful breast.

On yonder grave cold lies the turf
Besprayed with rain and ocean’s surf,
So purely freshly green,
And kneeling by that narrow bed,
With pallid cheek and drooping head,
A lonely form is seen.
Long kneels he there in speechless woe,
Silent as she who lies below
In her cold and silent room;
The trees stand motionless above,
There’s not a breath of wind to move
The dripping eagle plume;
Well might you know the man of grief
To be Iveragh’s widowed chief.

He rose at last and as he took
Of that dear spot his last sad look,
Convulsive trembled all his frame,
He strove to utter Eva’s name;
Then wildly rushing to the shore,
Was never seen or heard of more.