Far into dim and dreary distance,
    As gallantly our packet speeds. 
      Unconscious of the gale’s resistance. 
    Away, away, how oft before,
      With paling cheek and aching stomach,
    I’ve trembled at the billow’s roar. 
      And crouched me in my narrow hammock. 
    But now, I bless the wildest waves
    That bear me from a land of slaves.

    Away, away, yon crimson cloud,
      Which, mounting the blue vault of Heaven,
    Soars calmly o’er the murky shroud
      That palls the close of boisterous even,
    Is scarcely fairer than the form,
      The light, the grace, from stem to stern—­a
    Fairy riding on the storm—­
      Of the fleet, trusty, dight Juverna,
    Away, away, one last look more: 
      One blessing on the naked land—­
    Though the too glorious dream be o’er—­
      One blessing for her truthful hand,
    Her proud old faith, though darkly grown,
    Still lingering by each cold hearth-stone.

    Away, away; poor fool of fate,
      Couldst thou but dream this mournful end,
    This midnight of a hope so great,
      Where shame and sorrow darkly blend—­
    Couldst thou divine that thus bedecked,
      With rags and dirt, thine eyes downturned: 
    Thou’dst flee, thy whole life’s labour wrecked. 
      Thy very heart within thee burned. 
    —­Away, away, in all the past,
      There’s not an act I would recall,
    I bow me to the o’erwhelming blast,
      But ’tis the heart alone can fall,
    And mine may once again defy. 
    The fate that mocks it scoffingly.

    Away, away, if o’er the sea,
      My voice could reach the prison grate. 
    Where daylight creeping gloomily,
      Comes to deride the captives’ fate;
    Could I but prove by word or act,
      How firm my heart and purpose still,
    Their life’s worst pang to counteract,
      Before their proud young hearts were still—­
    To live but that the land they loved
      Should yet assert its native right,
    That the immortal faith they proved,
      Should yet be robed in victory’s light,
    And, oh, to feel such promise high,
    Were last to light their dying eye.

If apology were to be offered for the change of measure of the above, and its somewhat conflicting sentiments, it would be found in the tumult of passions, excitement, fear, hope, rage, disappointment and regret with which, standing among cattle on the deck, and disguised in meanest rags, I looked upon my country’s shores for, it may be the last time, and thought of her hopes, her misery and fall.  Both faults may be amended here, but I cannot help regarding it as irreligious toward thoughts suggested by the circumstances then around me to remodel even the structure into which they spontaneously shaped themselves.

[Illustration:  Aheny Hill, showing the Constabulary Barrack destroyed by the Insurgents. 1848]