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vigilance of her friends, and in the dusk of the evening visited the grave of her lover.

The circumstance has been made the subject of some lines, which are more indicative, perhaps, of the author's feelings than of his poetic abilities : such as they are, they may serve to keep the occurrence to which they allude, in remembrance.


The joy of life lies here,

Robert A Roon;
All that my soul held hear,

Robert A Roon;
Spouse of my heart! this shrine-
“The long last home” of thine,
Hope's, frcedom's, love's, and mine!

Robert A Roon.

But tears must fall unseen,

Robert A Roon;
The turf is not yet green,

Robert A Roon;
No stone must bear thy name,
No lips thy truth proclaim,
The heart must shroud thy fame,

Robert A Roon.

No minstrel's strains for thee,

Robert A Roon;
The harp must silent be,

Robert A Roon.
It must not breathe one moan,
Of pride or praise, not one,
It's strings have lost their tone,

Robert A Roon.

The night is cold and chill,

Robert A Roon;
My heart is colder still,

Robert A Roon.
But sun will never shine,
Can warm this heart of mine;
It's almost cold as thine,

Robert A Roon.

Still would I linger here,

Robert A Roon;
What home have I elsewhere?

Robert A Roon.

Ah! were I laid with thee,
How welcome death would be
A bridal bed to me!

Robert A Roon.

My heart had but one hope,

Robert A Roon;
It only bloomed to droop,

Robert A Roon;
It never can bloom more;
The blight has reached its core,
And all life's joys are o'er,

Robert A Roon.*

Poor Miss Curran, after the death of her lover, did not very long remain in her father's house. Her wretchedness found no alleviation there ; and the very constraint imposed on her feelings, was productive of additional misery. At length she quitted her father's house," her home no more," and proceeded to Cork, accompanied by her sister. There she was received in the house of Mr. Penrose, a quaker ; a gentleman, I believe, who found it necessary to leave Ireland, in 1798.

She was treated by the family of Mr. Penrose with the utmost kindness and most delicate attention. It was while she was on a visit with Mr. Penrose, she became acquainted with Captain Sturgeon; and after some months, this poor girl, friendless, homeless, heart-widowed, dependent on the kindness of people almost strangers to her, endured the attentions of a person singularly refined, delicate and amiable in his disposition, moved less by her personal attractions than the sufferings of one so young, so good, so gentle, and yet so friendless and forlorn ;

* These lines are written in the metre of one of the most plaintive and beautiful of our Irish ballads" Eileen A Roon.” So exquisite an air was thought too good to be of Irish origin; it was, therefore, put in a Scottish dress, in 1793, under the title of “Robin Adair,” by Burns, who was requested to write new words to it. Handel declared, he would rather have composed this air, than any modern musical composition. Burns was not aware, however, that the subject of the song, * Robin Adair," was an Irishman, the ancestor of Lord Molesworth, and lived at Holly Park, in the county of Wicklow. Hardiman, who has given an interesting notice of this song, from whose shamefullyneglected work, “ The Bardic Remains of Ireland,” the above particulars are taken, states, that the endearing term, “ A Roon,” signifies “my heart's secret treasure.”

that gentleman made an offer to her of his hand and fortune.*

Sarah Curran was then beginning to manifest symptoms of decline. The sorrows that in silence and in the solitude of

* I am indebted to a friend of nearly forty years acquaintance, Thomas Lyons, Esq., of Cork, for the following particulars respecting Sarah Curran's residence in Cork, previously to her marriage. To the same valued friend, one of the best of men, the best of Irishmen, I owe likewise a great deal of the information which enable me to complete the memoirs of the Sheares, of General Corbett, all natives of Cork.

It will be observed that a circumstance of mournful interest, described by Washington Irving as having taken place in Dublin, occurred. according to Mr. Lyon's account, at the house of Mr. Thomas Penrose of Cork.

“Of Miss Curran's sad story, little is known here-her brother, who has written his father's life, is silent on the subject, owing probably to the severity with which she was treated on account of her attachment to Emmet."

The following are the only particulars I could learn :

“She was the second daughter of J. P. Curran, and remarkable for her beauty and accomplishments—she was about 18 years old when Emmet first visited her at her father's, and a warm attachment soon sprung up between them, but was concealed until Emmet's fatal arrest and speedy execution. Previous to his trial, Robert Emmet wrote to Curran a full expression of his passion, and it was well known that Emmet's frequent visits placed Curran under strong suspicion with government, so as to cause his being examined before the council. This discovery, it is said, led to the extremity of Miss Curran's expulsion from her parental home; at all events, of her being obliged to seek the refuge and protection of a friend's house. She was received into the family of Mr. Penrose, of Woodhill, on the Glanmire road, near to Cork. It was at a party given by Mr. Penrose, that a circumstance took place which has been the subject of song and story. In a moment of unconsciousness, she quitted the gay circle, and seating herself at the foot of the staircase, began, evidently unaware of what was passing around her. to sing a plaintive melody, that had reference to her own unhappy circumstances; she had an exquisite voice, and the sad tone in which she sang, soon drew around her a crowd of sympathizing listeners. One, a colonel in the British army, offered her his hand. Homeless, deprived of the protection of her father, and thrown entirely on her friends for support, she had no alternative but to accept this offer, but told him she had no heart to give away.

He knew her position, and respected all that was sacred in it; the marriage took place in Cork. His regiment was ordered to Malta some time after, and, her health becoming every day worse, she proceeded to Italy, and, two years after her marriage, she died of a broken heart. Her remains were brought to Ireland, in fulfilment of a pro

society, (for such it was to her,) had preyed upon her health, her appearance now betrayed in the unerring symptoms of that insidious disease, which mocks the hopes of its victims, and of those around them, and mimics the hue of health, and the lustre of the bright eye of youth and loveliness.

Major Sturgeon's proposal embraced the project of a residence in a southern climate. Any project that afforded an opportunity of leaving Ireland, had a recommendation. Sarah Curran finally consented to become the wife of Major Sturgeon. Robert Emmet's memory was not forgotten ; its claim on her heart was recognized and acknowledged by the friend and protector who had assumed a husband's title, to prove the generosity and benevolence of his nature, in his care and protection of one who was worthy of so much pity as well as admiration.

In the “Hibernian Magazine” of February, the marriage is announced in the following terms :“At Cork, Captain R. II. Sturgeon, of the Royal Staff Corps, and nephew of the late Marquis of Rockingham, to Miss Sarah Curran, daughter of J. P. Curran." *

The circumstance of her residence in a southern climate, and of her melancholy state of health and spirits at that period, is made the subject of a few lines of Moore's, which for their exquisite beauty and pathos, it would be difficult, I will not say to equal, but to approach.


She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lover's around her are sighing;
But she coldly turns from their gaze and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying

mise made her grandmother, that she should be buried with her, and her remains are buried in the church-yard of Newmarket, in this county, without monument or inscription. A tombstone was prepared for this grave, but owing to the expense not being defrayed, or from some other cause, it lay in Mallow up to the last three or four years, but lately, when sought for, with the view of having it erected, it was not forthcoming, and the remains of Sarah Curran, the object of the affections of Robert Emmet, lie in an unknown and neglected grave.

* Unfortunately, in taking the above extract from the “ Hibernian Magazine,” the year was omitted.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awakening-
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died;

They were all that to life had entwined him-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine, o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

Immediately after her marriage, she accompanied her husband to Sicily, and there, in the prime of life, the amiable, the gentle, the heart-broken Sarah Curran, closed her sad career in the course of a few months after her arrival. Her remains were conveyed to Ireland, and buried at Newmarket, the burial place of her father's family. Whether their interment there was by her own desire, or in the fulfilment of her supposed wishes on the part of Captain Sturgeon, I am unable to state ; in either case, the removal to her own land was an act which cannot fail to be a matter of mournful gratification to her countrymen.

To the reader who thinks too much has been said on this subject, I have no apology to offer, not even for these last tributary lines to the memory of Sarah Curran :

“ Her sorrows are numbered—no longer she weeps ;

Every pang she endured is requited;
With endless delight, and in silence she sleeps,

For in death with her love she's united.

Like Sidney he died, but his memory shall live

In the bosoms of those who deplored him,
And Pity her purest of dew-drops shall give

To the sorrows of those who adored him.

For he loved—was beloved ! but, alas ! in his bloom,

The ordeal of fate sore tried him ;
And his spirit took flight from the world of gloom,

To that glory which here was denied him.

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