POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS
MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.
[Illustration: _Felicia Hemans_]
THE POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS.
_COMPLETE COPYRIGHT EDITION._
WILLIAM P. NIMMO,
LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND;
AND EDINBURGH.
1875.
CONTENTS
JUVENILE POEMS.
Page
On my Mother’s Birthday. Written at the age of eight 1
A Prayer. Written at the age of nine _ib._
Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven _ib._
Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven 2
To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the age of
eleven _ib._
Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve _ib._
Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 3
Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen _ib._
Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen _ib._
England and Spain; or, Valour and Patriotism. Written at the age
of fourteen 4
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c.
The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend 10
To my Mother 11
To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, after the fatal
Retreat under Sir John Moore and the battle of Corunna _ib._
To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal 12
Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith _ib._
The Ruin and its Flowers 13
Christmas Carol 14
The Domestic Affections 15
To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway 19
Epitaph on Mr W----, a celebrated Mineralogist 20
Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist _ib._
Prologue to _The Poor Gentleman_. As intended to be performed by
the Officers of the 34th Regiment at Clonmel 21
THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY 22
MODERN GREECE 28
Critical Annotations 42
TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS.
Sonnet 70 43
Sonnet 282 From Psalm 137 _ib._
Part of Eclogue 15 44
Sonnet 271 44
Sonnet 186 _ib._
Sonnet 108 44
Sonnet 23 To a Lady who died at Sea 45
Sonnet 19 _ib._
“Que estranho caso de amor!” _ib._
Sonnet 58 _ib._
Sonnet 178 _ib._
Sonnet 80 46
Sonnet 239 From Psalm 137 _ib._
Sonnet 128 _ib._
“Polomeu apartamento” _ib._
Sonnet 205 47
Sonnet 133 _ib._
Sonnet 181 _ib._
Sonnet 278 _ib._
“Mi nueve y dulce querella” _ib._
Metastasio.--“Dunque si sfoga in pianto” _ib._
-- “Al furor d’avversa Sorte” 48
-- “Quella onda che ruina” _ib._
-- “Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie” _ib._
-- “Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine” _ib._
-- “Parlagli d’un periglio” _ib._
-- “Sprezza il furor del vento” _ib._
-- “Sol può dir che sia contento” _ib._
-- “Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!” 49
Vincenzo da Filicaja.--“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte” _ib._
Pastorini.--“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio” _ib._
Lope de Vega.--“Estese el cortesano” _ib._
Francisco Manuel.--On ascending a Hill leading to a Convent _ib._
Della Casa.--Venice 50
Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio.--“L’anima bella,
che dal vero Eliso” _ib._
Quevedo.--Rome buried in her own Ruins _ib._
El conde Juan de Tarsis.--“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos”_ib._
Torquato Tasso.--“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa” _ib._
Bernardo Tasso.--“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole” 51
Petrarch.--“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura” _ib._
-- “Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde” _ib._
Pietro Bembo.--“O Muerte! que sueles ser” _ib._
Francesco Lorenzini.--“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai” _ib._
Gesner.--Morning Song 52
German Song.--“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen” _ib._
Chaulieu.--“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau” _ib._
Garcilaso de Vega.--“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera” 52
Lorenzo de Medici.--Violets 53
Pindemonte.--On the Hebe of Canova _ib._
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore 54
Dirge of a Child _ib._
Invocation 55
To the Memory of General Sir E--D P--K--M _ib._
To the Memory of Sir H--Y E--LL--S, who fell in the battle of
Waterloo 56
Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the Spanish
patriot Mina _ib._
The Aged Indian, _ib._
Evening amongst the Alps 57
Dirge of the Highland Chief in “Waverley” _ib._
The Crusaders’ War-Song 58
The Death of Clanronald _ib._
To the Eye 59
The Hero’s Death, _ib._
Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte _ib._
WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 63
Advertisement by the Author, &c. _ib._
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
The Abencerrage 67
The Widow of Crescentius 85
The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 93
Alaric in Italy 95
The Wife of Asdrubal 97
Heliodorus in the Temple 98
Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi’s “Républiques Italiennes” 99
The Troubadour and Richard Cœur-de-Lion 101
The Death of Conradin 103
Critical Annotations 105
THE SCEPTIC 106
Critical Annotations 113
SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION 114
ITALIAN LITERATURE.
The Basvigliana of Monti 118
The Alcestis of Alfieri 121
Il Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandro Manzoni 125
Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti 133
PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.
Vincenzo da Filicaja 138
Carlo Maria Maggi _ib._
Alessandro Marchetti _ib._
Alessandro Pegolotti _ib._
Francesco Maria de Conti.--The Shore of Africa _ib._
----
Jeu-d’Esprit on the word “Barb” 139
The Fever-Dream _ib._
DARTMOOR 141
WELSH MELODIES.
The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas 145
Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans _ib._
The Green Isles of Ocean 146
The Sea-Song of Gafran _ib._
The Hirlas Horn _ib._
The Hall of Cynddylan 147
The Lament of Llywarch Hen _ib._
Grufydd’s Feast 148
The Cambrian in America _ib._
Taliesin’s Prophecy _ib._
Owen Glyndwr’s War-Song 149
Prince Madoc’s Farewell _ib._
Caswallon’s Triumph 150
Howel’s Song _ib._
The Mountain Fires _ib._
Eryri Wen 151
Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. _ib._
The Dying Bard’s Prophecy 152
The Fair Isle. For the melody called the “Welsh Ground” _ib._
The Rock of Cader Idris _ib._
THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 153
Critical Annotations 186
----
Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third 187
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
The Maremma 191
A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 194
The Caravan in the Deserts 210
Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 212
A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 213
Belshazzar’s Feast 219
The Last Constantine 221
Annotations on the Last Constantine 234
The League of the Alps; or, the Meeting of the Field of Grütli _ib._
SONGS OF THE CID.
The Cid’s Departure into Exile 238
The Cid’s Deathbed _ib._
The Cid’s Funeral Procession 239
The Cid’s Rising 241
GREEK SONGS.
The Storm of Delphi 241
The Bowl of Liberty 242
The Voice of Scio 243
The Spartans’ March _ib._
The Urn and Sword 244
The Myrtle Bough _ib._
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
On a Flower from the Field of Grütli 244
On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 245
The Chieftain’s Son _ib._
A Fragment _ib._
England’s Dead 246
The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, or meeting
of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 22, 1822 246
The Voice of Spring 247
Elysium 249
The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue 250
The Tombs of Platæa 251
The View from Castri _ib._
The Festal Hour 252
Song of the Battle of Morgarten 253
Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and his army
in Africa. Translated from the Spanish of Herrera 254
SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL 256
THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 262
Advertisement by the Author, _ib._
Critical Annotations 292
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 293
Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 294
The Cross of the South _ib._
The Sleeper of Marathon 295
To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday _ib._
Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same _ib._
To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 296
From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega _ib._
From the Italian of Sannazaro _ib._
Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. Translated
from Camoens 297
A Dirge 298
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE
To Venus 298
To his Attendant _ib._
To Delius 299
To the Fountain of Bandusia _ib._
To Faunus _ib._
DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS 300
Critical Annotations 315
THE FOREST SANCTUARY 316
Critical Annotations 336
LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
Moorish Bridal-Song 338
The Bird’s Release _ib._
The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 339
Valkyriur Song 340
The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition 341
Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle 342
The Messenger Bird 343
Answer to The Messenger Bird,
by an American Quaker Lady _note_, _ib._
The Stranger in Louisiana _ib._
The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition 344
The Bended Bow 345
He never smiled again 346
Cœur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father _ib._
The Vassal’s Lament for the Fallen Tree 347
The Wild Huntsman 348
Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of La Motte Fouqué 348
The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 349
Ancient Greek Song of Exile _ib._
Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue _ib._
Greek Parting Song 351
The Suliote Mother 352
The Farewell to the Dead 353
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
I go, Sweet Friends! 354
Angel Visits _ib._
Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves gathered from
the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the Rhine _ib._
To one of the Author’s children on his Birthday 355
On a Similar Occasion _ib._
Christ Stilling the Tempest _ib._
Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers 356
Monumental Inscription _ib._
The Sound of the Sea _ib._
The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey’s statue of
Lady Louisa Russell 357
A Dirge _ib._
Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine _ib._
English Soldier’s Song of Memory. To the air of
“Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” 358
Haunted Ground _ib._
The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the Memoirs of
John Hunter 359
Stanzas to the Memory of * * * 360
The Vaudois Valleys _ib._
Song of the Spanish Wanderer 361
The Contadina. Written for a Picture _ib._
Troubadour Song _ib._
The Treasures of the Deep _ib._
Bring Flowers 362
The Crusader’s Return 363
Thekla’s Song; or, the Voice of a Spirit.
From the German of Schiller 364
The Revellers _ib._
The Conqueror’s Sleep 365
Our Lady’s Well _ib._
The Parting of Summer 366
The Songs of our Fathers _ib._
The World in the Open Air 367
Kindred Hearts _ib._
The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 368
Casabianca 369
The Dial of Flowers _ib._
Our Daily Paths 370
The Cross in the Wilderness 371
Last Rites 372
The Hebrew Mother _ib._
The Wreck 373
The Trumpet 374
Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School _ib._
The Hour of Death 375
The Lost Pleiad _ib._
The Cliffs of Dover 376
The Graves of Martyrs _ib._
The Hour of Prayer 377
The Voice of Home to the Prodigal _ib._
The Wakening 378
The Breeze from Shore _ib._
The Dying Improvisatore 379
Music of Yesterday _ib._
The Forsaken Hearth 380
The Dreamer _ib._
The Wings of the Dove 381
Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 382
The Boon of Memory _ib._
Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 383
RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Arabella Stuart 385
The Bride of the Greek Isle 388
The Bride’s Farewell 389
The Switzer’s Wife 391
Properzia Rossi 392
Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death 394
Imelda _ib._
Edith. A Tale of the Woods 396
The Indian City 398
The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 401
Indian Woman’s Death-Song 402
Joan of Arc in Rheims 403
Pauline 404
Juana 405
The American Forest Girl 406
Costanza 407
Madeline. A Domestic Tale 408
The Queen of Prussia’s Tomb 409
The Memorial Pillar 410
The Grave of a Poetess 411
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Homes of England 412
The Sicilian Captive _ib._
Ivan the Czar 413
Carolan’s Prophecy 414
The Lady of the Castle. From the “Portrait Gallery,”
an unfinished poem 416
The Mourner for the Barmecides 417
The Spanish Chapel 418
The Kaiser’s Feast 419
Tasso and his Sister 420
Ulla; or, The Adjuration 421
To Wordsworth 422
A Monarch’s Death-bed 423
To the Memory of Heber _ib._
The Adopted Child _ib._
Invocation 424
Körner and his Sister _ib._
The Death-Day of Körner 425
An Hour of Romance 427
A Voyager’s Dream of Land _ib._
The Effigies 428
The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England 429
The Spirit’s Mysteries _ib._
The Departed 430
The Palm-Tree _ib._
The Child’s Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of Chantrey’s 431
The Sunbeam _ib._
Breathings of Spring 432
The Illuminated City _ib._
The Spells of Home 433
Roman Girl’s Song _ib._
The Distant Ship 434
The Birds of Passage _ib._
The Graves of a Household 435
Mozart’s Requiem _ib._
The Image in Lava 436
Christmas Carol 437
A Father Reading the Bible _ib._
The Meeting of the Brothers _ib._
The Last Wish 438
Fairy Favours 439
Critical Annotations 440
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
A Spirit’s Return 442
The Lady of Provence 446
The Coronation of Inez de Castro 448
Italian Girl’s Hymn to the Virgin 449
To a Departed Spirit _ib._
The Chamois Hunter’s Love 450
The Indian with his Dead Child _ib._
Song of Emigration 451
The King of Arragon’s Lament for his Brother 452
The Return 453
The Vaudois Wife _ib._
The Guerilla Leader’s Vow 454
Thekla at her Lover’s Grave 455
The Sisters of Scio _ib._
Bernardo del Carpio 456
The Tomb of Madame Langhans 457
The Exile’s Dirge _ib._
The Dreaming Child 458
The Charmed Picture _ib._
Parting Words 459
The Message to the Dead _ib._
The Two Homes 460
The Soldier’s Death-bed 461
The Image in the Heart _ib._
The Land of Dreams 462
Woman on the Field of Battle _ib._
The Deserted House 463
The Stranger’s Heart 464
To a Remembered Picture _ib._
Come Home 465
The Fountain of Oblivion _ib._
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Bridal-Day 466
The Ancestral Song 467
The Magic Glass 468
Corinne at the Capitol 469
The Ruin _ib._
The Minster 470
The Song of Night 471
The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon _ib._
The Two Voices 472
The Parting Ship 473
The Last Tree of the Forest _ib._
The Streams 474
The Voice of the Wind 475
The Vigil of Arms 476
The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey _ib._
Nature’s Farewell 477
The Beings of the Mind _ib._
The Lyre’s Lament 478
Tasso’s Coronation 479
The Better Land _ib._
The Wounded Eagle 480
Sadness and Mirth _ib._
The Nightingale’s Death-Song 481
The Diver _ib._
The Requiem of Genius 482
Triumphant Music 483
Second-Sight _ib._
The Sea-Bird flying inland 484
The Sleeper _ib._
The Mirror in the Deserted Hall _ib._
To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet 485
The Star of the Mine _ib._
Washington’s Statue. Sent from England to America _ib._
A Thought of Home at Sea 486
To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law _ib._
To an Orphan _ib._
Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother 487
Where is the Sea? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile _ib._
To my own Portrait _ib._
No More 488
Passing Away 489
The Angler _ib._
Death and the Warrior 490
Song. For an air by Hummel _ib._
To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl,
who died in the cause and lamented by the people of Greece _ib._
The Broken Chain 491
The Shadow of a Flower _ib._
Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull _ib._
The Bell at Sea 492
The Subterranean Stream _ib._
The Silent Multitude 493
The Antique Sepulchre _ib._
Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 494
The Memory of the Dead _ib._
He walked with God 495
The Rod of Aaron _ib._
The Voice of God _ib._
The Fountain of Marah 496
The Penitent’s Offering _ib._
The Sculptured Children _ib._
Woman and Fame 497
A Thought of the Future 498
The Voice of Music _ib._
The Angel’s Greeting 499
A Farewell to Wales _ib._
Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on receiving from her
some Flowers when confined by illness _ib._
A Parting Song 500
We return no more _ib._
To a Wandering Female Singer 501
Lights and Shades _ib._
The Palmer _ib._
The Child’s First Grief 502
To the New-Born _ib._
The Death-Song of Alcestis _ib._
The Home of Love 503
Books and Flowers 504
For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels 505
The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a picture of
Eastlake’s 506
The Child’s Return from the Woodlands 506
The Faith of Love 507
The Sister’s Dream, _ib._
A Farewell to Abbotsford 508
O’Connor’s Child _ib._
The Prayer for Life 509
The Welcome to Death _ib._
The Victor 510
Lines written for the Album at Rosanna _ib._
The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene of a recent
Shipwreck 511
The Haunted House _ib._
The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps 512
To the Mountain-Winds 514
The Procession 515
The Broken Lute _ib._
The Burial in the Desert 516
To a Picture of the Madonna 517
A Thought of the Rose 518
Dreams of Heaven _ib._
The Wish 519
Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the
county of Kilkenny _ib._
Epitaph 520
Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco _ib._
To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist _ib._
O ye Hours! _ib._
The Freed Bird 521
Marguerite of France _ib._
The Wanderer 523
The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland _ib._
To Caroline 524
The Flower of the Desert _ib._
Critical Annotations _ib._
HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD.
Introductory Verses 528
The Rainbow 529
The Sun _ib._
The Rivers _ib._
The Stars 530
The Ocean _ib._
The Thunder-storm 531
The Birds _ib._
The Skylark. Child’s Morning Hymn 532
The Nightingale. Child’s Evening Hymn _ib._
The Northern Spring 533
Paraphrase of Psalm 148 _ib._
NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.
NATIONAL LYRICS.
The Themes of Song 534
Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. To the air of
“Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” _ib._
A Song of Delos 535
Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 536
Naples. A Song of the Syren _ib._
The Fall of D’Assas. A Ballad of France 537
The Burial of William the Conqueror _ib._
SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
Near thee! still near thee! 538
Oh! Droop thou not _ib._
SONGS OF SPAIN.
Ancient Battle-Song 539
The Zegri Maid _ib._
The Rio Verde Song _ib._
Seek by the Silvery Darro 540
Spanish Evening Hymn _ib._
Bird that art Singing on Ebro’s Side! _ib._
Moorish Gathering-Song _ib._
The Song of Mina’s Soldiers 541
Mother! Oh, sing me to rest _ib._
There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles _ib._
SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
And I too in Arcadia 541
The Wandering Wind 542
Ye are not miss’d, fair Flowers! _ib._
The Willow Song _ib._
Leave me not yet 543
The Orange Bough _ib._
The Stream set Free _ib._
The Summer’s Call _ib._
Oh! Skylark, for thy Wing! 544
SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.
Introduction 545
The Brother’s Dirge _ib._
The Alpine Horn _ib._
O ye Voices! _ib._
I Dream of all things Free 546
Far o’er the Sea _ib._
The Invocation _ib._
The Song of Hope _ib._
MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.
The Call to Battle 547
Mignon’s Song. Translated from Goethe _ib._
The Sisters. A Ballad 548
The Last Song of Sappho 549
Dirge _ib._
A Song of the Rose 550
Night-Blowing Flowers 551
The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers _ib._
Echo-Song _ib._
The Muffled Drum 552
The Swan and the Skylark _ib._
The Curfew-Song of England 553
Genius Singing to Love 554
Music at a Deathbed _ib._
Marshal Schwerin’s Grave 555
The Fallen Lime-Tree _ib._
The Bird at Sea 556
The Dying Girl and Flowers _ib._
The Ivy-Song 557
The Music of St Patrick’s _ib._
Keene; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son Far Away 558
The Lyre and Flower 559
Sister! since I met thee last _ib._
The Lonely Bird _ib._
Dirge at Sea _ib._
Pilgrim’s Song to the Evening Star 560
The Meeting of the Ships _ib._
Come Away _ib._
Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 561
Music from Shore _ib._
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 561
If thou hast crush’d a flower 562
Brightly hast thou fled _ib._
The Bed of Heath _ib._
Fairy Song _ib._
What Woke the Buried Sound 563
Sing to me, Gondolier! _ib._
Look on me thus no more _ib._
O’er the far blue Mountains _ib._
O thou Breeze of Spring! _ib._
Come to me, Dreams of Heaven! 564
Good-Night _ib._
Let her Depart _ib._
How can that Love so deep, so lone 565
Water-Lilies. A Fairy Song _ib._
The Broken Flower _ib._
I would we had not met again _ib._
Fairies’ Recall _ib._
The Rock beside the Sea 566
O ye Voices gone! _ib._
By a Mountain-Stream at rest _ib._
Is there some Spirit sighing _ib._
The Name of England 567
Old Norway. A Mountain War-song _ib._
Come to me, Gentle Sleep! _ib._
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.
Preface 568
The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen Mary _ib._
Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 572
Cathedral Hymn 574
Wood Walk and Hymn 576
Prayer of the Lonely Student 577
The Traveller’s Evening Song 579
Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forests _ib._
Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard 581
The Child Reading the Bible 583
A Poet’s Dying Hymn _ib._
The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott 585
The Prayer in the Wilderness 586
Prisoners’ Evening Service. A Scene of the French Revolution 587
Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Persecution 588
Prayer at Sea after Victory 589
The Indian’s Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moravian Missionary 590
Evening Song of the Weary 592
The Day of Flowers _ib._
Hymn of the Traveller’s Household on his Return--in
the Olden Time 594
The Painter’s Last Work 595
A Prayer of Affection 596
Mother’s Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child _ib._
Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody by Felton 597
SONNETS.
FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.
Invocation _ib._
Invocation continued _ib._
The Song of Miriam 598
Ruth 598
The Vigil of Rizpah _ib._
The Reply of the Shunamite Woman _ib._
The Annunciation _ib._
The Song of the Virgin 599
The Penitent anointing Christ’s Feet _ib._
Mary at the Feet of Christ _ib._
The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus _ib._
The Memorial of Mary 599
The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross _ib._
Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 600
Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection _ib._
SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.
The Sacred Harp 600
To a Family Bible _ib._
Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture _ib._
Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers 601
On a Remembered Picture of Christ--an Ecce Homo by
Leonardo da Vinci _ib._
The Children whom Jesus Blessed _ib._
Mountain Sanctuaries _ib._
The Lilies of the Field _ib._
The Birds of the Air 602
The Raising of the Widow’s Son _ib._
The Olive Tree _ib._
The Darkness of the Crucifixion _ib._
Places of Worship _ib._
Old Church in an English Park 603
A Church in North Wales _ib._
Louise Schepler _ib._
To the Same _ib._
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Two Monuments 604
The Cottage Girl _ib._
The Battle-Field 605
A Penitent’s Return _ib._
A Thought of Paradise 606
Let us Depart _ib._
On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross--painted by Velasquez 607
Communings with Thought _ib._
The Water-Lily 608
The Song of Penitence. Unfinished 609
Troubadour Song _ib._
The English Boy _ib._
To the Blue Anemone 610
SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE.
Scenes from “Tasso” 611
Scenes from “Iphigenia.” A Fragment 616
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
A Vernal Thought 617
To the Sky _ib._
On Records of Immature Genius _ib._
On Watching the Flight of a Skylark 618
A Thought of the Sea _ib._
Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening _ib._
The River Clwyd in North Wales _ib._
Orchard-Blossoms 619
To a Distant Scene _ib._
A Remembrance of Grasmere _ib._
Thoughts connected with Trees _ib._
The Same _ib._
On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 620
A Thought at Sunset _ib._
Images of Patriarchal Life _ib._
Attraction of the East _ib._
To an Aged Friend 620
A Happy Hour 621
Foliage _ib._
A Prayer _ib._
Prayer continued _ib._
Memorial of a Conversation 622
RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
The Return to Poetry 622
To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his “Prigione” _ib._
To the Same released _ib._
On a Scene in the Dargle 623
On the Datura Arborea _ib._
On Reading Coleridge’s Epitaph _ib._
Design and Performance _ib._
Hope of Future Communion with Nature _ib._
Dreams of the Dead 624
The Poetry of the Psalms _ib._
Despondency and Aspiration _ib._
The Huguenot’s Farewell 626
Antique Greek Lament 627
THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.
Intellectual Powers 627
Sickness like Night _ib._
On Retzsch’s Design of the Angel of Death _ib._
Remembrance of Nature _ib._
Flight of the Spirit _ib._
Flowers _ib._
Recovery 629
Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few days before
her death _ib._
----
Appendix 630
Index 642
Index to first lines 647
CHRONOLOGY OF MRS HEMANS’ LIFE AND WORKS
1793.
Felicia Dorothea Browne, born at Liverpool, Sept 25.
1800, (æt. 7.)
Removes with family from Liverpool to Gwrych, near Abergele,
Denbighshire.--Shortly afterwards composes Lines on her Mother’s
Birthday.
1804, (11.)
Spends winter in London.--Writes thence letter in rhyme to brother and
sister in Wales.
1808, (15.)
Collection of poems printed in 4to.--England and Spain
written.--Becomes acquainted with Captain Hemans.
1809, (16.)
Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire.--Pursues her studies in
French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.--Acquires the elements of
German; and shows a taste for drawing and music.
1812, (19.)
Domestic Affections and other poems published.--Marries Captain
Hemans.--Takes up residence at Daventry, Northamptonshire.
1813, (20.)
Son Arthur born.--Returns to Bronwylfa.
1816, (23.)
Publishes Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy; also Modern Greece.
1818, (25.)
Makes Translations from Camoens and others.--Publishes Stanzas on the
Death of Princess Charlotte, (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, April.)
1819, (26.)
Tales and Historic Scenes published.--Gains prize for best poem on the
Meeting of Wallace and Bruce.--Captain Hemans takes up residence in
Italy.--Family consists of five sons.
1820, (27.)
Publishes poem of Sceptic.--Becomes acquainted with Bishop Heber and
his brother Richard.--Corresponds with Mr Gifford.--Contributes papers
on Foreign Literature to _Edinburgh Magazine_.--Publishes Stanzas
to the Memory of George the Third.--Visits Wavertree Lodge, near
Liverpool, (October.)
1821, (28.)
Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by Royal Society of
Literature.--Corresponds with Rev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly.--Writes
Vespers of Palermo.--Extends her German studies. Writes Welsh Melodies.
1822, (29.)
Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written;--also dramatic
fragment of Don Sebastian.
1823, (30.)
Contributes to Thomas Campbell’s _New Monthly Magazine_.--Voice of
Spring written, (March.)--Siege of Valencia published, along with Last
Constantine and Belshazzar’s Feast.--Vespers of Palermo performed at
Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.)
1824, (31.)
Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which unfortunately lost.--Writes
Lays of Many Lands.--Removes with family from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon.
1825, (32.)
Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, The Hour of Death, Graves of
a Household, The Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her best
lyrics written.
1826, (33.)
The Forest Sanctuary published, together with Lays of Many
Lands.--Commences correspondence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S.,
who republishes her works there.
1827, (34.)
Mrs Hemans loses her mother (11th January.)--Writes Hymns for
Childhood, which are first published in America.--Corresponds with
Joanna Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline Bowles, Mary Howitt,
and M. J. Jewsbury.--Writes Körner to his Sister, Homes of England, An
Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many other lyrics.--Health becomes
impaired.
1828, (35.)
Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, and collected
Miscellanies, (May.)--Contributes regularly to _Blackwood’s
Magazine_.--Visits Wavertree Lodge early in summer.--Removes to village
of Wavertree with family in September.
1829, (36.)
Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering Female Singer, The Child’s
First Grief, The Better Land, and Miscellanies.--Voyages to Scotland,
(June,) and visits Mr Henry M’Kenzie, Rev. Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey,
Sir Walter Scott, Captain Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other
distinguished literati.--Returns to England, (Sept.)--A Spirit’s Return
composed.
1830, (37.)
Songs of the Affections published.--Visits the Lakes and Mr
Wordsworth.--Domiciles during part of summer at Dove’s Nest, near
Ambleside.--Revisits Scotland, (Aug.)--Returns by Dublin and Holyhead
to Wales.
1831, (38.)
State of health delicate.--Quits England for last time, (April,)
and proceeds to Dublin.--Visits the Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and
Woodstock.--Returns to Dublin, (Aug.)--Writes various lyrics.
1832, (39.)
Health continues greatly impaired.--Writes Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs
of Spain, and Songs of a Guardian Spirit.
1833, (40.)
Feels recruited during spring.--Writes Songs of Captivity, Songs for
Summer Hours, and many of Scenes and Hymns of Life.--Composes Sonnets
Devotional and Memorial.--Commences translation of Scenes and Passages
from German Authors, (December.)
1834, (41.)
Hymns for Childhood published (March;) also National Lyrics and Songs
for Music.--Paper on Tasso, published in _New Monthly Magazine_,
(May.)--Writes Fragment of Paper on Iphigenia.--Records of Spring
1834 written, (April, May, June.)--Is seized with fever; during
convalescence retires into county of Wicklow.--Returns to Dublin
in autumn, and has attack of ague.--Composes Records of Autumn
1834.--Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and Nov.)--The
Huguenot’s Farewell and Antique Greek Lament, (Nov.)--Thoughts during
Sickness written, (Nov. and Dec.)--Retires during convalescence to
Redesdale, a country-seat of the Archbishop of Dublin.
1835, (42.)
Returns to Dublin, (March.)--Debility gradually increases.--Corresponds
regarding Sir Robert Peel’s appointment of her son Henry.--Dictates
Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.)--Departs this life, (16th May.)--Remains
interred in vault beneath St Anne’s Church, Dublin.
THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
MRS HEMANS
JUVENILE POEMS
ON MY MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.
Clad in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.
The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.
The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.
A PRAYER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.
O God! my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side.
Thus cheerfully through life I’ll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot--
Happy, though in the meanest cot.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.”
O Author of the rich luxuriant year!
Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e’en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,--heaven’s immortal King!
Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire--
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre,
And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!”
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given,
Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven.
[1] A sister whom the author had lost.
SHAKSPEARE.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she
read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later
days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed
in a secret haunt of her own--a seat amongst the branches of an old
apple-tree--where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume,
she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it
revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old,
may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.--_Memoir of Mrs
Hemans by her Sister_, p. 6, 7.]
I love to rove o’er history’s page,
Recall the hero and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet’s pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired,
The bosom’s energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier;
To love the merry moonlit scene,
With fairy elves in valleys green;
Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the “native woodnotes wild”
Of him, the Muse’s favourite child!
Of him whose magic lays impart
Each various feeling to the heart!
TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her
father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following
year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast
between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her
own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the
indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she
longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite
rural haunts and amusements--the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree,
the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a
daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where
fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,)
and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the
mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In
one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her
return home was thus expressed in rhyme.--_Mem._ p. 8, 9.]
Happy soon we’ll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we’ll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn;
Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale;
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers;
And sport away the light-wing’d hours.
Soon we’ll run the agile race;
Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;--
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We’ll hand in hand delighted rove;
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide;
Or raise again the caroll’d lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings;
Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade:
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea----
Happy, happy shall we be!
SONNET TO MY MOTHER.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.
To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art--
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth;
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief:
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile--
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May hover round the virtuous man’s repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace.
Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.
RURAL WALKS.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
“And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array’d in all the blending shades of Time.
The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
“And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.”
SONNET.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.
[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded
amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial
than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly
an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the
animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,[2]
and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and
perils attendant upon the career of an author;--though it may here be
observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once
the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like
harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt
bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and
her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the
song of the skylark.]
I love to hail the mild and balmy hour
When evening spreads around her twilight veil.
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o’er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy’s ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.
[2] The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances
under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and
quite uncalled for, ran as follows:
--“We hear that these poems are the ‘genuine productions of a young
lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,’ and we
do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the
fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have
‘children dear,’ yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we
are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention.
Many of Miss Browne’s compositions are extremely _jejune_. However,
though Miss Browne’s poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable
lines, we must praise the ‘Reflections in a ruined Castle,’ and the
poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ‘Patriotism’
contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author
were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing,
we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of
pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we
must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always
to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains
maturity before the oak.”--_Monthly Review_, 1809.
ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.
----“His sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”--Pope.
[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday
addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were
henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and
banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had
once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at
an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John
Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike
enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions
of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days
of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of
daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with
the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero,
“The Cid Ruy Diaz,” the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these
feelings, she composed a poem entitled “England and Spain,” which was
published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be
considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen;
lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge,
being all strikingly displayed in it.--_Memoir_, p. 10, 11.]
Too long have Tyranny and Power combined
To sway, with iron sceptre, o’er mankind;
Long has Oppression worn th’ imperial robe,
And Rapine’s sword has wasted half the globe!
O’er Europe’s cultured realms, and climes afar,
Triumphant Gaul has pour’d the tide of war:
To her fair Austria veil’d the standard bright;
Ausonia’s lovely plains have own’d her might;
While Prussia’s eagle, never taught to yield,
Forsook her towering height on Jena’s field!
O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade
Have seen thy country vanquish’d and betray’d,
How had thy soul indignant mourn’d her shame,
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish’d fame!
When Valour wept lamented Brunswick’s doom,
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb;
When Prussia, drooping o’er her hero’s grave,
Invoked his spirit to descend and save;
Then set her glories--then expired her sun,
And fraud achieved e’en more than conquest won!
O’er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay,
Has desolation spread her ample sway;
Thy blast, O Ruin! on tremendous wings,
Has proudly swept o’er empires, nations, kings.
Thus the wild hurricane’s impetuous force
With dark destruction marks its whelming course,
Despoils the woodland’s pomp, the blooming plain,
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train!
--Rise, Freedom, rise! and, breaking from thy trance,
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance!
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause,
And call thy champions to defend thy laws!
How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain?
How long shall despots and usurpers reign?
Is honour’s lofty soul for ever fled!
Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead?
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell,
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell?
Yes, Freedom! yes! thy sons, a noble band,
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand;
Once more, ’tis thine, invincible to wield
The beamy spear and adamantine shield!
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows,
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes;
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer’d fires,
Thy look sublime the warrior’s heart inspires;
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right,
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight,
Lo! Britain’s generous host their aid supply,
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die;
And Glory smiles to see Iberia’s name
Enroll’d with Albion’s in the book of fame!
Illustrious names! still, still united beam,
Be still the hero’s boast, the poet’s theme:
So, when two radiant gems together shine,
And in one wreath their lucid light combine;
Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays,
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze.
Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend!
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend!
As Memnon’s harp (so ancient fables say)
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray,
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own,
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone;
Call from the sun, her burning throne on high,
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye;
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire,
And breathe the soul of rapture o’er the lyre!
Hail, Albion! hail, thou land of freedom’s birth!
Pride of the main, and Phœnix of the earth!
Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell,
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel!
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave,
Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave;
In classic elegance and arts divine,
To rival Athens’ fairest palm is thine;
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly,
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky,
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time!
Hail, Albion, hail! to thee has fate denied
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan’s pride,
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast,
And all the wealth of Montezuma’s coast:
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine,
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine;
No light Arabian gales their wings expand,
To waft Sabæan incense o’er the land;
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills,
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils;
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows,
And far from thee the scented cassia blows:
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne,
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own;
From Lapland’s shore to Afric’s fervid reign,
She bids thy ensigns float above the main;
Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale,
And shows to other worlds her daring sail:
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee,
Queen of the trident! empress of the sea!
For this thy noble sons have spread alarms,
And bade the zones resound with Britain’s arms!
Calpè’s proud rock, and Syria’s palmy shore,
Have heard and trembled at their battle’s roar;
The sacred waves of fertilising Nile
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle;
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war
Has roll’d o’er Vincent’s cape and Trafalgar!
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder’s sound,
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown’d--
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain,
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main!
The milder emblems of the virtues calm--
The poet’s verdant bay, the sage’s palm--
These in thy laurel’s blooming foliage twine,
And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine:
Not Mincio’s banks, nor Meles’ classic tide,
Are hallow’d more than Avon’s haunted side;
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme
Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber’s stream.
Bright in the annals of th’ impartial page,
Britannia’s heroes live from age to age!
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race,
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase,
Free from all cares for luxury or gain,
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain;
To these Augustan days, when social arts
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts;
From doubtful Arthur--hero of romance,
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance--
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield,
The gallant victors of Vimeira’s field;
Still have her warriors borne th’ unfading crown
And made the British flag the ensign of renown.
Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime!
Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time!
Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight,
On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might!
Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered,
By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d!
Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud,
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d!
Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view
Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true!
Behold the land, ennobled by your fame,
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name:
And, as the pyramid indignant rears
Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years;
See her secure in pride of virtue tower,
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power!
Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire,
Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!”
While Lusitania hails, with just applause,
The brave defenders of her injured cause;
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise,
And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies!
And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell,
Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell!
Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide,
Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d;
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight,
And the blue distance melted into light--
The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate
To fly for refuge in a foreign state--
They, soon returning o’er the western main,
Ere long may view their clime beloved again:
And as the blazing pillar led the host
Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast,
So may Britannia guide the noble band
O’er the wild ocean to their native land.
O glorious isle!--O sovereign of the waves!
Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!”
See them once more, with ardent hearts advance,
And rend the laurels of insulting France;
To brave Castile their potent aid supply,
And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high!
Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast?
Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway,
And call each wayward passion to obey?
Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire,
To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre;
Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine,
The patriot’s name to ages might consign?
Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme,
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam!
Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring,
And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string!
Could she the bosom energies control,
And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul!
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given,
Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven!
Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain,
For her--the humblest of the woodland train;
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!
Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows
To pour confusion on oppressive foes;
Intrepid spirits, hail! ’tis yours to feel
The hero’s fire, the freeman’s godlike zeal!
Not to secure dominion’s boundless reign,
Ye wave the flag of conquest o’er the slain;
No cruel rapine leads you to the war,
Nor mad ambition, whirl’d in crimson car.
No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end,
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend!
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear
The floating standard, and the lofty spear!
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword,
Fired by the image of the maid adored!
His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid,
The father’s hand unsheaths the glittering blade!
For each, for all, for ev’ry sacred right,
The daring patriot mingles in the fight!
And e’en if love or friendship fail to warm,
His country’s name alone can nerve his dauntless arm!
He bleeds! he falls! his deathbed is the field!
His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield!
His closing eyes the beam of valour speak,
The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek;
Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes,
Then for his country breathes a prayer--and dies!
Oh! ever hallow’d be his verdant grave--
There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave!
Thou, lovely Spring! bestow, to grace his tomb,
Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom;
There let the tears of heaven descend in balm,
There let the poet consecrate his palm!
Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground,
And shades of sainted heroes watch around!
’Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell,
Thy chief, O Thebes! at Mantinea fell;
Smiled undismay’d within the arms of death,
While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath!
O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul!
Thou source of energies beyond control!
Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed,
Whose sons unconquer’d fight, undaunted bleed,--
Inspiring Liberty! thy worshipp’d name
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame;
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high,
Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony.
More blest with thee to tread perennial snows,
Where ne’er a flower expands, a zephyr blows;
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain,
In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign;
Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove
The green savannas and the spicy grove;
Scent the rich balm of India’s perfumed gales,
In citron-woods and aromatic vales:
For oh! fair Liberty, when thou art near,
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear!
Where’er thy smile its magic power bestows,
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows;
The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives,
And every chord to swelling transport lives;
There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace;
With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms,
And calls from stone expression’s breathing forms.
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o’erflows its bound,
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round,
Bid Ceres laugh o’er waste and sterile sands,
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands.
Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies!
To thee shall Britain’s grateful incense rise.
Ne’er, goddess! ne’er forsake thy favourite isle,
Still be thy Albion brighten’d with thy smile!
Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose,
While proudly triumph’d thine insulting foes;
Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo’s light,
Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight:
Once more we see thy kindling soul return,
Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn;
Lo! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives,
Lo! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives!
Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band!
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand.
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day
Stream’d o’er the smiling land in long array,
Though tyrant Asia pour’d unnumber’d foes,
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose;--
For every state in sacred union stood,
Strong to repel invasion’s whelming flood;
Each heart was glowing in the general cause,
Each hand prepared to guard their hallow’d laws;
Athenian valour join’d Laconia’s might,
And but contended to be first in fight;
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran,
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van.
Then Persia’s monarch mourn’d his glories lost,
As wild confusion wing’d his flying host;
Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung,
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung!
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record
The high achievements of the conquering sword.
Thus, brave Castilians! thus may bright renown
And fair success your valiant efforts crown!
Genius of chivalry! whose early days
Tradition still recounts in artless lays;
Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls--
The floating banners and the lofty halls,
The gallant feats thy festivals display’d,
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade;
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail,
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale:
Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d,
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d;
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime;
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore,
Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore.
Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies,
Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs;
Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung,
The choral voice of mirth and music rung;
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone,
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan:
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away,
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay.
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone,
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown;
Genius of chivalry! thy noble train,
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain!
Fair truth, array’d in robes of spotless white,
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light;
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim,
Still darting forward to the wreath of fame;
And purest love, that waves his torch divine,
At awful honour’s consecrated shrine;
Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance;
And generous courage, resting on his lance;
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued;
Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude;
And patriot energy, with heart of flame--
These, in Iberia’s sons are yet the same!
These from remotest days their souls have fired,
“Nerved every arm,” and every breast inspired!
When Moorish bands their suffering land possess’d,
And fierce oppression rear’d her giant crest,
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova’s throne
In eastern gems and purple splendour shone;
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied
With stately Bagdat’s oriental pride;
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array’d,
Where arts and luxury their charms display’d;
’Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar’s costly towers,
Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers;
There all Arabian fiction e’er could tell
Of potent genii or of wizard spell--
All that a poet’s dream could picture bright,
One sweet Elysium, charm’d the wondering sight!
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand,
It seem’d an Eden from Armida’s wand!
Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state,
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate!
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear,
Stem retribution frowning on his spear;
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight,
O’erwhelm’d with shame, confess’d the Christian’s might.
In later times the gallant Cid arose,
Burning with zeal against his country’s foes;
His victor-arm Alphonso’s throne maintain’d,
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain’d!
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse,
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse!
High in the temple of recording fame,
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo’s name!
Victorious chief! whose valour still defied
The arms of Gaul, and bow’d her crested pride;
With splendid trophies graced his sovereign’s throne,
And bade Granada’s realms his prowess own.
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain!
In mighty Ferdinand’s illustrious reign;
’Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail,
Unfurl’d his flag before the eastern gale;
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before.
Fair science guided o’er the liquid realm,
Sweet hope, exulting, steer’d the daring helm;
While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye,
Courageous enterprise still hover’d nigh:
The hoary genius of th’ Atlantic main
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign--
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued,
The throne, the world of awful solitude.
And e’en when shipwreck seem’d to rear his form,
And dark destruction menaced in the storm;
In every shape when giant-peril rose,
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose;
O’er ev’ry heart when terror sway’d alone,
And hope forsook each bosom but his own:
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell’d,
His glorious track the gallant sailor held;
Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave,
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave.
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep,
With dauntless prow explored th’ untravell’d deep;
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses’ watchful sight
View’d ev’ry star and planetary light.
Sublime Columbus! when, at length descried,
The long-sought land arose above the tide,
How every heart with exultation glow’d,
How from each eye the tear of transport flow’d!
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew
When Canaan’s fertile plains appear’d in view.
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze,
Then martial music floated o’er the seas;
Their waving streamers to the sun display’d,
In all the pride of warlike pomp array’d.
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band
Hail’d the glad shore, and bless’d the stranger land;
Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair,
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air:
Then crowded round its free and simple race,
Amazement pictured wild on every face;
Who deem’d that beings of celestial birth,
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth.
Then first another world, another sky,
Beheld Iberia’s banner blaze on high!
Still prouder glories beam on history’s page,
Imperial Charles! to mark thy prosperous age
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright,
When Science pour’d her mild, refulgent light;
When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe
Creative Sculpture claim’d the living wreath;
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers,
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers;
When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine,
The clouds that veil’d religion’s hallow’d shrine
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower
High on the pyramid of fame and power;
Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes,
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose.
Thus on proud Lebanon’s exalted brow,
The cedar, frowning o’er the plains below,
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend,
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend!
When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain,
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train;
When, after many a toil and danger past,
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last;
That morning saw her glittering host combine,
And form in close array the threat’ning line;
Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm,
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm;
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play,
Their armour flashing to the beam of day;
Their gen’rous chargers panting, spurn the ground,
Roused by the trumpet’s animating sound;
And heard in air their warlike music float,
The martial pipe, the drum’s inspiring note!
Pale set the sun--the shades of evening fell,
The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell;
And the same day beheld their warriors dead,
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled!
Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire,
Bright, blazing, dreadful--only to expire!
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might,
Iberia’s planet shed meridian light!
Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day,
Castilian spirit bore the prize away--
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain,
And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane!
And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame,
Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame;
Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow,
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe;
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear,
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear!
Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown,
The living amaranths of bright renown!
Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause,
Due to the champions of their country’s cause!
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves,
The joy when conscience whispers and approves!
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high,
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty;
When every hand is dauntless and prepared
The sacred charter of mankind to guard;
When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite,
Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right,
Bid ancient enmities for ever cease,
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace.
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band,
Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand?
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless?
Can victory fail to crown them with success?
Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain,
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain!
Despot of France! destroyer of mankind!
What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind!
Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed,
When soothing visions fly thine aching head;
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm,
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm;
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise,
And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes;
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear,
“Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!”
It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray--
Soon will its parting lustre fade away;
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light,
And veil thy splendours in eternal night!
Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul
With awful terrors and with dread control,
Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand,
And summons all her visionary band;
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead,
And whispers, peace and happiness are fled;
E’en at the time of silence and of rest,
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast;
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale?
Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail?
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke?
Bereave a nation of its rights revered,
Of all to morals sacred and endear’d?
And shall they tamely liberty resign,
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine?
Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind,
In chains of adamant, the noble mind?
Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear--
Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career!
No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain
The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain.
Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine,
Then bid thy legions all their power combine!
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command,
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand,
E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn,
E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn!
Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field,
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield!
Still prompt the injured to defend and save,
Appal the despot, and assist the brave;
Who now intrepid lift the generous blade,
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid!
Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name,
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame;
Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead,
By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled;
By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain,
By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain;
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won,
Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son!
By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime,
Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime;
Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise
A deathless monument to future days!
Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise,
Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies!
Transcend the fairest names in history’s page,
The brightest actions of a former age;
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore,
And bid oppression fall--to rise no more!
Then soon returning to your native isle,
May love and beauty hail you with their smile;
For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath,
And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe!
Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage?
Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage?
When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign,
Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again?
Not till the despot’s dread career is closed,
And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed!
Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign!
Fair blue-eyed seraph! balmy power divine!
Descend once more! thy hallow’d blessings bring,
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing!
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train,
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain:
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way,
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray.
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky!
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye;
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send,
Thy myrtle-sceptre o’er the globe extend:
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind,
Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind;
Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire,
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre.
Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice--
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice,
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng,
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song!
Then shall the shepherd’s flute, the woodland reed,
The martial clarion and the drum succeed;
Again shall bloom Arcadia’s fairest flowers,
And music warble in Idalian bowers.
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death,
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath;
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain,
Where the wild combat redden’d o’er the plain.
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid!
Return, return, in vest of light array’d!
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air:
With accents milder than Æolian lays,
When o’er the harp the fanning zephyr plays,
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest,
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast!
O Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep!
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep!
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind’s force,
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course;
Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme!
Robed in perfection! crown’d with glory’s beam!
Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove,
To bear the sacred olive from above;
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time,
The festal harmony of nature’s prime!
Bid truth and justice once again appear,
And spread their sunshine o’er this mundane sphere;
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom,
Transcendant light their hallow’d fane illume;
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease,
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace;
Brothers once more, let men her empire own,
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne,
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed
Eternal haloes round her sainted head!
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.
[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled _The Domestic
Affections, and other Poems_, was given to the world--the last that
was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne; for, in the summer of
the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under
which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had
returned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquaintance was
renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych; and as the sentiments
then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition
was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the
dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so
entirely to depend.--_Memoir_, p. 24.]
THE SILVER LOCKS.
ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.
Though youth may boast the curls that flow
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
_As_ graceful on thy hoary head
Has Time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, _softly_ shed
His wreath of snow!
As frost-work on the trees display’d
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E’en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E’en so thy locks of purest white
Survive, in age’s frost-work bright,
Youth’s vernal rose decay’d!
To grace the nymph whose tresses play
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
Invite my lay!
Less white the summer-cloud sublime,
Less white the winter’s fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem
(A Poet’s blest immortal theme)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam
Of reverend Time!
Long may the graceful honours smile,
Like moss on some declining pile;
O much revered! may filial care
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share,
Thy pains beguile!
Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave!
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save!
May bliss your latest evening crown,
Disarm life’s winter of its frown,
And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down
In gladness to the grave!
And as the parting beams of day
On mountain-snows reflected play,
And tints of roseate lustre shed;
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May joy, with evening planet, shed
His mildest ray!
August 18, 1809.
TO MY MOTHER.
If e’er from human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e’er my heart has learn’d to know
The generous wish or prayer;
Who sow’d the germ with tender hand?
Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?--
My mother’s fostering care.
And if _one_ flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind,
’Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn
That oft opposed her toil!
And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores
That Fortune on her favourite pours;
’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round _thee_ with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;--
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, _unconfined_,
And fall as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light
Than all the diamond’s crystal rays,
Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make _thee_ its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom’d to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life’s remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Æolian lyre
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E’en _then_ shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow’s tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune’s gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!
TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,
ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE,
AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.
Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!
And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!
From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.
Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d,
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!
How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat’s alarm!
How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!
But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er,
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows.
And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!
No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
And beam through the cloud of despair!
TO MY ELDEST BROTHER.
(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.)
How many a day, in various hues array’d,
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade,
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since _then_ has childhood ripen’d into youth,
And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage experience waved the wand of care!
Yet _still_ thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection’s eye!
When shall we meet again?--with glowing ray
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear,
And sings benignly still--_that_ day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore
Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th’ impending storm should lower.
Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away?
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those
Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows.
Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours,
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers!
Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe,
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near--the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart,
And, firm and _vital_, but with life depart!
Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.
LINES
WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH.
O thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
O thou! whose blameless life combined
Soft female charms, and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d
Beyond this vale of tears--
Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored
The lore of years!
Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en _here_,
The wing of towering thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless’d ethereal soul
_Now_ kindle in her noontide ray,
And hail, unfetter’d by control,
The Fount of Day!
E’en _now_, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise--
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendant, pure, and clear!
E’en _now_, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal’d,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal’d!
If _here_ the lore of distant time,
And learning’s flowers, were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime,
To light’s unclouded throne!
Perhaps e’en _now_ thy kindling glance
Each orb of living fire explores,
Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse,
Admires--adores!
Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning’s brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection’s day!
[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the
maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.--_Poems_, vol.
ii. p. 140-9.]
THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.
Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall,
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall.
Though doom’d, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!
Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air,
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
While Flora’s children stay--
To mantle o’er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!
Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown’d,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!
Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o’er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep
That vanish’d is the golden dream!
Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even--
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heaven?
Where is the harp, by rapture strung
To melting song or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung
To loveliness or glory?
Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound--
As if, within this lonely round,
A step--a note--_a whisper’d sound_
Had ne’er aroused thy voice!
Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne’er again shall harp or song,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose.
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat
Or lofty strain or carol sweet
With plaintive close!
Proud Castle! though the days are flown
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o’er thy ramparts hung,
Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echo’d once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of Time--
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove;
And bending o’er some mossy tomb,
Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep for Glory’s transient day
And Grandeur’s evanescent ray;
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past--
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead,
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition’s kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!
Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Thus round Misfortune’s holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!
CHRISTMAS CAROL.
Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!
CHORUS.
For lo! the day, th’ immortal day,
When Mercy’s full, benignant ray
Chased every gathering cloud away,
And pour’d the noon of light!
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing,
While from thine eye the tear is flowing,
Pure, warm, and bright!
’Twas on this day--oh, love divine!--
The Orient Star’s effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign
Shall never, never close!
CHORUS.
Messiah! be thy name adored,
Eternal, high, redeeming Lord!
By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d--
Emanuel! Prince of Peace!
This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling,
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling,
Bade discord cease!
Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice,
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour’s birth!
CHORUS.
Devotion! light thy purest fire!
Transport! on cherub wing aspire!
Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre,
Strike every thrilling chord!
While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling,
We own thy grace, reviving, healing,
Redeemer! Lord!
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.
Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given,
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven?
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse
Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues?
Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know?
Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne,
When kneeling myriads call the world his own?
Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers
Where taste and wealth exert _creative_ powers?
Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine,
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine;
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way,
Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day?
No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined,
Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind;
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties,
On earth so sweet--so perfect in the skies!
Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade,
The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale,
Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale!
Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road,
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode
Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose.
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky,
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye,
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear,
While viewless angels wave their pinions near;
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll,
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole,
While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball,
And thrones and empires in destruction fall;
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave,
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave,
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest,
_Her_ empire Home!--her throne, Affection’s breast!
For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms,
And softer sunshine every scene illumes.
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze,
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas;
When Summer, waving her creative wand,
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand;
Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace,
O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace;
Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign,
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain;
While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright,
Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light!
Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime,
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime,
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high,
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky!
And high through darkness rears his giant-form,
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm!
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more,
And the wild surges foam along the shore,
Domestic Bliss, _thy_ heaven is still serene,
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green!
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade--
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade!
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows,
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose!
--Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band!
Where pure and bright the social ardours rise,
Concentring all their holiest energies!--
When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame,
And every power deserts the sinking frame,
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores!
Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs;
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!
Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love,
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;
To _thee_ we turn, still faithful, from afar--
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee!
When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die,
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh;
Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign,
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main;
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep,
Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep!
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound,
All heaven--and sea--and solitude--around!
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm,
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm,
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined,
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind,
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career,
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear!
Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave,
And Danger frowns--the monarch of the wave!
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!
Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge,
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?
Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er,
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more!
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife,
The struggling agony for death or life,
E’en _then_ thy mind, embittering every pain,
Retraced the image so beloved--in vain!
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true,
Life’s parting sigh--the murmur of adieu!
Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface,
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?
Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast,
In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest,
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray
O’er the long march through Desolation’s way;
Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain,
Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain,
To that loved Home where pure affection glows,
That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose!
When all is hush’d--the rage of combat past,
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast;
When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er,
And many an eye is closed to wake no more;
Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground,
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!)
While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep,
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep!
E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray
The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway;
He sees fond transport light each beaming face,
Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace!
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart,
“Hail, weary soldier!--never more to part!”
And lo! at last, released from every toil,
He comes!--the wanderer views his native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak
Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer
Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care;
Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forget--
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret!
And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms!
How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note
For woodland-sounds in summer air that float!
Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper--‘Home!’
Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties,
Charms of existence! angel sympathies!
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen!
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene,
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers;
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar,
While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice,
And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;--
Yet from your source _alone_, in mazes bright,
Flows the full current of serene delight!
On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores,
Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars!
Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire,
Meridian glory--on her throne of fire!
Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze;
But soon, descending from his height sublime.
Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime,
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest,
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!
Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere,
And proudly waving in his gifted hand,
O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand,
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays!
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend,
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend,
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught,
Dilate the noblest energies of thought;)
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined,
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind,
At length he flies, to that serene retreat,
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet;
Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart
The softer pleasures of the social heart!
Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn,
From every tie by fate relentless torn;
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle,
Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile,
Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand,
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand!
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main,
And weep--and pray--and linger--but in vain!
Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade,
Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d,
He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude,
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude!
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone
The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan!
All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound,
As if some viewless power, presiding round,
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch--and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore,
Banish’d from being--to return no more;
There must he die!--within that circling wave,
That lonely isle--his prison and his grave!
Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows,
With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for _this_--far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy lingering age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest,
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast!
Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime,
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E’en _there_, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour
The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow,
E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power could tranquillise the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!
And thus, Affection, can _thy_ voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!
Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face,
That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver’d by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam
In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home,
Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave,
Where joy--and hope--and fortune--found a grave!
’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll triumphant on their blasted way,
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay!
Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!
Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d
Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d,
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life,
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile,
E’en _then_ could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has _mellow’d_ all, he _never_ can _erase_;
Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe!
Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar
On eagle-plume--to wonder and adore;
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls--and smile on all the past!
Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties,
Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours,
Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb!
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.
Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease
In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life’s closing lesson--in its dawning day;
Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time;
There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace
Of lingering sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler’s hand--the blight of death is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray--
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away!
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!
’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er,
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o’er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil.
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere
Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career,
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs--an angel of repose!
But who may charm _her_ sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier,
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d,
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d!
And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile,
With flattering promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish’d, never to return,
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The expressive smile, the animated grace!
Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair;
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long,
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng,
And guide her pinion on exulting flight,
Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light.
Ye gentle spirits of departed friends!
If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
If, with benignant care, ye linger near,
To guard the objects in existence dear;
If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to _your_ memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While for your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear--for you that flows:
Be near--when moonlight spreads the charm you loved
O’er scenes where once your _earthly_ footstep roved.
Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew,
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you,
And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest,
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes;
Efface the memory of your last farewell--
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
The sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue.
Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour,
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain,
To hush the final agonies of pain;
With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high
O’er many a world, ascending to the sky;
There let your presence, once her earthly joy,
Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.
Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime,
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time;
Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories never to expire;
Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections, whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exalting rapture--not assuaging woe!
TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY.
[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during
occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the
scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and
ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a
certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed
how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so
fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a
leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like
playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic
water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like
herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by
sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of
pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh
castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached
by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary
waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased
to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse
had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs
Joanna Baillie’s play of _Ethwald_ was always pleasingly associated
with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins
of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with
the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose
inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little
poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the
earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion
to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on
a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose
ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part
bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers
of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive
Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate
representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to,
his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long
been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical
mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard
by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty,
“The minstrel was infirm and old;”
but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines
(written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew
how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.]
Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring
Life, rapture, soul, from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;--
Oh! still prolong the varying strain!
Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again!
Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.
Exult, O Cambria!--now no more
With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow
And Mona’s woods be silent now,
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain
Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign.
For Genius, with divine control,
Wakes the bold chord neglected long,
And pours Expression’s glowing soul
O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song;
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.
Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire,
And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan,
That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o’er the magic string.
Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!
[3] Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had
been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary
musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation
are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his
circumstances, he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any
view to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others; and the
innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth
by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded
himself, as in a manner consecrated, by being made the depositary of a
direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of
the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit.
EPITAPH ON MR W----,
A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST.[4]
Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list--
Here lies a famous Mineralogist.
Famous indeed! such traces of his power,
He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr,
Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks,
His works resemble those of earthquake shocks;
And future ages very much may wonder
What mighty giant rent the hills asunder,
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er
Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there.
His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue,
With him, good reader, here lie buried too--
Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain,
He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain.
We knew, so great the fuss he made about them,
Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them;
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones,
We paved his grave with all his favourite stones.
His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side;
Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified:
His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses,
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes:
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!--
His very coffin-plate is made of granite.
Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest:
Weep not for him! but envied be his doom,
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room:
And, O ye rocks!--schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be,
Ye varied strata!--names too hard for me--
Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe
By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low.
Ne’er on your spoils again shall W---- riot.
Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet--
He sleeps--no longer planning hostile actions,
As cold as any of his petrifactions;
Enshrined in specimens of every hue,
Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you.
[4] “Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce
two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing,
[Lines to Mr. Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place,
three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that
versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed,
they were never intended for publication, but were merely a _jeu
d’esprit_ of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable
zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological
researches.”--_Memoir_, p. 20.
EPITAPH
ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST.
Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er,
A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before.
Released from toil, it slumbers by the side
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried;
No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife
He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life:
Now laying siege to some old limestone wall,
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees,
Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize;
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes,
He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies,
And bring down lumps so precious, and so many,
I’m sure they almost would have made--a penny!
Think, when such deeds as these were daily done,
What fearful risks this hammer must have run.
And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine:
Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot,
Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott!
Then should its name with his be closely link’d,
And live till every mineral were extinct.
Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field--
Bid W----’s hammer match Achilles’ shield:
As for _my_ muse, the chaos of her brain,
I search for specimens of wit in vain;
Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer,
And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer;
Remembering well, “what perils do environ”
Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.”
PROLOGUE TO THE _POOR GENTLEMAN_,
AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT
CLONMEL.[5]
_Enter Captain_ George Browne, _in the character of Corporal_ Foss.
To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here,
Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear;
Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause,
That Poverty’s no title to applause.
Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote,
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat?
Who, in a world where all is bought and sold,
Minds a man’s worth--except his worth in gold?
Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner!
Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner!
Away with Poverty! let none receive her,
She bears contagion as a plague or fever;
“Bony, and gaunt, and grim”--like jaundiced eyes,
Discolouring all within her sphere that lies.
“Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too!
Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous!
In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is,
With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses,
How shall they dare at such a bar appear?
What are their tactics and manœuvres here?
While thoughts like these come rushing o’er our mind,
Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find!
Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish’d name
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame,
And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle!
View our weak efforts with approving smile!
School’d in rough camps, and still disdaining art,
Ill can the soldier act a borrow’d part;
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age,
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage;
His theatre is found in every land,
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band:
Place him in danger’s front--he recks not where--
Be your own Wellington his prompter there,
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien,
He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene.
Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round,
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound,
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile;
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear,
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here.
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies,
No stage effect of glittering pageantries:
No, to your kindness he must look alone
To realise the hope he dares not own;
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye,
His wish to please may claim indemnity.
And why despair, indulgence when we crave
From Erin’s sons, the generous and the brave?
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought,
Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught;
Still has the stranger, in their social isle,
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile,
And well their hearts can share, though unexpress’d,
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier’s breast.
[5] These verses were written about the same time as the preceding
humorous epitaphs.
[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans,
chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly
attended to, a selection from her Juvenile compositions has been
given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity--for her real career as an
authoress cannot be said to have commenced before the publication of
the section which immediately follows.
In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs
Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras--the
first of which may be termed the _classical_, and comprehends the
productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to
Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and
the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the _romantic_, which
commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of
Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to
excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far
transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given,
and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations
of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical
attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron,
these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read
with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.]
THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.
[“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy,
and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and
Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection
of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and,
dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris,
and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of
the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of
taste transitory.”--Eustace’s _Classical Tour through Italy_, vol. ii.
p. 60.]
“Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai
Funesta dote d’infiniti guai,
Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte;
Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.”
Filicaja.
Land of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains;
Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile
Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!
Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.
Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave,
Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave,
Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high--
Those magic strains of love and chivalry!
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove,
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d.
And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might
Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight--
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind;
Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight
O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height;
Who bade once more the wild heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high
Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry.
Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past,
One strife remain’d--the mightest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour
Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power:
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood;
Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone,
Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone.
O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb,
Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified;
Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run,
A prouder sepulchre--the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name,
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown
That ask no urn to blazon their renown!
There shall the bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead;
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave!
Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze some name to glory dear;
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane,
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell
Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair
To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there.
And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame,
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.
Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored;
Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe,
And bid the stranger for awhile forget
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.
Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought,
Embodied visions of ascending thought!
Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced
In tints that vindicate adoring taste!
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown,
Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne;
Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d,
Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind;
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore
One beam of splendour to your native shore,
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume,
As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb.
Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy--
Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand,
As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone;
Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale,
E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale,
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends,
But its proud name with song eternal blends!
Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream
Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme;
Where every marble deeds of fame records,
Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords;
And the deep tones of inspiration swell
From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell;
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains,
Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes,
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot;
_There_ was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast;
And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.
Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,
Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued,
Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude.
Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!
As one who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heighten’d by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe,
While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow,
With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored
As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored--
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o’er the dead.
Athens of Italy! once more are thine
Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine.
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,
And forms august as natives of the sky
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty--
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.
Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance--
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake,
And daring Intellect his bondage break--
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose,
And snatch’d the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound
With power electric through the realms around;
O high in thought, magnificent in soul!
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th’ enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind
Seems in the marble’s breathing mould enshrined;
Still with ascendant power the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.
There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love’s radiant goddess, idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion’s vow,
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light
Flash’d o’er the sculptor’s intellectual sight,
How many a glimpse, reveal’d to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!
Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye
On forms instinct with bright divinity,
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart,
Embrace the full magnificence of Art;
From scenes by Raphael’s gifted hand array’d,
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray’d;
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime,
Seal’d with perfection, “sanctified by time;”
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel
His spirit burn with emulative zeal:
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise,
Imbued at once with nobler energies;
O’er life’s dim scenes on rapid pinions soar,
And worlds of visionary grace explore,
Till his bold hand give glory’s daydream birth,
And with new wonders charm admiring earth.
Venice exult! and o’er thy moonlight seas
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze!
What though long fled those years of martial fame
That shed romantic lustre o’er thy name;
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play,
And the wild waves another Queen obey;
Though quench’d the spirit of thine ancient race,
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace;
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast,
And gild the wreck of years for ever past.
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian’s dyes,
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies,
And scenes that glow in colouring’s richest bloom
With life’s warm flush Palladian halls illume.
From thy rich dome again th’ unrivall’d steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.
Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem--but form’d to bear
Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air;
To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet,
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet;
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray,
The flame that wakes creations into day.
Creatures of fire and ether! wing’d with light,
To track the regions of the Infinite!
From purer elements whose life was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn
What years, on years in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone
Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo’s voice--the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save
A few bright traces of the wise and brave;
How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,
Towering o’er earth majestic and alone,
Fortress of power--has flourish’d and is gone!
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne,
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn,
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun,
Consummate still in every grace remain,
As o’er _their_ heads had ages roll’d in vain!
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight
O’er countless monuments of earthly might!
While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain,
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign.
’Midst the blue deep, who rear’d her island throne,
And called th’ infinitude of waves her own;
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea,
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!
And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl’d
Once cast its shadow o’er a vassal world,
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown;
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time
Immortal records of their glorious prime;
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among,
Swell’d the high raptures of heroic song;
Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head
From the cold altars of th’ illustrious dead,
And once again with fond delight survey
The proud memorials of thy noblest day.
Lo! where thy sons, O Rome! a godlike train,
In imaged majesty return again!
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august
O’er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul,
Still o’er thy children seem to claim control;
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim’s glance,
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance,
And bid the past, to fancy’s ardent eyes,
From time’s dim sepulchre in glory rise.
Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims;
Oh! with your images could fate restore
Your own high spirit to your sons once more;
Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return
That bade your hearts with freedom’s ardours burn;
Then from the sacred ashes of the first,
Might a new Rome in phœnix grandeur burst!
With one bright glance dispel th’ horizon’s gloom,
With one loud call wake empire from the tomb;
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown,
Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown,
Unchain her eagle’s wing, and guide his flight
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light!
Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o’er;
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more.
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days,
Who fix’d on thee the world’s adoring gaze;
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high,
More blest, ere darkness quench’d its beam, to die!
Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers,
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way,
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay!
Oh! what can realms in fame’s full zenith boast
To match the relics of thy splendour lost!
By Tiber’s waves, on each illustrious hill,
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still;
For there has Art survived an empire’s doom,
And rear’d her throne o’er Latium’s trophied tomb:
She from the dust recalls the brave and free,
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!
Oh! ne’er again may War, with lightning-stroke,
Rend its last honours from the shatter’d oak!
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine,
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.
Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire.
In all the grandeur of celestial ire,
Once more thine own, th’ immortal Archer’s form
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm!
Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame
A living temple of ethereal flame?
Lord of the daystar! how may words portray
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray?
Whate’er the soul could dream, the hand could trace,
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace;
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright,
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight
Each bold idea, borrow’d from the sky,
To vest th’ embodied form of Deity;
All, all in thee, ennobled and refined,
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined!
Son of Elysium! years and ages gone
Have bow’d in speechless homage at thy throne,
And days unborn, and nations yet to be,
Shall gaze, absorb’d in ecstasy, on thee!
And thou, triumphant wreck,[6] e’en yet sublime,
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time:
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught
From thee its fervours of diviner thought!
Where He, th’ inspired One, whose gigantic mind
Lived in some sphere to him alone assign’d;
Who from the past, the future, and th’ unseen
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien:
Unrivall’d Angelo on thee would gaze,
Till his full soul imbibed perfection’s blaze!
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair?
Emblem of Rome! from power’s meridian hurl’d,
Yet claiming still the homage of the world.
What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced
The work of wonder, idolised by taste?
Oh! worthy still of some divine abode,
Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God![7]
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream,
’Tis thine, by fate unconquer’d, to dispense
From every part some ray of excellence!
E’en yet, inform’d with essence from on high,
Thine is no trace of frail mortality!
Within that frame a purer being glows,
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows;
Fill’d with immortal life each muscle swells,
In every line supernal grandeur dwells,
Consummate work! the noblest and the last
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past:[8]
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still,
Her mantle flow’d o’er many a classic hill,
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed,
A hero’s image to the world bequeathed;
Enshrined in thee th’ imperishable ray
Of high-soul’d Genius, foster’d by her sway,
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn,
What lofty dreams were hers--who never shall return!
And mark yon group, transfix’d with many a throe,
Seal’d with the image of eternal woe:
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest,
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast,
And the stern combat picture to mankind
Of suffering nature and enduring mind.
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense;
Though fix’d on him, his children’s suppliant eyes
Implore the aid avenging fate denies;
Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife,
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life,
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll’d
Midst the dread circles of the venom’d fold;
Yet the strong spirit lives--and not a cry
Shall own the might of Nature’s agony!
That furrow’d brow unconquer’d soul reveals,
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals,
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath,
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death![9]
Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art!
With speechless horror to congeal the heart,
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain;
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power
May brave the pangs of fate’s severest hour.
Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze
On scenes where painting all her skill displays:
Landscapes, by colouring dress’d in richer dyes,
More mellow’d sunshine, more unclouded skies,
Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given,
Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven.
Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil’s might,
Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light;
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound,
Explored the worlds above, below, around,
Children of Italy! who stand alone
And unapproach’d, midst regions all your own;
What scenes, what beings bless’d your favour’d sight,
Severely grand, unutterably bright!
Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye
Could meet the noontide of eternity,
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll’d,
On all that Fancy trembles to behold.
Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed
As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled:
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare,
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair;
These o’er the walls your magic skill array’d,
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade,
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower,
And breathe and move, the records of your power.
Inspired of heaven! what heighten’d pomp ye cast
O’er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome--
Round many a work that bids the world believe
What Grecian Art could image and achieve,
Again, creative minds, your visions throw
Life’s chasten’d warmth and Beauty’s mellowest glow.
And when the Morn’s bright beams and mantling dyes
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume with purple smile
The Parian altar and the pillar’d aisle,
Then, as the full or soften’d radiance falls
On angel-groups that hover o’er the walls,
Well may those temples, where your hand has shed
Light o’er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance there,
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown,
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!
Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy’s erring theme!
Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream!
Frail, powerless idols of departed time,
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime!
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign’d
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow’d,
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow’d.
To her ’twas given in fancy to explore
The land of miracles, the holiest shore;
That realm where first the Light of Life was sent,
The loved, the punish’d, of th’ Omnipotent!
O’er Judah’s hills her thoughts inspired would stray,
Through Jordan’s valleys trace their lonely way;
By Siloa’s brook, or Almotana’s deep,[10]
Chain’d in dead silence, and unbroken sleep;
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell
Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d,
Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d,
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
“Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale.
There dwelt her spirit--there her hand portray’d,
Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest.
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul return’d to animate the dead;
Whom the waves own’d--and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;
To Him she gave her meditative hours,
Hallow’d her thoughts, and sanctified her powers.
O’er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw,
As all around the Godhead’s presence knew,
And robed the Holy One’s benignant mien
In beaming mercy, majesty serene.
Oh! mark where Raphael’s pure and perfect line
Portrays that form ineffably divine!
Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour’s head;[11]
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued
With all the fulness of beatitude,
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight
Sinks overpower’d by that excess of light!
Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art,
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart!
To bid the soul exultingly possess,
Of all her powers, a heighten’d consciousness;
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day,
The last of life, the first of freedom’s ray;
To realise, in some unclouded sphere,
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here!
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky,
Faint effluence of “the Dayspring from on high!”
[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published
letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:--“Italy or
Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again.... I
shall take Felicia Hemans’s _Restoration_, &c., with me--it is a good
poem--very.”]
[6] The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of
many other distinguished artists.
[7] “Quoique cette statue d’Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d’une
manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle
est cependant encore un chef-d’œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux
qui savent percer dans les mystères de l’art, se la représentent dans
toute sa beauté. L’Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé
un corps idéal audessus de la nature * * * Cet Hercule paroît donc
ici tel qu’il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de
l’humanité, il obtint l’immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux.
Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de
forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles.”--Winckelmann, _Histoire de
l’Art chez les Anciens_, torn. ii. p. 248.
[8] “Le Torso d’Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que
l’art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que
la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l’histoire ne fait mention
d’aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu’aux temps du Triumvirat
Romain.”--Winckelmann, _ibid._ tom. ii. p. 250.
[9] “It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in
the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its
composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has
not _yielded to suffering_, and in the deep serenity of the forehead,
which seems to be still _superior_ to all its _afflictions_, and
significant of a mind that cannot be subdued.”--Alison’s _Essays_, vol.
ii. p. 400.
“Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus
grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l’image d’un homme qui
tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l’esprit. Tandis que
l’excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les
nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s’élève
avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également
contrainte par le silence que la force de l’âme impose à la douleur
qu’elle voudrait étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non
criard.”---Winckelmann, _Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens_, tom. ii.
p. 214.
[10] _Almotana._ The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea.
[11] _The Transfiguration_, thought to be so perfect a specimen of
art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the
grave.
MODERN GREECE.
“O Greece! thou sapient nurse of finer arts,
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore,
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone,
In these hast led the way, in these excell’d,
Crown’d with the laurel of assenting Time.”
Thomson’s _Liberty_.
I.
Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime,
Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains!
And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks of time,
The print of Glory’s parting step retains;
Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot,
Musing on years gone by in brightness there,
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot,
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear;
As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye
Of sea and heaven hath track’d the blue infinity?
II.
Is there who views with cold unalter’d mien,
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught,
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene,
Where Freedom triumph’d, or where Wisdom taught?
Souls that too deeply feel! oh, envy not
The sullen calm your fate hath never known:
Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot
Genius ne’er pierced, nor Fancy’s sunbeam shone,
Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory’s trace,
Glow with the generous flames of every age and race.
III.
But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued
With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined
In the calm school of silent solitude;
Pour’d on his ear, midst groves and glens retired,
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime,
All that hath lived, while empires have expired,
To float for ever on the winds of time;
And on his soul indelibly portray’d
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade.
IV.
Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown,
A sanctuary of beauty and of light?
There he may dwell in regions all his own,
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright.
For him the scenes of old renown possess
Romantic charms, all veil’d from other eyes;
There every form of nature’s loveliness
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies;
As music’s voice, in some lone mountain dell,
From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo’s swell.
V.
For him Italia’s brilliant skies illume
The bard’s lone haunts, the warrior’s combat-plains,
And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom
Round Doric Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12]
But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore
He feels the fervours of his spirit rise;
Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies;
And lingers still around the well-known coast,
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost.
VI.
By seas that flow in brightness as they lave
Thy rocks, th’ enthusiast rapt in thought may stray,
While roves his eye o’er that deserted wave,
Once the proud scene of battle’s dread array.
--O ye blue waters! ye, of old that bore
The free, the conquering, hymn’d by choral strains,
How sleep ye now around the silent shore,
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains!
How are the mighty vanish’d in their pride!
E’en as their barks have left no traces on your tide.
VII.
Hush’d are the Pæans whose exulting tone
Swell’d o’er that tide[13]--the sons of battle sleep--
The wind’s wild sigh, the halcyon’s voice alone
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep.
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues
Of morn’s rich firmament, serenely bright,
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse
With all their purple mellowness of light,
Oh! who could view the scene, so calmly fair,
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there?
VIII.
Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow,
’Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh;
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow,
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky;
--Yet o’er the low, dark dwellings of the dead,
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile,
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread
In green luxuriance o’er the ruin’d pile;
And mantling woodbine veil the wither’d tree;--
And thus it is, fair land! forsaken Greece, with thee.
IX.
For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm,
Are but as heaven’s warm radiance on the tomb,
The rose’s blush that masks the canker-worm.
And thou art desolate--thy morn hath pass’d!
So dazzling in the splendour of its sway,
That the dark shades the night hath o’er thee cast
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay.
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Thy fate hath been unmatch’d--in glory and despair.
X.
For thee, lost land! the hero’s blood hath flow’d,
The high in soul have brightly lived and died;
For thee the light of soaring genius glow’d
O’er the fair arts it form’d and glorified.
Thine were the minds whose energies sublime
So distanced ages in their lightning-race,
The task they left the sons of later time
Was but to follow their illumined trace.
--Now, bow’d to earth, thy children, to be free,
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee.
XI.
Lo! to the scenes of fiction’s wildest tales,
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,[14]
To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales,
Whose incense mounts to Asia’s vivid skies.
There shall he rest?--Alas! his hopes in vain
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm:
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain,
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm;
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes,
Where patriarchs reign’d of old in pastoral repose.
XII.
Where Syria’s mountains rise, or Yemen’s groves,
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave,
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves,
Wears but two forms--the tyrant and the slave!
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde
Where sweeps the sand-storm o’er the burning wild;
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword
O’er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled;
And the vale’s bosom, and the desert’s gloom,
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.
XIII.
But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave,
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,[15]
The lost descendant of the immortal brave?
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades
That o’er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast,
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last?
Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene,
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne’er hath been.
XIV.
There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast
Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams,
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress’d
In tints like those that float o’er poet’s dreams;
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam,
Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores,
The exiled Greek hath fix’d his sylvan home:
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman’s feet.
XV.
The forests are around him in their pride,
The green savannas, and the mighty waves;
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o’er the tide,[16]
That images the fairy worlds it laves,
And stillness, and luxuriance. O’er his head
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers,
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread,
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers;
And from those green arcades a thousand tones
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature’s temple moans.
XVI.
And there, no traces left by brighter days
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief;
Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze,
The lone memorial of an Indian chief.
There man not yet hath mark’d the boundless plain
With marble records of his fame and power;
The forest is his everlasting fane,
The palm his monument, the rock his tower:
Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.
XVII.
But doth the exile’s heart serenely there
In sunshine dwell?--Ah! when was exile blest?
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air,
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?
--There is a heart-sick weariness of mood,
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow,
And shrines itself in mental solitude,
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe.
That coldly smiles midst pleasure’s brightest ray,
As the chill glacier’s peak reflects the flush of day.
XVIII.
Such grief is theirs, who, fix’d on foreign shore,
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales,
As pines the seaman, midst the ocean’s roar,
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales.
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee,
Loved Greece! all sunk and blighted as thou art
Though thought and step in western wilds be free,
Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart:
The deserts spread between, the billows foam,
Thou, distant and in chains, are yet his spirit’s home.
XIX.
In vain for him the gay liannes entwine,
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes,
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine,
As eve’s last blush is dying on the lakes.
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while,
Or breathes the freshness of Cithæron’s height,
Or dreams how softly Athens’ towers would smile,
Or Sunium’s ruins, in the fading light;
On Corinth’s cliff what sunset hues may sleep,
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th’ Ægean deep!
XX.
What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine?
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!)
E’en to the stranger’s roving eye, they shine
Soft as a vision of remember’d joy.
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day,
A passing wanderer o’er each Attic hill,
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay,
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still;
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore,
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more.
XXI.
Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine
That Fancy visits with Devotion’s zeal,
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine,
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel
Amidst the tombs of heroes--for the brave
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil,
Foremost in honour’s phalanx, died to save
The land redeem’d and hallow’d by their toil;
And there is language in thy lightest gale,
That o’er the plains they won seems murmuring yet their tale.
XXII.
And he, whose heart is weary of the strife
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life,
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days,
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems
With proud remembrances that cannot die.
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams,
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by;
And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish’d years.
XXIII.
Through that deep solitude be his to stray,
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past,
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way
Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast.
Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same--
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:[17]
Years, that have changed thy river’s classic name,[18]
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime;
And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves,
In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves.
XXIV.
Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers,
Where the rich arbute’s coral berries glow,[19]
Or midst th’ exuberance of thy forest bowers,
Casting deep shadows o’er the current’s flow,
Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess,
As rock and stream some glancing light have caught,
And gaze, till Nature’s mighty forms impress
His soul with deep sublimity of thought;
And linger oft, recalling many a tale,
That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whispering through thy dale.
XXV.
He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old
From Delphi’s chasm the mystic vapour rose,
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold
By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and snows.
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust,
And silence now the hallow’d haunt possess,
Still is the scene of ancient rites august,
Magnificent in mountain loneliness;
Still inspiration hovel’s o’er the ground,
Where Greece her councils held,[20] her Pythian victors crown’d.
XXVI.
Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood,
When by the waves that break on Œta’s shore,
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood!
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea’s plain,
Bloom the wild laurels o’er the warlike dead,[21]
Or lone Platæa’s ruins yet remain
To mark the battle-field of ages fled:
Still o’er such scenes presides a sacred power,
Though Fiction’s gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower.
XXVII.
Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell
Where mortal worth has hallow’d grove or stream,
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell;
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control
In the wood’s murmur, in the zephyr’s sigh,
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul,
And a high power, to Nature’s majesty!
And who can rove o’er Grecian shores, nor feel,
Soft o’er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal?
XXVIII.
Yet many a sad reality is there,
That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil.
Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air,
But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale;
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws
Delusive quiet o’er full many a scene--
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose
That follows where the earthquake’s track hath been;
Or solemn calm on Ocean’s breast that lies,
When sinks the storm, and death has hush’d the seamen’s cries.
XXIX.
Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl’d
By Fate’s rude tempest from its radiant sphere,
Doom’d to resign the homage of a world,
For Pity’s deepest sigh and saddest tear?
Oh! hast thou watch’d the awful wreck of mind
That weareth still a glory in decay?
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind--
Thought, science, genius--to the storm a prey;
And o’er the blasted tree, the wither’d ground,
Despair’s wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish round?
XXX.
So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought,
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime:
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought,
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime.
There the proud monuments of Valour’s name,
The mighty works Ambition piled on high,
The rich remains by Art bequeath’d to Fame--
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry,
Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish’d there!
XXXI.
There, while around lie mingling in the dust
The column’s graceful shaft, with weeds o’er grown,
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust.
The warrior’s urn, the altar’s mossy stone--
Amidst the loneliness of shatter’d fanes,
Still matchless monuments of other years--
O’er cypress groves or solitary plains,
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears:
As on some captive city’s ruin’d wall
The victor’s banner waves, exulting o’er its fall.
XXXII.
Still, where that column of the mosque aspires,
Landmark of slavery, towering o’er the waste,
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres
And o’er the blooms of fancy and of taste
Spreads the chill blight;--as in that orient isle
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,[22]
Within its precincts not a flower may smile,
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground;
Nor wild birds’ music float on zephyr’s breath,
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.
XXXIII.
Far other influence pour’d the Crescent’s light
O’er conquer’d realms, in ages pass’d away;
Full and alone it beam’d, intensely bright,
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay.
Then rose th’ Alhambra, with its founts and shades,
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers:
Its sculptured lions,[23] richly wrought arcades,
Aërial pillars, and enchanted towers;
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale
Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale.
XXXIV.
Then foster’d genius lent each caliph’s throne
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne’er attain;
And stars unnumber’d o’er the orient shone,
Bright as that Pleïad, sphered in Mecca’s fane.[24]
From Bagdat’s palaces the choral strains
Rose and re-echoed to the desert’s bound,
And Science, woo’d on Egypt’s burning plains,
Rear’d her majestic head with glory crown’d;
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore
From Syria’s palmy groves to Andalusia’s shore.
XXXV.
Those years have past in radiance--they have past,
As sinks the daystar in the tropic main;
His parting beams no soft reflection cast,
They burn--are quench’d--and deepest shadows reign.
And Fame and Science have not left a trace
In the vast regions of the Moslem’s power,--
Regions, to intellect a desert space,
A wild without a fountain or a flower,
Where towers Oppression midst the deepening glooms,
As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the tombs.
XXXVI.
Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia pour’d
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium’s wall;
When Europe sheath’d, in apathy, her sword,
And heard unmoved the fated city’s call.
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line
Of spears and banners round a falling throne;
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine![25]
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone.
Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain--
Thine empire’s proud exchange the grave, and not the chain!
XXXVII.
Hush’d is Byzantium--’tis the dead of night--
The closing night of that imperial race![26]
And all is vigil--but the eye of light
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace:
There is a murmuring stillness on the train
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die;
And to the cross, in fair Sophia’s fane,
For the last time is raised Devotion’s eye;
And, in his heart while faith’s bright visions rise,
There kneels the high-soul’d prince, the summon’d of the skies.
XXXVIII.
Day breaks in light and glory--’tis the hour
Of conflict and of fate--the war-note calls--
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls.
Far over Marmora’s waves th’ artillery’s peal
Proclaims an empire’s doom in every note;
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel,
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float;
From camp and wave rush on the Crescent’s host,
And the Seven Towers[27] are scaled, and all is won and lost.
XXXIX.
Then, Greece! the tempest rose that burst on thee,
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage!
Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free,
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age?
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows,
And bright the memory of thy days of pride,
In mountain might though Corinth’s fortress rose,
On, unresisted, roll’d th’ invading tide!
Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower,
If Freedom guard them not with Mind’s unconquer’d power.
XL.
Where were th’ avengers then, whose viewless might
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,[28]
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi’s height,
In martial splendour pour’d the Persian’s train?
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers,
Arm’d with the elements, to vengeance wake,
Call the dread storms to darken round their towers,
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break;
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang,
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang.
XLI.
Where was the spirit of the victor-throng
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander’s tide,
Whose names are bright in everlasting song,
The lords of war, the praised, the deified?
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays,
Who from the dead at Marathon arose[29]
All arm’d; and beaming on the Athenians’ gaze,
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes?
Or they whose forms to Alaric’s awe-struck eye,[30]
Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?
XLII.
Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth![31]
High demigods of ancient days! ye slept:
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth
When o’er your land the victor Moslem swept.
No patriot then the sons of freedom led,
In mountain pass devotedly to die;
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled,
And the high soul’s unconquer’d buoyancy;
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains,
Warriors! your children knelt to wear the stranger’s chains.
XLIII.
Now have your trophies vanish’d, and your homes
Are moulder’d from the earth, while scarce remain
E’en the faint traces of the ancient tombs
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain.
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown,
The lyres are hush’d that swell’d your fame afar,
The halls that echo’d to their sounds are gone,
Perish’d the conquering weapons of your war;[32]
And if a mossy stone your names retain,
’Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.
XLIV.
Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands,
That with those names tradition hallows yet,
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands
Linger in solemn thought and hush’d regret.
And still have legends mark’d the lonely spot
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies;
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot,
Hovering around, to fancy’s vision rise.
Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again,
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory’s reign.
XLV.
Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway
O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains,
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey,
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains:
Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth,
And many a chief of old illustrious line,
Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth
To kindle those that now in bondage pine?
No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath,
And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death.
XLVI.
Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there,
How rich in charms were that romantic clime,
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair,
And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime!
Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign,
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies,
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain--
Meet home for those retired divinities
That love, where nought of earth may e’er intrude,
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude.
XLVII.
There in rude grandeur daringly ascends
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height;
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends,
Frowning o’er vales in woodland verdure bright.
Wild and august in consecrated pride,
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers,
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide
The rock-built palace of immortal powers;
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose,
Amidst th’ eternal pomp of forests and of snows.
XLVIII.
Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem
The chosen haunts where Freedom’s foot would roam;
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream,
And make the rocky fastnesses her home.
And in the rushing of the mountain flood,
In the wild eagle’s solitary cry,
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood,
There is a voice of stern sublimity,
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude.
XLIX.
But from those hills the radiance of her smile
Hath vanish’d long, her step hath fled afar;
O’er Suli’s frowning rocks she paused a while,[33]
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war.
And brightly glow’d her ardent spirit there,
Still brightest midst privation: o’er distress
It cast romantic splendour, and despair
But fann’d that beacon of the wilderness;
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell.
L.
Dark children of the hills! ’twas then ye wrought
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand;
As midst your craggy citadels ye fought,
And women mingled with your warrior band.
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood[34]
High o’er the river’s darkly-rolling wave,
And hurl’d, in dread delirium, to the flood
Her free-born infant, ne’er to be a slave.
For all was lost--all, save the power to die
The wild indignant death of savage liberty.
LI.
Now is that strife a tale of vanish’d days,
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie;
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays,
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high.
And the dread struggle’s fearful memory still
O’er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws;
Sheds darker shadows o’er the frowning hill,
More solemn quiet o’er the glen’s repose;
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan,
And the hoarse river’s voice a murmur not its own.
LII.
For stillness now--the stillness of the dead--
Hath wrapt that conflict’s lone and awful scene;
And man’s forsaken homes, in ruin spread,
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been.
And there, o’er wastes magnificently rude,
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain?
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued,
Where Freedom’s banner may be rear’d again:
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame,
The children of her sons inherit but their name.
LIII.
Go, seek proud Sparta’s monuments and fanes!
In scatter’d fragments o’er the vale they lie;
Of all they were not e’en enough remains
To lend their fall a mournful majesty.[35]
Birth-place of those whose names we first revered
In song and story--temple of the free!
O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear’d,
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee?
Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind,
And e’en in ruin claim’d the wonder of mankind.
LIV.
For thine were spirits cast in other mould
Than all beside--and proved by ruder test;
They stood alone--the proud, the firm, the bold,
With the same seal indelibly imprest.
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind,
One image stamp’d the rough, colossal race,
In rugged grandeur frowning o’er mankind,
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace;
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower,
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower.
LV.
Such were thy sons--their life a battle-day!
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die!
Closed is that task, and they have passed away
Like softer beings train’d to aims less high.
Yet bright on earth _their_ fame who proudly fell,
True to their shields, the champions of thy cause,
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws![36]
O lofty mother of heroic worth,
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth?
LVI.
Hadst thou but perish’d with the free, nor known
A second race, when glory’s noon went by,
Then had thy name in single brightness shone
A watchword on the helm of liberty!
Thou shouldst have pass’d with all the light of fame,
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains.
But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame,
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes;
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors’ graves,
Hast drain’d the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves.
LVII.
Now all is o’er--for thee alike are flown
Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud;
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud.
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low;
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled;
O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow,
And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread;
And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound,
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.
LVIII.
Taÿgetus still lifts his awful brow
High o’er the mouldering city of the dead,
Sternly sublime; while o’er his robe of snow
Heaven’s floating tints their warm suffusions spread.
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads
By tombs and ruins o’er the silent plain;
While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds
Rise as of old, when hail’d by classic strain;
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,[37]
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o’er Sparta’s grave.
LIX.
Oh, thus it is with man! A tree, a flower,
While nations perish, still renews its race,
And o’er the fallen records of his power
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace.
The laurel shoots when those have pass’d away,
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free;
The rose is flourishing o’er beauty’s clay,
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be;
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled,
And all that round us blooms is blooming o’er the dead.
LX.
And still the olive spreads its foliage round
Morea’s fallen sanctuaries and towers.
Once its green boughs Minerva’s votaries crown’d,
Deem’d a meet offering for celestial powers.
The suppliant’s hand its holy branches bore;[38]
They waved around the Olympic victor’s head;
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore,
Its leaves the Spartan’s honour’d bier o’erspread.
Those rites have vanish’d--but o’er vale and hill
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow’d still.[39]
LXI.
Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high?
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train,
The long procession’s awful pageantry?
Quench’d is the torch of Ceres[40]--all around
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign;
There never more shall choral hymns resound
O’er the hush’d earth and solitary main,
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows,
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.
LXII.
And oh, ye secret and terrific powers!
Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt,
How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers,
Where Superstition trembled as she knelt!
Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made
The elements your voice, the wind and wave;
Spirits! whose influence darken’d many a shade,
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave!
How long your power the awe-struck nations sway’d,
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey’d!
LXIII.
And say, what marvel, in those early days,
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not,
If man around him cast a fearful gaze,
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot?
Awful is nature in her savage forms,
Her solemn voice commanding in its might,
And mystery then was in the rush of storms,
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night;
And mortals heard Fate’s language in the blast,
And rear’d your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past!
LXIV.
Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh
But with prophetic sound--a waving tree,
A meteor flashing o’er the summer sky,
A bird’s wild flight reveal’d the things to be.
All spoke of unseen natures, and convey’d
Their inspiration; still they hover’d round,
Hallow’d the temple, whisper’d through the shade,
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound;
Of them the fount, the forest, murmur’d still,
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill.
LXV.
Now is the train of Superstition flown!
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more;
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone,
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore.
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia’s cave,
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep;
Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,[41]
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep.
Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime!
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time!
LXVI.
Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams;
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard,
Her vales, that foster’d Art’s divinest dreams!
But that bright spirit o’er the land that shone,
And all around pervading influence pour’d,
That lent the harp of Æschylus its tone,
And proudly hallow’d Lacedæmon’s sword,
And guided Phidias o’er the yielding stone,
With them its ardours lived--with them its light is flown.
LXVII.
Thebes, Corinth, Argos!--ye renown’d of old,
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name?
How soon the tale of ages may be told!
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame,
The work of centuries. We gaze on you,
O cities! once the glorious and the free,
The lofty tales that charm’d our youth renew,
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be?
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb,
And find the mosque alone--a record of their doom!
LXVIII.
How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour’d,
Fair Elis! o’er thy consecrated vales?[42]
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword,
And banners floated on the balmy gales.
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude,
As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas;
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude,
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze.
Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke:
Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow’d beneath the yoke.
LXIX.
And through Arcadia’s wild and lone retreats
Far other sounds have echo’d than the strain
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats,
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain!
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys,
On his green banks renew’d, the classic dance,
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays,
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance;
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell
Midst Pan’s deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell.
LXX.
But thou, fair Attica! whose rocky bound
All art and nature’s richest gifts enshrined,
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind;
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day,
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light,[43]
And smile the longest in its lingering ray;
Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem
The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.
LXXI.
Let Fancy’s vivid hues awhile prevail--
Wake at her call--be all thou wert once more!
Hark! hymns of triumph swell on every gale--
Lo! bright processions move along thy shore;
Again thy temples, midst the olive-shade,
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise;
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade,
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies;
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien,
In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright scene.
LXXII.
Again renew’d by Thought’s creative spells,
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers:
Within, around, the light of glory dwells
On art’s fair fabrics, wisdom’s holy bowers.
There marble fanes in finish’d grace ascend,
The pencil’s world of life and beauty glows;
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend,
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes;
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride,
The sage’s blest retreats, by calm Ilissus’ tide.
LXXIII.
Bright as that fairy vision of the wave,
Raised by the magic of Morgana’s wand,[44]
On summer seas that undulating lave
Romantic Sicily’s Arcadian strand;
That pictured scene of airy colonnades,
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest,
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades,
Gleaming and floating on the ocean’s breast;
Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears,
As Fancy’s eye pervades the veiling cloud of years.
LXXIV.
Still be that cloud withdrawn--oh! mark on high,
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced,
That fane, august in perfect symmetry,
The purest model of Athenian taste.
Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise
In simple dignity, thy marble’s hue
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies,
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue;
And art o’er all thy light proportions throws
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.
LXXV.
And lovely o’er thee sleeps the sunny glow,
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign,
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain.
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold
Each latent grace, developing in light;
Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold,
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright;
And seem indeed whate’er devotion deems,
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams.
LXXVI.
But oh! what words the vision may portray,
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine?
There stands thy goddess, robed in war’s array,
Supremely glorious, awfully divine!
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought;
And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought--
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose--
All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws.
LXXVII.
Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still
Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace,
And in each work of art’s consummate skill
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race:
That spirit, roused by every proud reward
That hope could picture, glory could bestow,
Foster’d by all the sculptor and the bard
Could give of immortality below.
Thus were thy heroes form’d, and o’er their name,
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame.
LXXVIII.
Mark in the throng’d Ceramicus, the train
Of mourners weeping o’er the martyr’d brave:
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain,
Holy the amaranth strew’d upon their grave![45]
And hark! unrivall’d eloquence proclaims
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice!
Hark! Pericles records their honour’d names![46]
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice:
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom?
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb?
LXXIX.
Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth;
Theirs are enshrinèd names, and every heart
Shall bear the blazon’d impress of their worth.
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise,
Their fields of fight shall epic song record;
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies,
Their name shall be their country’s rallying word!
While fane and column rise august to tell
How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell.
LXXX.
City of Theseus! bursting on the mind,
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled!
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind,
Thus hallow’d by the memory of the dead:
Alone in beauty and renown--a scene
Whose tints are drawn from freedom’s loveliest ray.
’Tis but a vision now--yet thou hast been
More than the brightest vision might portray;
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought.
LXXXI.
Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung
To choral melodies and tragic lore;
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung,
The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more.
Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand,
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill,
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand,
The magic voice of eloquence is still;
Minerva’s veil is rent[47]--her image gone;
Silent the sage’s bower--the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown.
LXXXII.
Yet in decay thine exquisite remains
Wondering we view, and silently revere,
As traces left on earth’s forsaken plains
By vanish’d beings of a nobler sphere!
Not all the old magnificence of Rome,
All that dominion there hath left to time--
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome,
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime,
Can bid such reverence o’er the spirit steal,
As aught by thee imprest with beauty’s plastic seal.
LXXXIII.
Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste,
Palmyra rises, desolately grand--
Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced,
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand
In haughty solitude--though sacred Nile
The first-born temples of the world surveys,
And many an awful and stupendous pile
Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays;
City of Pericles! oh who, like thee,
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be?
LXXXIV.
Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear,
Oh, still triumphant in that high career!
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair.
And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown
As to her country,--thou hast been to earth
A cynosure,--and, e’en from victory’s throne,
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth;
And nations, rising to their fame afar,
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star.
LXXXV.
Glory to those whose relics thus arrest
The gaze of ages! Glory to the free!
For they, they only, could have thus imprest
Their mighty image on the years to be!
Empires and cities in oblivion lie,
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,--
To leave on earth renown that cannot die,
Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot.
Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone.
LXXXVI.
Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes
All that attests the brightness of thy prime?
Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies,
And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime!
Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead,
Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts;
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread,
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts.
Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land,
Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand!
LXXXVII.
For them in vain the glowing light may smile
O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed,
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile
Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head.
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil,
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d;
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil
But to destroy what ages have revered--
As if exulting sternly to erase
Whate’er might prove _that_ land had nursed a nobler race.
LXXXVIII.
And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands,
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art,
Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands,
Claim homage still to thee from every heart
Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight,
Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane,
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light,
All that remain’d of forms adored in vain;
A few short years--and, vanish’d from the scene,
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.
LXXXIX.
Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown.
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep
In all their beauty still--and thine is gone!
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered,
And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine.
The dust is round thee of the race that rear’d
Thy walls; and thou--their fate must soon be thine!
But when shall earth again exult to see
Visions divine like theirs renew’d in aught like thee?
XC.
Lone are thy pillars now--each passing gale
Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale
Of the bright synod once above them throned.
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared:
Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still
That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared;
Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne,
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.
XCI.
Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains
All that may charm th’ enlighten’d eye of taste,
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns.
As vital fragrance breathes from every part
Of the crush’d myrtle, or the bruisèd rose,
E’en thus th’ essential energy of art
There in each wreck imperishably glows![49]
The soul of Athens lives in every line,
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.
XCII.
Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train,
The holy festival’s triumphal throng,
In fair procession to Minerva’s fane,
With many a sacred symbol, move along.
There every shade of bright existence trace,
The fire of youth, the dignity of age;
The matron’s calm austerity of grace,
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;
The nymph’s light symmetry, the chief’s proud mien--
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.
XCIII.
Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,[50]
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows;
There e’en the steed, withhold expression warm,[51]
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows.
One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole;
Those varied groups the same bright impress bear;
One beam and essence of exalting soul
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair;
And well that pageant of the glorious dead
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.
XCIV.
O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain
The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
Eternalise expression’s fleeting reign,
Arrest warm life in all its energies,
And fix them on the stone--thy glorious lot
Might wake ambition’s envy, and create
Powers half divine: while nations are forgot,
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish’d fate!
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth,
The realms that hail them now scarce claim’d a name on earth.
XCV.
Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere
But once beheld, and never to return?
No--we may hail again thy bright career,
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn!
Though thy least relics, e’en in ruin, bear
A stamp of heaven, that ne’er hath been renew’d--
A light inherent--let not man despair:
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued;
For still is nature fair, and thought divine,
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.[52]
XCVI.
Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced--
Yet there the germ of future glory lies!
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased;
It clothes them still, though veil’d from common eyes.
They once were gods and heroes[53]--and beheld
As the blest guardians of their native scene;
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell’d
With awe that own’d their sovereignty of mien.
Ages have vanish’d since those hearts were cold,
And still those shatter’d forms retain their godlike mould.
XCVII.
Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne
They have look’d down on thousand storms of time;
Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown,
They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime!
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d.
The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot--
Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard;
But these were destined to a nobler lot!
And they have borne, to light another land,
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand.
XCVIII.
Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine,
In human works thus blending earth and heaven,
O’er nature’s truth had spread that grace divine,
To mortal form immortal grandeur given?
What soul but thine, infusing all its power
In these last monuments of matchless days,
Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower,
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise;
And guide deep Thought to that secluded height
Where excellence is throned in purity of light?
XCIX.
And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame,
Caught from these models, may illume the west?
What British Angelo may rise to fame,[54]
On the free isle what beams of art may rest?
Deem not, O England! that by climes confined,
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray;[55]
Deem not the eternal energies of mind
Sway’d by that sun whose doom is but decay!
Shall thought be foster’d but by skies serene?
No! thou hast power to be what Athens e’er hath been.
C.
But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown,
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind,
O’er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone,
Their soaring flight had left a world behind!
And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone,
Or each pure grace of Raphael’s pencil caught,
Leaving no record of its power, is gone!
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast,
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost
CI.
Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone!
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won!
Fame dwells around thee--Genius is thine own;
Call his rich blooms to life--be thou their sun!
So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep,
Should thine e’er be as now are Grecian plains,
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains;
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace,
And cry, “This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!”
[12] “The Pæstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity
of blooming twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The
wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single
damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer assured me on the
spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in
the Two Sicilies_.
[13] In the naval engagements of the Greeks, “it was usual for the
soldiers before the fight to sing a pæan, or hymn, to Mars, and after
the fight another to Apollo.”--See Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_,
vol. ii. p. 155.
[14] The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of
Asia is thus mentioned by Châteaubriand in his _Itinéraire de Paris à
Jérusalem_--“Parvenu au dernier degré du malheur, le Moraïte s’arrache
de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain
espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du
Jourdain et dans les déserts de Palmyre.”
[15] In the same work, Châteaubriand also relates his having met with
several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the woods of
Florida.
[16] “La grâce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scènes
de la nature: et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers
la mer les cadavres des pins et des chênes, on voit sur les deux
courants latéraux, remonter, le long des rivages des îles flottantes
de Pistia et de Nénuphar, dont les roses jaunes s’élèvent comme de
petits papillons.”--_Description of the Banks of the Mississippi_,
Chateaubriand’s _Atala_.
[17] “Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this
mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the
Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs
to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water,
for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this
narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed
to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth,
beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is
wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase,
_vale_ of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction.... The real
character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses
more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it....
To those who have visited St Vincent’s rocks, below Bristol, I cannot
convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than by saying that its scenery
resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The
Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider
than the Avon; and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted
in its dimensions: but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and
more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more
extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath.”--Holland’s _Travels
in Albania, &c._
[18] The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria.
[19] “Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in
a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast
perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm; where
the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks
are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the
arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is
a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by
the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other
forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable
size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel
of the stream.... The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are
evidently the same; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray
marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of
finer quality.”--Holland’s _Travels in Albania, &c._
[20] The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at
Delphi or Thermopylæ, and presided at the Pythian games which were
celebrated at Delphi every fifth year.
[21] “This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many
brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and
laurels.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.
[22] For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally
believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to
Darwin’s _Botanic Garden_.
[23] “The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called
the court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars
of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of
the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order.... But its
principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an
alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which
is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon’s
temple.”--Burgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.
[24] “Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poëtes Arabiques sont
désignés par les écrivains orientaux sous le nom de _Pleïade Arabique_,
et leurs ouvrages étaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la
Mecque.”--Sismondi, _Littérature du Midi_.
[25] “The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious
than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”--Gibbon’s _Decline
and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 226.
[26] See the description of the night previous to the taking of
Constantinople by Mahomet II.--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol.
xii. p. 225.
[27] “This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned
as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which
contributed to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal
bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods
of the empire.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.
[28] See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of
Delphi.--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p. 396-7.
[29] “In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod,
induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were
fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army thought
they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down
before them upon the barbarians.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of
Theseus_.
[30] “From Thermopylæ to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric)
pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal
antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has
confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the
goddess Minerva, with her formidable ægis, and by the angry phantom of
Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the
hostile deities of Greece.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. v.
p. 183.
[31] “Even all the _chief ones of the earth_.”--Isaiah, xiv.
[32] “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war
perished!”--Samuel, book ii. chap. i.
[33] For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote
warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland’s _Travels in Albania_.
[34] “It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote
women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio,
and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not
become the slaves of the enemy.”--Holland’s _Travels_, &c.
[35] The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very
inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient
city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very
striking.
[36] The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in
the pass of Thermopylæ has been thus translated:--“Stranger, go tell
the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here.”
[37] “In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which
were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes
of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and
rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus
orientalis.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_.
[38] It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with
wool.
[39] The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with
veneration by the people of the Morea.
[40] It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival,
for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also
to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the
largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of
Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the
flames of Etna.--Porter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. i. p. 392.
[41] The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian fountain,
are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the
situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be
exactly ascertained.--See Holland’s _Travels_.
[42] Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being
considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies
marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again
when they had passed its boundary.
[43] “We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of
Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest
progress was made toward civilisation.”--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p.
35.
[44] Fata Morgana. This remarkable aërial phenomenon, which is thought
by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus
described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne:--
“On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window,
with a most wonderful spectacle: the sea that washes the Sicilian
shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of
dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite
smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On
this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thousands
of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and
shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A
long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable
castles, all perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, which
were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended
in pines, cypresses, and other trees.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two
Sicilies_.
[45] All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks
to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth,
with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles.--Potter’s
_Antiquities of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 232.
[46] Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos,
celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who
fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on
such occasions. This gained him great applause; and when he came down
from the rostrum the women paid their respects to him, and presented
him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious
from the lists.--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of Pericles_.
[47] The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an
awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal
ornament of the Panathenaic festival; and it was embroidered with
various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and
the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated,
the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail
to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus
and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of
the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and
consecrated to Minerva.--See Chandler’s _Travels_, Stuart’s _Athens_,
&c.
[48] The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to
Winckelmann, in high preservation.
[49] “In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life
can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure,” is one of the
observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles.
[50] “Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an
exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade
of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill.”--Canova’s
_Letter to the Earl of Elgin_.
[51] Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse’s head in
Lord Elgin’s collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds:--“We
feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in
observing them, we are insensibly carried on with the impression that
they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant
when they were converted into marble.”--West’s _Second Letter to Lord
Elgin_.
[52] Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved within
these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular--because
works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain
in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste,
and the talents of the artist.--See the _Evidence given in reply to
Interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles_.
[53] The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence,
Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class
than the Apollo Belvidere, “because there is in them a union of very
grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of
action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the
other more celebrated statues.”--See _The Evidence, &c._
[54] “Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with
powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he
did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excellence in
sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a genius carry art, by
the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which
adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?”--West’s _Second Letter to
Lord Elgin_.
[55] In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu,
&c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to
the progress of genius and the arts.--See Hoare’s _Epochs of the Arts_,
p. 84, 85.
EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.
_Blackwood’s Magazine._--“In our reviews of poetical productions, the
better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at once more useful and
delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful
predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the
public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity,
relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies.
We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to
the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of
the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of
another poem on a kindred subject, ‘The Restoration of the Works of
Art to Italy’--namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. That the author’s
fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to
think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing
the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very
recently, the _reading_ public, as the phrase is, was immersed in
poetry, but seems to have had enough; and, excepting always that
portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own
intrinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment
which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all.
* * * * *
“But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet
necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even
of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late
rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which
repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are
removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets
have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which
stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although
they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way.
But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there
is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor
of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the
sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers;
and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially
speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry
will still be poetry, however it may cease _to pay_; and although
the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of
genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter
will ever be its reward.
“Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present,
who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery,
warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with
music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written
to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.
“With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly
his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern
Greece.
“The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course,
more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than
the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return
of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the
most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our
readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts
may be limited.”
_Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The grand act of retribution--the
restoration of the treasures of the Louvre--occasioned Mrs Hemans’
first publication. ‘Modern Greece’ next appeared, and soared still
higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising
symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor.
The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads
us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her
strength.”
TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS.
“Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli
uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio
acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler
farsi un nome _tentando di dilettare_, quand’ altri v’aspira con più
giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”--Savioli.
SONNET 70.
“Na metade do ceo subido ardia.”
High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam,
The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign,
And for the living fount, the gelid stream,
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain:
Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade,
The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray;
Hush’d were their melodies--and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay:
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain,
To seek the maid who but despised his pain,
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved:
“Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried,
“By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied
An echo’s murmuring voice--“_Thou art not loved!_”
SONNET 282.
FROM PSALM CXXXVII.
“Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.”
Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream
I sat, retracing days for ever flown,
While rose thine image on the exile’s dream,
O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone:
When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed,
Thus to their captive spoke--“Why sleep thy lays?
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled,
And all thy triumphs in departed days!
Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm?
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.”
With sighs I answer’d,--“When the cup of woe
Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow,
The mourner’s cure is not to sing--but die.”
PART OF ECLOGUE 15.
“Se lá no assento da maior alteza.”
If in thy glorious home above
Thou still recallest earthly love,
If yet retain’d a thought may be
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee;
Remember still how deeply shrined
Thine image in his joyless mind:
Each well-known scene, each former care,
Forgotten--thou alone art there!
Remember that thine eye-beam’s light
Hath fled for ever from his sight,
And, with that vanish’d sunshine, lost
Is every hope he cherish’d most.
Think that his life, from thee apart,
Is all but weariness of heart;
Each stream, whose music once was dear,
Now murmurs discord to his ear.
Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays
Woke him to joy in other days,
Now, in the light of beauty drest,
Brings but new sorrows to his breast.
Through thee, the heavens are dark to him,
The sun’s meridian blaze is dim;
And harsh were e’en the bird of eve,
But that her song still loves to grieve.
All it hath been, his heart forgets,
So alter’d by its long regrets;
Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er,
And joy’s light spirit wakes no more.
SONNET 271.
“A formosura desta fresca serra.”
This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d,
These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright;
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound
Lulls every bosom to serene delight;
Soft on these hills the sun’s declining ray;
This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas;
Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way;
Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze;
And all that Nature’s lavish hands dispense,
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense,
Ne’er in thy absence can delight my breast:
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles:
And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles,
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.
SONNET 186.
“Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.”
Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light,
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show;
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright,
Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow;
The rich redundance of that golden hair,
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day;
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair,
Where now those treasures?--mouldering into clay!
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn,
Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn,
Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight?
Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears!
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres,
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!
SONNET 108.
“Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.”
Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains,
Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide,
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains.
Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again
Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn,
I have no hope to meliorate my pain,
No dream that whispers--I may yet return!
My frowning destiny, whose watchful care
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair,
Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly,
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh,
And blend my tears with other waves than thine!
SONNET 23.
TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA.
“Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao.”
Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave,
O fondly loved! my bosom’s dearest care!
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave,
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair!
Yes! the wild seas entomb those charms divine,
Dark o’er thy head th’ eternal billows roll;
But while one ray of life or thought is mine,
Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul.
And if the tones of my uncultured song
Have power the sad remembrance to prolong,
Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure;
Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain,
Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain,
While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure.
SONNET 19.
“Alma minha gentil, que te partiste.”
Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere,
How is yon Heaven eternally thine own,
Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here!
Oh! if allow’d in thy divine abode
Of aught on earth an image to retain,
Remember still the fervent love which glow’d
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain.
And if thou deem’d that all my faithful grief,
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief,
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies!
Oh! ask of Heaven, which call’d thee soon away,
That I may join thee in those realms of day,
Swiftly as _thou_ hast vanish’d from mine eyes.
“Que estranho caso de amor!”
How strange a fate in love is mine!
How dearly prized the pains I feel!
Pangs, that to rend my soul combine,
With avarice I conceal:
For did the world the tale divine,
My lot would then be deeper woe--
And mine is grief that none must know.
To mortal ears I may not dare
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove;
’Twould plunge in ruin and despair
Or me, or her I love.
My soul delights alone to bear
Her silent, unsuspected woe,
And none shall pity, none shall know.
Thus buried in my bosom’s urn,
Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d,
Let me alone the secret mourn,
In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d.
For whether happiness or woe,
Or life or death its power bestow,
It is what none on earth must know.
SONNET 58.
“Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.”
Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart
Yet long enough protract his votary’s days
To see the lustre from those eyes depart,
The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze;
To see rude Time the living roses blight
That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold,
And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold;
Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove,
And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love,
When tears and penitence will all be vain;
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by,
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh,
Find amplest vengeance for my former pain.
[56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”--Shakespeare.
SONNET 178.
“Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.”
Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes
Which love for years hath mingled with my fate,
While he the tale forbade me to disclose,
That taught his votaries their deluded state.
Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream,
Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal,
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme,
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal:
That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway,
May hear experience breathe a warning lay--
How false his smiles, his promises how vain!
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire,
When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre,
For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane.
SONNET 80.
“Como quando do mar tempestuoso.”
Saved from the perils of the stormy wave,
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main,
But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave,
Trembles to hear its horrors named again.
How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home!
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene,
Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to roam.
Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight
Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight,
Make the firm vow to shim thee and be free:
But my fond heart, devoted to its chain,
Still draws me back where countless perils reign,
And grief and ruin spread their snares for me.
SONNET 239.
FROM PSALM CXXXVII.
“Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando.”
Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears
Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee,
O hallow’d Sion! and the vanish’d years,
When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free:
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung
Mute on the willows of the stranger’s land;
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung,
Our foes demanded from their captive band.
“How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,”
(We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,)
“The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew?
If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil,
Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil!
_May my right hand forget its cunning too!_”
SONNET 128.
“Huma admiravel herva se conhece.”
There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns,
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power,
And most expands when most her idol burns:
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep,
His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay;
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep,
Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray.
Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight!
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight,
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower:
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms,
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes,
Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power.
“Polomeu apartamento.”
Amidst the bitter tears that fell
In anguish at my last farewell,
Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell,
To make that moment bright?
Yet be my judge, each heart! and say,
Which then could most my bosom sway,
Affliction or delight?
It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes,
Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close,
That rapture’s brightest beam arose
In sorrow’s darkest night.
Thus, if my soul survive that hour,
’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power
Of anguish with delight.
For oh! her love, so long unknown,
She _then_ confess’d was all my own,
And in that parting hour alone
Reveal’d it to my sight.
And now what pangs will rend my soul,
Should fortune still, with stern control,
Forbid me this delight!
I know not if my bliss were vain,
For all the force of parting pain
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign,
When exiled from her sight:
Yet now what double woe for me,
Just at the close of eve, to see
The dayspring of delight!
SONNET 205.
“Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.”
He who proclaims that Love is light and vain,
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways,
Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain,
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays:
For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind.
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose;
Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind,
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes.
If Love bring evils, view them all in me!
Here let the world his utmost rigour see,
His utmost power exerted to annoy:
But all his ire is still the ire of love;
And such delight in all his woes I prove,
I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy.
SONNET 133.
“Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.”
Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene,
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays,
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien,
Witching my soul, in long-departed days;
Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore,
And, suffering not one image to depart,
Find lengthening distance but endear you more.
Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day,
To distant realms this mortal frame convey,
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave;
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true,
On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you,
And still, bright waters! in your current lave.
SONNET 181.
“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”
Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude,
Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign,
That not a step shall ever there intrude
Of roving man, or nature’s savage train--
Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear,
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb,
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear,
But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom?
That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief
Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief,
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes.
For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay,
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day,
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose.
SONNET 278.
“Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.”
Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine,
A thousand joys propitious Love can give
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine
Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest,
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power;
No care intruding to disturb my breast,
I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower:
But Fate, such transports eager to destroy,
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy,
And bade the phantoms of delight begone:
Bade hope and happiness at once depart,
And left but memory to distract my heart,
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown.
“Mi nueve y dulce querella.”
No searching eye can pierce the veil
That o’er my secret love is thrown;
No outward signs reveal its tale,
But to my bosom known.
Thus, like the spark whose vivid light
In the dark flint is hid from sight,
It dwells within, alone.
METASTASIO.
“Dunque si sfoga in pianto.”
In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief
Gives language to its woes;
In tears, its fulness finds relief,
When rapture’s tide o’erflows!
Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek
On this terrestrial sphere;
When e’en Delight can only speak,
Like Sorrow--in a tear?
“Al furor d’avversa Sorte.”
He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien,
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude,
Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene,
To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.
In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art:
Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms
The lofty spirit and enduring heart!
“Quella onda che ruina.”
The torrent wave, that breaks with force
Impetuous down the Alpine height,
Complains and struggles in its course,
But sparkles, as the diamond bright.
The stream in shadowy valley deep
May slumber in its narrow bed;
But silent, in unbroken sleep,
Its lustre and its life are fled.
“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.”
Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand
Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed,
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d,
And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread:
That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground,
To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne;
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d,
There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn.
Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower!
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude,
Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower,
And each rough season’s chill vicissitude,
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.
“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.”
Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread,
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?
Think’st thou that _I_ thy threatening mien shall dread,
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?
Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
_My_ constant soul should triumph unsubdued,
Were the wide universe destruction’s prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,
And drawn fresh energies from every fight.
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel,
With each successive shock the temper’d steel
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.
“Parlagli d’un periglio.”
Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?--
Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind!
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?--
He is a child of wayward mind!
But with a doubt, a jealous fear,
Inspire him once--the task is o’er;
His mind is keen, his sight is clear,
No more an infant, blind no more.
“Sprezza il furor del vento.”
Unbending midst the wintry skies,
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form,
And stem in rugged strength, defies
The rushing of the storm.
Then sever’d from his native shore,
O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear,
Still with those winds he braved before,
He proudly struggles there.
“Sol può dir che sia contento.”
Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts
Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain,
Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts,
When Fate unites them once again.
Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear,
Whose language hails that moment bright,
When past afflictions but endear
The presence of delight!
“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”
Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain!
I go misfortune to defy,
To smile at fate with proud disdain,
To triumph--not to die!
I with fresh laurels go to crown
My closing days at last,
Securing all the bright renown
Acquired in dangers past.
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.
“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”
Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced
With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been
A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien;
Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine!
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine,
Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness!
Not _then_ would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed:
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d,
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand,
And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand,
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!
PASTORINI.
“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”
If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold,
My native Genoa! with a tearless eye,
Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold;
But know--I deem rebellious every sigh!
Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey,
Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might!
And in each trace of devastation’s way,
Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight.
Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine!
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine,
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains.
And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries,
“_Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!_”
LOPE DE VEGA.
“Estese el cortesano.”
Let the vain courtier waste his days,
Lured by the charms that wealth displays,
The couch of down, the board of costly fare;
Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand
That waves the sceptre of command,
And rear full many a palace in the air;
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined,
The glowing sun, the genial wind,
And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d;
And prize far more, in peace and health,
Contented indigence than joyless wealth.
Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend,
At Grandeur’s altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;
Nor mine a fond aspiring thought,
A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught
With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown!
Nectareous draughts and viands pure
Luxuriant nature will insure;
These the clear fount and fertile field
Still to the wearied shepherd yield;
And when repose and visions reign,
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.
FRANCISCO MANUEL.
ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.
“No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!”
Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here,
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side;
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear--
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide.
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode,
So near the mansions of supreme delight;
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road--
’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height.
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way,
How many a fountain glitters down the hill!
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play,
Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still?
Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife,
Hope is reality, and time is life.
DELLA CASA.
VENICE.
“Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”
These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced,
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone,
Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste,
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown.
Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea;
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,
They sought these island precincts--to be free.
Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose,
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose;
Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast:
Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day,
Let not those virtues languish and decay,
O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest!
IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.
“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.”
The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high,
Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight,
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky,
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright!
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile,
That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart,
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while,
And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart.
Beams of that heaven in _her_ my eyes behold,
And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold,
To soar with her, and mingle with the blest!
But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies,
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies,
Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest.
QUEVEDO.
ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.
“Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!”
Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome?
Vain is thy search--the pomp of Rome is fled;
Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb;
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead.
That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days,
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime;
Each mouldering medal now far less displays
The triumphs won by Latium than by Time.
Tiber alone survives--the passing wave
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave,
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes.
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past,
That seem’d for years eternal framed to last:
Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains.
EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS.
“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.”
Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers,
In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn,
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers,
For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn;
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares,
Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane,
As to the port the fearful bark repairs
To shim the midnight perils of the main--
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour,
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise!
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies,
Oh! how shouldst _thou_ the exulting pæan raise,
Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze!
TORQUATO TASSO.
“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.”
Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose
To the mild sunshine only half display’d,
That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose,
And in its veil of verdure sought a shade:
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear,
(Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,)
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere,
O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light.
Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade;
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d,
Excel, or equal, thy neglected form.
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower,
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour,
More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.
BERNARDO TASSO.
“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”
This green recess, where through the bowery gloom
Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d,
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom
Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade;
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals,
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows,
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose;
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care,
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee!
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose,
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close,
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.
PETRARCH.
“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”
Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,
All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind:
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,
First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair!
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze:
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.
“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”
If to the sighing breeze of summer hours
Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird;
Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers,
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard;
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies,
I see and hear: though dwelling far above,
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love.
“Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,”
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)
“While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows?
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight,
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light
Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”
VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.
“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”
Thou, the stem monarch of dismay,
Whom nature trembles to survey,
O Death! to me, the child of grief,
Thy welcome power would bring relief,
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,
Ah! sure are far less keen than those
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.
FRANCESCO LORENZINI.
“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”
Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour;
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form.
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!
GESNER.
MORNING SONG.
“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”
Hail! morning sun, thus early bright;
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day!
Through the dark woods that fringe the height,
Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water’s glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet Morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell;
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o’er her downy pillow fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o’er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning’s earliest call,
Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale
By the lone waterfall.
GERMAN SONG.
“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”
Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well--
His looks the traitor prove.
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why.
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.
There’s magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See! now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns.
Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spare not e’en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile--
Oh! trust him not--’tis Love!
CHAULIEU.
“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”
Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.
Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And midst my sires repose.
Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn,
Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye--
Fair trees! that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.
GARCILASO DE VEGA.
“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”
Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow;
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time, who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!
LORENZO DE MEDICI.
VIOLETS.
“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”
We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow
From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d;
Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales
By guided rivulets or summer gales--
Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!
PINDEMONTE.
ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.
“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”
Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art--with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace;
While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending,
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending,
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.
[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called
by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to,
her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The
“graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of
Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of
the works of this period--such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art
to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the
volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”
“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and
acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the
distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during
the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and
greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship.
To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit
alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was
indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions
ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth
the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers
of her age,--the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and
‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and
she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through
the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in
accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have
evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and
research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and
attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious
and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the
reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she
had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful
hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length
unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and,
probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations
from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the
Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to
this epoch of her literary career.”--_Biographical Sketch, prefixed,
to Poetical Remains_, 1836.
In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute
and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the
following judicious observations:--
“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical,
and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the
nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with
facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have
relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to
quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty
names.’”--_Athenæum_, Feb. 1831.]
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
LINES
WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.
O wanderer! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature’s voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around
Reverberate each awful sound--
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.
But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Soothed by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?--
Oh! pause awhile--the world disown,
And dwell with Nature’s self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul’s departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o’er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal,
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.
DIRGE OF A CHILD.
No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed One!
Whose all of life, a rosy ray,
Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.
Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub-soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower
That never felt a storm!
The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath,
All that it knew from birth to death.
Thou wert so like a form of light,
That heaven benignly call’d thee hence,
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O’er thy sweet innocence:
And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!
Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain’d
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.
We rear no marble o’er thy tomb--
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.
And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose;
And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]
INVOCATION.
Hush’d is the world in night and sleep--
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.
But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft _his_ spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.
[57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62.
TO THE MEMORY OF
GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58]
Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret,
Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon,
Oh, who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon!
Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind
Which mark’d and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies wither’d on thy bier.
The soldier’s death hath been thy doom,
The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have rear’d for thee.
Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief
We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior’s grave:
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o’er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene,
Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain,
Meet had thy deathbed been.
We mourn not that a hero’s life
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquer’d foes!
Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame
In that last moment cheer’d thee not)
Left Glory’s isle another name,
That ne’er may be forgot:
And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear,
And long may England mourn a son
_Without reproach or fear_.
[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose
memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British
troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six
thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in
the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched
to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy
artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743.
The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of
General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing
columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred
yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not
only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the
opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short
but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and
of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his
presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act
of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls,
one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major
Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr.
An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356.
TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR H--Y E--LL--S,
WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.
“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around
them.”--Ossian.
Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full resistless tide?
Oh, mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour’s son
No brighter lot.
He heard his band’s exulting cry,
He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame!
It shed a sunbeam o’er his name
That nought shall dim:
No cloud obscured his glory’s day,
It saw no twilight of decay.
Weep not for him!
And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm--
The avenging angel--rear’d her form
In tenfold power.
Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier’s guiding star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has own’d thy fame:
And oh! like _his_ approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior’s name?
GUERILLA SONG.
FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.
Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale
We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls;
Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale,
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls;
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light,
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.
We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round,
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave;
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound:
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave!
For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath,
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.
Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near,
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest,
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear,
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast,
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine
O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.
THE AGED INDIAN.
Warriors! my noon of life is past,
The brightness of my spirit flown;
I crouch before the wintry blast,
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone;
The heroes of my youth are fled,
They rest among the warlike dead.
Ye slumberers of the narrow cave!
My kindred chiefs in days of yore!
Ye fill an unremember’d grave,
Your fame, your deeds, are known no more.
The records of your wars are gone,
Your names forgot by all but one.
Soon shall that one depart from earth,
To join the brethren of his prime;
Then will the memory of your birth
Sleep with the hidden things of time.
With him, ye sons of former days!
Fades the last glimmering of your praise.
His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame,
Still kindling in the combat’s shock,
Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame,
Sons of the desert and the rock!
Another and another race
Rise to the battle and the chase.
Descendants of the mighty dead!
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand!
Oh, let me join their spirits fled--
Oh! send me to their shadowy land.
Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart--
He shrinks not from the friendly dart.
These feet no more can chase the deer,
The glory of this arm is flown;--
Why should the feeble linger here
When all the pride of life is gone?
Warriors! why still the stroke deny?
Think ye Ontara fears to die?
He fear’d not in his flower of days,
When strong to stem the torrent’s force,
When through the desert’s pathless maze
His way was as an eagle’s course!
When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane delight!
Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_?
Now when his envied strength is o’er--
Hung on the pine his idle bow,
His pirogue useless on the shore?
When age hath dimm’d his failing eye,
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?
Sons of the brave! delay no more--
The spirits of my kindred call.
’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er!
Oh, bid the aged cedar fall!
To join the brethren of his prime,
The mighty of departed time.
EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.
Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest,
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow!
What glorious hues, reflected from the west,
Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow!
Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep,
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam;
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream.
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray,
That still at eve its lofty temple knows;
From rock and torrent fade the tints away,
And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose:
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star,
And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.
DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]
Son of the mighty and the free!
High-minded leader of the brave!
Was it for lofty chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh! if amidst the valiant slain
The warrior’s bier had been thy lot,
E’en though on red Culloden’s plain,
We then had mourn’d thee not.
But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!
Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power
Hath e’er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!
O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e’en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent’s roar;
Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around:
Thou lead’st the chase no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where peal’d the choral strain;
They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill,
And all is hush’d again.
No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high;
There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark’d shall spring and die.
No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine--
Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line!
[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh
Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting
heading.
“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the
following tenor:--
“‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed,
on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if
in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland
Chief, you would do honour to_
_Your Sincere Admirer._’
“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no
claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means
of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the
public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley
may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured
to send the verses to our Register.”
Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious
young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand;
and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other,
there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir
Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself
wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of
Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.
THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high--
Lead on to Salem’s towers!
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?
The brave who sleep in soil of thine,
Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!
Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car,
To mingle with the blest;
Tell us how short the death-pang’s power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;
Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breathed in the warrior’s praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.
Salem! amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,
Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might.
Envied be those for thee that fall,
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.
For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,
Or pyramid record their doom,
Or deathless verse their name;
It is enough that dust of thine
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high
For combat’s glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly
On Salem’s loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where _but_ to die insures eternal life.
THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.
[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell,
leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited
the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival
branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his
bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow
for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words,
and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the
_Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”]
Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot,
We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.”
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow,
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand;
Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now,
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave--
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race!
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set:
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
TO THE EYE.
Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart:
Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And, by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e’en _thee_ to flatter and betray,
Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal.
While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given
But to reflect the purity of heaven,
Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace
Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!
When Genius lends thee all his living light,
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumes thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart.
And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime,
That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;)
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!
THE HERO’S DEATH.
Life’s parting beams were in his eye,
Life’s closing accents on his tongue,
When round him, pealing to the sky,
The shout of victory rung!
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled,
A smile so bright illumed his face--
Oh! never, of the light it shed,
Shall memory lose a trace!
His was a death whose rapture high
Transcended all that life could yield;
His warmest prayer was so to die,
On the red battle-field!
And they may feel, who loved him most,
A pride so holy and so pure:
Fate hath no power o’er those who boast
A treasure thus secure!
STANZAS
ON
THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer
de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient
l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et
pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa
vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu
seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui
sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.]
I.
Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng,
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright?
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light!
And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh?
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry!
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep!
Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d,
And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!
II.
Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread
That awful fiat o’er our senses came!
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled,
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame?
Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled?
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void?
For all is lost--the mother and her child!
Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb
Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come.
III.
Angel of Death! did no presaging sign
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare?
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine,
Danger and fear seem’d past--but thou wert there!
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path
Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes;
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath,
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose:
But _thou_, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen,
Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene.
IV.
And she is gone!--the royal and the young,
In soul commanding, and in heart benign!
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung,
Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line.
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well
Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain;
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell
Wake from that breast one sympathy again:
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled,
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.
V.
Oh, many a bright existence we have seen
Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime;
And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been
Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time.
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride,
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier;
And we have wept when soaring genius died,
Check’d in the glory of his mid career!
But here our hopes were centred--all is o’er:
All thought in this absorb’d,--she was--and is no more!
VI.
We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour,
From every word and look blest omens caught;
While that young mind developed all its power,
And rose to energies of loftiest thought.
On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye--
One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair;
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky,
She was our dayspring--all was cloudless _there_;
And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze,
E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days.
VII.
Now hath one moment darken’d future years,
And changed the track of ages yet to be!--
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears,
Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree!
Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light,
Wisdom should _then_ have temper’d hope’s excess;
And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright,
We might have trembled at its loveliness.
Joy is no earthly flower--nor framed to bear,
In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air.
VIII.
All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise,
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine!
On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze,
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine.
Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw
O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray,
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe!
Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again!
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain?
IX.
Yet there is one who loved thee--and whose soul
With mild affections nature form’d to melt;
His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control
Of many a grief--but _this_ shall be unfelt!
Years have gone by--and given his honour’d head
A diadem of snow; his eye is dim;
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread--
The past, the future, are a dream to him!
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60]
He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!
X.
The Chastener’s hand is on us--we may weep,
But not repine--for many a storm hath pass’d,
And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!
And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain,
Trampling the vine and olive in his path;
While she, that regal daughter of the main,
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath!
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky,
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.
XI.
Her voice hath been th’ awakener--and her name
The gathering-word of nations. In her might,
And all the awful beauty of her fame,
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light.
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood,
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower--
That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood,
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour.
Away, vain dreams of glory!--in the dust
Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!
XII.
Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep,
Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone,
While all the murmurs of existence sleep,
Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone!
Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street,
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart;
And all is still, where countless thousands meet,
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart!
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.
XIII.
The sun goes down in beauty--his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight.
They smile and fade--but, when the day is o’er,
What slow procession moves with measured tread?--
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more,
A solemn train--the mourners and the dead!
While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.
XIV.
But other light is in that holy pile,
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose;
There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle,
The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws.
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain,
And all around the stamp of woe may bear;
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain,
Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them--is there.
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns,
Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns.
XV.
We mourn--but not _thy_ fate, departed One!
We pity--but the living, not the dead;
A cloud hangs o’er us[61]--“the bright day is done,”
And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled.
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast,
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought--
He, with thine early fond affections blest,
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught;
What but a desert to his eye, that earth,
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?
XVI.
Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense
Strength e’en to _feel_ at once their dread control.
But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power
To grasp the fulness of its agony!
Its deathlike torpor vanish’d--and its doom,
To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.
XVII.
And such _his_ lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d.
Years may pass on--and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined.
XVIII.
Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee:
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal,
But all it was--oh! never more shall be.
The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow,
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return,
The faded cheek again with health may glow,
And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn;
But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom,
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.
XIX.
But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er,
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run;
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more,
Tells that thy crown--though not on earth--is won.
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known
Nought but the bloom and sunshine--and for thee,
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given:
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.
XX.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye,
The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss--and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last!
And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone,
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.
XXI.
Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down
Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise;
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown
Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies.
Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear,
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain,
And in their hours of loneliness--be near!
Blest was thy lot e’en here--and one faint sigh,
Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63]
[60]
“I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness;
Begirt with his court--and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.
* * * * *
“The time since he walk’d in glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to _us_,
But to _him_ a night unvaried.
* * * * *
“A daughter beloved--a queen--a son--
And a son’s sole child had perish’d;
And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherish’d.”
--“The Contrast,” written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by
Horace Smith, Esq.
[61]
“The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.”--Shakspeare.
[62] “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
Shakspeare.
[63] These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first
appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. iii. April 1818.
EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.
“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will
give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to
enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;--they
are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco
Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis,
Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner,
Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega--names embracing almost every language in
which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations
are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them
for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted
with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of
the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful.
The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often
treated--and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces
so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of
pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas
of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of
transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not
in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted
happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by
the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will
be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of
scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and
when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what
they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now
gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow
them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to
dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’
which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more
beautiful order and language:--
“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.--Vide page 55.
WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]
“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”
The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d,
Wild Caledonia’s classic ground,
Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays,
And fell--but not till Carron’s tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
The morn rose bright--and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman’s gathering-note)
O’er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers;
As, all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone--to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d;
Deep slumber--not to pass away
When breaks another morning’s ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath,
May chase the still cold sleep of death?
Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes’ dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman--but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride.
Vainly they fell--that martyr host--
All, save the land’s high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! _they_ calmly sleep,
Nor hear their bleeding country weep!
The shouts of England’s triumph telling
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer’s lowly bier
An envying glance--but not a tear.
But thou, the fearless and the free,
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!
No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;
No shade of fear or weak despair
Blends with indignant sorrow there!
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not _there_ alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead;
But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.
But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other fight hath fill’d thine eye
With inspiration’s majesty,
Caught from th’ immortal flame divine
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine!
Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour!
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controll’d
By thine of more heroic mould:
Though struggling all in vain to war
With that high soul’s ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.
Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?--
“Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice!
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain,
The harvest of the battle-plain,
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot
Eternity shall cancel not?
Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lament
O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent,
With dying moan and dirge’s wail,
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail!
Rejoice!--while yet exulting cries
From England’s conquering host arise,
And strains of choral triumph tell
Her Royal Slave hath fought too well!
Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest
Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest!
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,
O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn,
And not a breeze but wafts the sound
Of wailing through the land around.
Yet deem not thou, till life depart,
High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart;
Or courage to the storm inured,
Or stern resolve by woes matured,
Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour,
Less than unconquerable power!
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
_Thine_, Freedom! is a quenchless fire;
And woe to him whose might would dare
The energies of _thy_ despair!
No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast,
Then in my yielding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty!”
“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!”
With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,
(Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame,
And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;)
“Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly
England’s red path of victory!
Is not her sword unmatch’d in might?
Her course a torrent in the fight?
The terror of her name gone forth
Wide o’er the regions of the north?
Far hence, midst other heaths and snows,
Must freedom’s footstep now repose.
And thou--in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate!
’Tis vain--the land is lost and won:
Sheathed be the sword--its task is done.
Where are the chiefs that stood with thee
First in the battles of the free?
The firm in heart, in spirit high?--
They sought yon fatal field to die.
Each step of Edward’s conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”
“Vassal of England, yes! a grave
Where sleep the faithful and the brave;
And who the glory would resign
Of death like theirs, for life like thine?
They slumber--and the stranger’s tread
May spurn thy country’s noble dead;
Yet, on the land they loved so well,
Still shall their burning spirit dwell,
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme,
Their image rise on warrior’s dream,
Their names be inspiration’s breath,
Kindling high hope and scorn of death,
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb,
The flame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains--away!
O’er softer climes let tyrants sway.
Think’st thou the mountain and the storm
Their hardy sons for bondage form?
Doth our stern wintry blast instil
Submission to a despot’s will?
No! _we_ were cast in other mould
Than theirs by lawless power controll’d;
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy;
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks with their eternal towers.
The soul to struggle and to dare
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.
“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still?
Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,
And cast to earth thy fetters riven,
And take thine offer’d crown from heaven.
Wake! in that high majestic lot
May the dark past be all forgot;
And Scotland shall forgive the field
Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d.
E’en I--though on that fatal plain
Lies my heart’s brother with the slain;
Though, reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth;
And when all other grief is past,
Must _this_ be cherish’d to the last--
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own;
Nor in thy noon of fame recall
_Whose_ was the guilt that wrought his fall.”
Still dost thou hear in stern disdain?
Are Freedom’s warning accents vain?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d.
And thy heart’s noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word--“Forgive!”
“Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And, kindling at my country’s shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power--
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,
Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can trace
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place!
--’Tis past--and on my native shore
I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be
In glory’s path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pour’d,
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring,
While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced:
Hail! and rejoice!--thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, that won
A way through tempests to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land:
By torrent-wave, in desert vast,
Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d;
Where mountain vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess’d my soul;
And shadowy forms have met mine eye.
The beings of futurity;
And a deep voice of years to be
Hath told that Scotland shall be free!
He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs!
Far o’er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn’s thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!
And I--but wherefore now recall
The whisper’d omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom--
There is no bondage in the tomb!
O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain:
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!”
* * * * *
_Art_ thou forgot? and hath thy worth
Without its glory pass’d from earth?
Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song!
Charter’d our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul,
_Thine_, Wallace! while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill--
While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed
Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed,
Shall brightly live from age to age,
Thy country’s proudest heritage!
Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave,
And cold the wanderer’s heart must be
That holds no converse there with thee!
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade
Still are thy grateful rites delay’d;
From lands of old renown, o’erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar guarding noble dust,
The shrine where art and genius high
Have labour’d for eternity--
The stranger comes: his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone
Raised to the hero all thine own.
Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!
Withhold that guerdon now no more.
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise:
Not to _record_ the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills;
Not to assert, with needless claim,
The bright _for ever_ of its fame;
But, in the ages yet untold,
When _ours_ shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.
[64] _Advertisement by the Author._--“A native of Edinburgh, and member
of the Highland Society of London, with a view to give popularity to
the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of
Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject
of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne.
The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have
appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public,
under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but
his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a
lady of the author’s own country, who solicited permission to avail
herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the
genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of
the theme in which she has triumphed.
“It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened
people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of
Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that
which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds,
and their sufferings.”
[“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to
enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though
without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the
news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected
than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction,
was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the
judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this
time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the
contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a
mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through.
Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable;
and one of them is mentioned as being as long as _Paradise Lost_. At
length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour
awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm
kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the
hands of the Scottish public.”--_Memoir_, p. 31-2.
Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on
the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash,
yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very
considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and
Bruce, a Vision,” published in _Constable’s Magazine_ for Dec. 1819;
and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth
volume of his Collected Works--Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.
“The Vision” is thus prefaced:--“Though far from entering into a
hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview
of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English
celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains
of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of
genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse
but the _amor patriæ_, and seeks no other praise but what is due to
heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher
name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’”
The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets
his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his
rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly
written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not
be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the
best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia
Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers
being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition.
Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the
preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as
coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors,
and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for
any poem that ever was written.”
Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man
as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”--a production entitled to a
permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary
circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its
blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The
Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”--more especially the first
and the last--possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I
doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all
true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of
Antæus--he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]
[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of
publication:--
“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the
judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is
needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud
was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause
crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie--Ireland
her Tighe--England her Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. v. Sept.
1819.
“Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome
her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius
which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.
“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several
of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the
Tweed--a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references
before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize,
against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem
on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an
English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the
award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the
disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago,
would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance
with a native--if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming
of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that
of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England.
We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations
alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind
them together in one great family.”--_Edin. Monthly Review_, vol. ii.
The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this
time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and
not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and
currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot,
now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers
of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He
then proceeds--
----“Next I’d place
Felicia Hemans, second in the race;
I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir
Oft about rubbish, never mention her.
They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding--
Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”
“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a
young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is
vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive.
I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she
certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”
The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we
have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken
her place among British classics.]
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
THE ABENCERRAGE.
[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related
in the _Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_. They occurred
in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of
that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of
Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to
have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection
was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the
king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful
halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of
the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains
their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the
most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this
chivalrous and romantic period.]
“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce
que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont
il est accablé.--Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme
basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune,
parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir
perdu une vertu.”
Sismondi.
Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er;
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.
Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by
Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers;
Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high,
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.
Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows,
Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles,
And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws
O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles.
And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone,
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair,
Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown,
Powerful and viewless, children of the air.
For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground,
There not a sound the deep repose pervades,
Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round,
Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.
Far other tones have swell’d those courts along
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace
The clash of arms, the voice of choral song,
The revels, combats of a vanish’d race.
And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call,
Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold;
Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.
----The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light;
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow,
And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye
That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky.
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower,
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour;
Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep,
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given
To the rich evening of a southern heaven--
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught
--Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest
The fiery passions of the human breast,
Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound,
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around?
Those are no tumults of a festal throng,
Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song:
The combat rages--’tis the shout of war,
’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar.
Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze;
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands,
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands:
There the strife centres--swords around him wave,
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave;
While echoing domes return the battle-cry,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
And onward rushing, and prevailing still,
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill.
But first and bravest of that gallant train,
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain;
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright,
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light,
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds,
His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads;
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath
By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path,
And by the thickest harvest of the slain,
And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain:
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries
From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise;
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare,
And where the ground is reddest--he is there.
Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host,
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.
They perish’d--not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came:
Oh! had they _thus_ expired, a warrior’s tear
Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier.
For thus alone the brave should weep for those
Who brightly pass in glory to repose.
--Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command
Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand,
As, with the flower of all their high-born race,
Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace,
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,
They sought the banquet’s gilded hall--to die.
Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell--the fountain wave
Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son
Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won.
For this young Hamet mingles in the strife,
Leader of battle, prodigal of life,
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset,
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet.
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more,
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er.
But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall,
The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall,
Nor yet the strife hath ceased--though scarce they know,
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe;
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.
Where lurks Abdallah?--midst his yielding train
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain.
He lies not number’d with the valiant dead,
His champions round him have not vainly bled;
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil,
And his last warriors found each effort fail,
In wild despair he fled--a trusted few,
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true;
And o’er the scene of many a martial deed,
The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead.
He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers,
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers
In dew and starlight--there, from grot and cave,
Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave;
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose,
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.
But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again.
Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course
Of him who flies from terror or remorse!
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom,
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb;
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there.
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves;
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise,
Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies;
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head,
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread;
But urges onward, till his weary band,
Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand.
He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes
In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains
In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow,
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow,
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar,
Sounds indistinctly fearful--as of war.
What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high,
O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky?
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,
Seen midst the redness of the desert storm,
Magnificently dread--above, below,
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.
Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air!
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.
Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul,
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control!
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly
For life--such life as makes it bliss to die!
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield.
Thither his steps are bent--yet oft he turns,
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns.
But paler grow the sinking flames at last,
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past;
And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene,
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been.
And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile,
Where grief and terror may repose awhile;
Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high,
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh:
He hails the scene where every care should cease,
And all--except the heart he brings--is peace.
There is deep stillness in those halls of state
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late;
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast
Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70]
Fearful the calm--nor voice, nor step, nor breath
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death:
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound,
Save the wild gush of waters--murmuring round
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.
O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments--glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead:
O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace
E’en death itself is powerless to efface;
O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness--and soon forgot.
But slowly fade the stars--the night is o’er--
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;
Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again,
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain.
Yet smiles the day--oh! not for mortal tear
Doth nature deviate from her calm career:
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.
O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,
O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,
And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe;
And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom,
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.
Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite
Attends that day of loveliness and light;
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears,
Is gather’d to the brave of other years:
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade
His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid,
Feels every deep resolve and burning thought
Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought;
Yet is the hour afar--and he must brood
O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude.
Tumult and rage are hush’d--another day
In still solemnity hath pass’d away,
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath,
The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.
And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane,
His ravaged city traversing again.
No sound of gladness his approach precedes,
No splendid pageant the procession leads;
Where’er he moves the silent streets along,
Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng.
No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye,
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,
And in each look of those whose love hath fled
From all on earth to slumber with the dead,
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown
On the bleak wilderness of life alone--
In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage,
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age,
May well be read a dark and fearful tale
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil,
And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power,
That waits in stillness its appointed hour.
No more the clarion from Granada’s walls,
Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls;
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high,
Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye:
Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread,
And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled.
--Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep--
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep!
Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall,
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er--
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more.
And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive,
Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive,
That race of lineage high, of worth approved,
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved--
Thine Aben-Zurrahs--they no more shall wield
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield:
Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell,
And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam,
Their land the desert, and the grave their home.
Yet there is one shall see that race depart
In deep though silent agony of heart:
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone,
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown,
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear
That smile in which the spirit hath no share--
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow
O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.
Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour,
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower;
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined.
That name in vain stern reason would efface:
Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race!
And yet not hers in bitterness to prove
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love--
Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume,
And make the heart of all delight the tomb,
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight,
And the spring-morn of early genius blight:
Not such her grief--though now she wakes to weep,
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71]
A step treads lightly through the citron-shade,
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d--
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot,
Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot?
’Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire,
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught,
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought:
Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled,
And in its wild expression may be read
Stem thoughts and fierce resolves--now veil’d in shade,
And now in characters of fire portray’d.
Changed e’en his voice--as thus its mournful tone
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.
“Zayda! my doom is fix’d--another day
And the wrong’d exile shall be far away;
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be,
His home of youth, and, more than all--from thee.
Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot!
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour,
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower;
But I--my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown,
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone.
Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise!
Heroic visions of my early days!
In me the glories of my race must end--
The exile hath no country to defend!
E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er,
Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more,
And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast
Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest.
Yet fear not thou--to thee, in good or ill,
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still!
But when my steps are distant, and my name
Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame;
When Time steals on, in silence to efface
Of early love each pure and sacred trace,
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,--
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth
And all the fervour of affection’s youth?
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play
In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”
“Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind
To grief so long, so silently resign’d!
Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught
The pure and lofty constancy of thought,
Its fleeting trials eager to forget,
Rise with elastic power o’er each regret!
Foster’d in tears, _our_ young affection grew,
And I have learn’d to suffer and be true.
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower,
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;
No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies,
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies!
Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart,
That ne’er to meet in happier days we part.
We part! and e’en this agonising hour,
When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power,
Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye
Seem almost happiness--for thou wert nigh!
Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed,
As days to days all wearily succeed,
When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee!
“But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow
All that of joy my blighted lot can know.
Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave,
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave;
In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil.
So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair,
To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!”
“Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well,
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel;
Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown,
And all its dreams and all its passions known.
Thou shalt not be deceived--for pure as heaven
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given.
I said my heart was changed--and would thy thought
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought,
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes,
Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains;
And such that heart where desolation’s hand
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand!
But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne,
Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone;
And I, in stem devotion at her shrine,
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign.
Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control,
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul;
They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave,
Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave,
Must be avenged! and pity and remorse
In that stem cause are banish’d from my course.
Zayda! thou tremblest--and thy gentle breast
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest;
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour,
Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power,
And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot,
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot.
“But the night wanes--the hours too swiftly fly,
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh;
Yet, loved one! weep not thus--in joy or pain,
Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again!
Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past.
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell,
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!”
Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone
Thrill’d to her heart--and doth she weep alone?
Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er,
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more?
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair,
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair;
But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower,
To wake once more that calm serene delight,
The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight--
The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour,
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade,
In the rich foliage of the South array’d,
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave
On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave.
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,
To canopy the dead; nor wanting there
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air,
Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream--
Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream.
There sleep the chiefs of old--their combats o’er,
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more.
Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows;
The sons of war at length in peace repose.
No martial note is in the gale that sighs
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom--
As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.
There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread
Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead;
Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone,
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown,
Young Hamet kneels--while thus his vows are pour’d,
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:
--“Spirit of him who first within my mind
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined,
And taught my steps the line of light to trace
Left by the glorious fathers of my race,
Hear thou my voice!--for thine is with me still,
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill,
In the deep calm of midnight they are near,
Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear,
Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’--nor in vain the call,
Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall!
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame,
Within my heart there lives one only aim;
There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone,
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.
I will not weep--revenge, not grief, must be,
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;
But the dark hour of stern delight will come,
And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.
“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away,
Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day.
Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine
In the proud annals of thy lofty line;
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays
That hold communion with the after-days.
Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won,
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun;
By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d,
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid:
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife,
And to avenge thy death devote my life.
“Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain!
Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain!
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide,
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!”
[65] Zambra, a Moorish dance.
[66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was
so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster
basin in the centre.
[67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation
of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels
through Spain.
[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent
actions between the Moors and Christians.
[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote
3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.--See
Bruce’s _Travels_.
[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the
following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt
by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail
more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox.
They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds
or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is
difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced
it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in
this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour,
and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and
thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where:
respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the
lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal
heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though
the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a
dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages
shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents,
or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this
heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it
surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects,
which are sometimes mortal.”
[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare.
CANTO II.
----“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo
Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.”
Alfieri.
Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie
In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye;
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows,
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose.
No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore,
And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more.
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?
Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days--
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale;
Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died
When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might
On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]
Round fair Granada, deepening from afar,
O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war.
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone
O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone;
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced,
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced.
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove,
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above;
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright
With gold, reflecting every tint of light,
And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield
Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field.
There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart:
The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war’s array;
And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death;
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, _his_ form appears
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears--[73]
_His_ form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead!
O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high,
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry.
Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore,
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore;
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal,
They come, the gallant children of Castile;
The proud, the calmly dignified:--and there
Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair,
And those who guide the fiery steed of war
From yon rich province of the western star.[74]
But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene,
Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien;
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest,
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75]
Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes,
Why shines _thy_ helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose!
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train,
O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain?
Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! still first in every fight,
Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul’s expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?
No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.
There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,
And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread
Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76]
While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:--the slaughter’d brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews--but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired,
The wounded sought a shelter--and expired.[77]
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days,
By the bright windings of the stream he strays,
Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene,
All is repose and solitude serene.
There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined,
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind,
The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power,
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour,
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”
Such his vague musings--but a plaintive sound
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;
A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise
From life and death’s contending agonies.
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade?
--A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid.
All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest,
The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast;
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d,
With life’s last force convulsively retain’d;
His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken--pillow’d on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d.
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now
The light once throned on that commanding brow;
And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast,
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast.
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene
Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between,
Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace,
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face,
Whose every feature to his soul conveys
Some bitter thought of long-departed days.
“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last?
Friend of my soul in years for ever past!
Hath fate but led me hither to behold
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,--
Receive thy latest agonising breath,
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death?
Yet let me bear thee hence--while life remains,
E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive;
Hope is not lost--and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays;
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;
And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour,
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command,
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand.
“Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free--
E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee.
’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes
Of him who faithful to his country dies;
Not for _thy_ hand to raise the drooping head
Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed.
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er,
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar:
Be thine existence with a blighted name,
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”
The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye
Hath lost that beam of parting energy;
Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill;
One struggle more--that noble heart is still.
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes,
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,
More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart?
_Thy_ pangs were transient; _his_ shall sleep no more,
Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises, gathering all its force,
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.
To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene;
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.
Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands;
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour,
To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower,
When night and peace are brooding o’er the world,
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d.
That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears,
A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears:
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d,
And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove:
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there
Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,
Till his known accents every sense restore--
“My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?”
She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise,
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes;
But that is fleeting--it is past--and how
Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow:
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe--
“Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!”
“Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own?
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone?
I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face,
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!
It was not thus in other days we met:
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget?
Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel:
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no!
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe!
Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then.
But _thy_ dark soul no gentler feelings sway,
Leader of hostile bands! away, away!
On in thy path of triumph and of power,
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”
“And _thou_, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot!
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot!
Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft,
Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left;
And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam,
Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream,
Wert all the barrenness of life possest
To wake one soft affection in my breast!
That vision ended--fate hath nought in store
Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more.
Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly,
From the stem pupil of adversity!
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu!
If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”
“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak
Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek,
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form,
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm!
But words were idle--read my sufferings there,
Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.
“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,
All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d,
My love had been devotion!--till in death
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath.
But not the chief who leads a lawless band
To crush the altars of his native land;
Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace
Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race;
Not _him_ I loved--but one whose youthful name
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame.
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud
O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud,
I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief
In its own loftiness had found relief;
A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last,
When every meaner woe had long been past.
Yes! let affection weep--no common tear
She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier.
Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this,
To pangs that rend _my_ bosom, had been bliss!”
“High-minded maid! the time admits not now
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow.
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall,
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall.
Yet this believe--no meaner aim inspires
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires.
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled,
Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead!
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows,
And in thy love alone hath sought repose.
Zayda! wilt _thou_ his stern accuser be?
False to his country, he is true to thee!
Oh, hear me yet!--if Hamet e’er was dear,
By our first vows, our young affection, hear!
Soon must this fair and royal city fall,
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall;
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow,
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe?
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far
From horrors thronging in the path of war:
Fly, and repose in safety--till the blast
Hath made a desert in its course--and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come
Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom,
With _thee_ from scenes of death shall Zayda fly
To peace and safety?--Woman, too, can die!
And die exulting, though unknown to fame,
In all the stainless beauty of her name!
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear.
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail,
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail.
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour
Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power;
But I have energies that idly slept,
While withering o’er my silent woes I wept;
And now, when hope and happiness are fled,
My soul is firm--for what remains to dread?
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?
“Hamet! farewell--retrace thy path again,
To join thy brethren on the tented plain.
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell!
Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been,
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene!
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there,
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air?
Unheard, in vain they call--their fallen son
Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won,
And to the hatred of the brave and free
Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”
Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye
Was lighted up with inborn majesty,
While her fair form and youthful features caught
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought,
Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed,
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed,
As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d
One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d,
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes,
Her soul at once in all its light arose.
Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined
In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind;
And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there
He stood--till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes!
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes.
Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not
Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot!
Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d,
Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain
From him who ne’er may view that form again--
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be,
He _hath_ been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”
And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear
His parting footstep, and without a tear?
Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell?
_They_ feel not least, the firm, the high in soul,
Who best each feeling’s agony control.
Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief
Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief;
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow?
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it _could_ be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes;
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish--all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains,
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies;
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave,
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave:
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell;
For midst thy councils discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides--
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye
Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow,
And inspiration beams upon his brow;
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze,
As on some mighty seer of elder days.
“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d,
The helmets glittering, and the line array’d?
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries;
“Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!
O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81]
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82]
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore,
When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83]
When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84]
And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85]
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d,
The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d?
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?
To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood;
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?
“O ye sierras of eternal snow!
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow,
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight--
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race
Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace
With each memorial of the past around,
Each mighty monument of days renown’d?
May this indignant heart ere then be cold,
This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould!
And the last life-drop circling through my veins
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!
“And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d,
One mighty effort, one deciding field!
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be
In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!”
Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high,
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye;
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought;
And all is hush’d around--as every sense
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.
But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high;
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around,
And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound.
“Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife,
To fame in death, or liberty in life!”
O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d!
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave
Is roused to energies that yet might save--
E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim
Your glorious trial on the field of fame,
Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86]
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more;
And for your children’s portion, but remains
That bitter heritage--the stranger’s chains.
[72] Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in
which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada.
[73] “El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de
Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado
de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en
esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el
qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado.”--_Historia de las
Guerras Civiles de Granada._
[74] Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or the
west; in a word, the _Hesperia_ of the Greeks.--See Casiri’s _Bibliot.
Arabico-Hispana_, and Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c.
[75] “Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y
blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la
misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que
desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con
un baston.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._
[76] The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called
Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta.
[77] It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the
dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the
shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field.
[78] “Severe in youthful beauty.”--Milton.
[79] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 76 footnote
2. Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Xenil
runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream small
particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. When Charles V. came to
Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him with a
crown made of gold, which had been collected from the Darro.--See
Bourgoanne’s and other Travels.
[80] “At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in
indolence, one of those men whose natural and impassioned eloquence
has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised his voice
in the midst of the city, and awakened the inhabitants from their
lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were
prepared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack the
besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects than of the
enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and made terms with the
Christians, by which it was agreed that the Moors should be allowed the
free exercise of their religion and laws; should be permitted, if they
thought proper, to depart unmolested with their effects to Africa; and
that he himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive
estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if
he preferred retiring to Barbary.”--See Jacob’s _Travel in Spain_.
[81] Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of
Granada, all of high distinction.
[82] The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil
dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. Several of the
Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for
submission to the Spaniards; others had embraced the cause of Muley el
Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo
Abdeli,) and all was jealousy and animosity.
[83] Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain.
“The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The corrupt
and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes
the mountain of Tarik; and the intrenchments of his camp were the
first outline of those fortifications which, in the hands of our
countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon.
The adjacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent
and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco,
who had been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers,
first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal
summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic
monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of
king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be
excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners,
between the nations of Spain.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol.
ix. p. 472, 473.
[84] “In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been
illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom;
the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the two
camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of three
successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more
serious and decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens,
they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was
overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead bodies.--‘My brethren,’
said Tarik to his surviving companions, ‘the enemy is before you, the
sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved
either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the
Romans.’ Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret
correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count Julian with the sons
and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the Archbishop of
Toledo, occupied the most important post: their well-timed defection
broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was prompted by fear or
suspicion to consult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic
army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three
following days.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474.
[85] The _tecbir_, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle.
CANTO III.
“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.”
Hippolito Pindemonte.
Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield,
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field;
Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87]
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore,
And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued,
Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude;
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose,
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes!
Rejoice!--for Spain, arising in her strength,
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length,
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain,
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain.
And thou, the warrior _born in happy hour_,[88]
Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power,
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by,
Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high;
For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal,
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile!
Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands
Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands,
E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain
A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89]
Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound,
By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound,
As through her echoing streets, in dread array,
Beings once mortal held their viewless way--
Voices from worlds we know not--and the tread
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead,
Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save,
And join thy warriors with unearthly might
To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight.
Those days are past--the crescent on thy shore,
O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90]
What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91]
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power!
What the glad shout of each exulting voice?
“Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!”
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes,
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose,
And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance,
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.
Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry,
At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore,
High masque or solemn festival of yore.
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise
O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies;
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers,
Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers:
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng,
With helmets glittering as they move along,
With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail,
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale;
Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far,
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war,
All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues
That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse--
Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw
O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow,
And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave,
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave.
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court;
Calm, stern, collected--yet within his breast
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d?
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen,
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien.
Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound
Of the deep anthem floating far around?
The choral voices, to the skies that raise
The full majestic harmony of praise?
Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train,
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain,
Borne on their trophied car--lo! bursting thence
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!
Onward their slow and stately course they bend
To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend,
Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore,
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.
They reach those towers--irregularly vast
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92]
They enter--to their wondering sight is given
A genii palace--an Arabian heaven![93]
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair,
Its forms and colour seem alike of air.
Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er,
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor,
Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues
The calm transparence of its wave suffuse.
There round the court, where Moorish arches bend,
Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend;
Unlike the models of each classic race,
Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace,
But answering well each vision that portrays
Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze:
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all--a mingling glow
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below;
Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins
Of precious marble, and the vivid stains
Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade,
In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d.
On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams,
The royal conquerors pass--while still their sight
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight.
Here the eye roves through slender colonnades,
O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades;
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high
The vast sierra mingling with the sky.
There, scattering far around their diamond spray,
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play,
Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought,
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught,
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene
A wild, romantic, oriental mien:
While many a verse, from eastern bards of old,
Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94]
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain,
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign
Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood,
And all be lone--a splendid solitude.
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs,
From mingling voices of exulting throngs;
Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95]
And joyous clarions pealing on the air;
While every hall resounds, “Granada won!
Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96]
’Tis night--from dome and tower, in dazzling maze,
The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97]
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams,
From every lattice tremulously streams,
Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill,
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil;
Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height,
And shines each street an avenue of light;
And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice
Through the long night still summons to rejoice.
Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry,
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours,
Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers;
Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast,
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d,
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet--
Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret.
From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below,
Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene,
Anguish and shame contending in his mien
He who of heroes and of kings the son,
Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won;
Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d,
Wavering alike in council and in field;
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave,
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.
Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies,
To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98]
Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain
O’er all he never must behold again.
Fair spreads the scene around--for him _too_ fair,
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair.
The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires,
The old majestic palace of his sires,
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves,
Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves;
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light,
All in one moment bursting on his sight,
Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years,
And wake the source of unavailing tears.
--Weep’st thou, Abdallah?--Thou dost well to weep,
O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep!
Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye
Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99]
The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower,
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower.
No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls,
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls;
No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate,
But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate.
There, through each tower and solitary shade,
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid:
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone,
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown;
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows
The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.
But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought
Whispers ’twas _he_ that desolation wrought;
He who his country and his faith betray’d,
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid;
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale,
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale:
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined,
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind,
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense,
And seems to murmur--“Thou hast driven her hence!”
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain,
--Where hath lost love been once recall’d again?
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn,
His name can rouse no feeling now--but scorn.
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart
Wakes to behold the void within--and start!
To feel its own abandonment, and brood
O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude.
The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast
Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest;
The avenger’s task is closed:[100]--he finds too late
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate.
He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride,
And onward, in its new tumultuous course,
Borne with too rapid and intense a force
To pause one moment in the dread career,
And ask if such could be its native sphere.
Now are those days of wild delirium o’er,
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more;
The feverish energies of passion close,
And his heart sinks in desolate repose,
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less
From its own deep and utter loneliness.
There is a sound of voices on the air,
A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare,
Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]--there, on high,
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky,
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke,
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke.
O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone,
Severely glorious on her craggy throne;
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms,
Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,--
Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves,
That hold communion with the torrent-waves;
And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows,
That dwell above in bright and still repose;
To you, in every clime, in every age,
Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage,
Hath Freedom led her sons--untired to keep
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep.
She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights
To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights,
And build her eyrie in defiance proud,
To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud.
Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells,
Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells.
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among,
As at the clarion’s call, her children throng.
She with enduring strength has nerved each frame,
And made each heart the temple of her flame,
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow
Unquenchably, surviving all below.
There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth
More like bright creatures of aërial birth,
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share
The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear,
All undismay’d, privation and distress,
And smile the roses of the wilderness:
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell
In the deep forest or the cavern cell,
And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be,
If now no more the mighty, still the free.
And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed:
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall,
O royal city! and the wreck of all
They loved and hallow’d most:--doth aught remain
For these to prove of happiness or pain?
Life’s cup is drain’d--earth fades before their eye;
Their task is closing--they have but to die.
Ask ye why fled they hither?--that their doom
Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb.
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there,
And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare
And suffer all things--fall’n on evil days,
Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze,
As on the arena where its powers may find
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind.
Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold,
The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d:
By day, the huntsmen of the wild--by night,
Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light,
They from their bleak majestic home have caught
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought,
While all around them bids the soul arise
To blend with nature’s dread sublimities.
--But these are lofty dreams, and must not be
Where tyranny is near:--the bended knee,
The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires,
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires;
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down
On regal conquerors, and defy their frown.
What warrior-band is toiling to explore
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er,
Startling with martial sounds each rude recess,
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness?
These are the sons of Spain!--Your foes are near,
O exiles of the wild sierra! hear!
Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!
Who leads the invaders on?--his features bear
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair;
Yet his dark brow is haughty--and his eye
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy.
’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief;
He comes in all the sternness of his grief.
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field,
Against his country’s children though he leads
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds:
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly,
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die.
So shall remorse and love the heart release,
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace.
The mountain-echoes are awake--a sound
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around.
Within the steep defile that winds between
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene,
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight.
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen,
Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then;
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers,
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate.
But he--whose spirit, panting for its rest,
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast--
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance
Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance--
Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by,
As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die.
Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes
Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose;
Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak,
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break.
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell
The sons of battle in that narrow dell;
Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d,
And age, the weary, found repose at last;
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil,
Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil.
Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly,
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high;
While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare
Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.
Yet he, to whom each danger hath become
A dark delight, and every wild a home,
Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread
Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread.
But fear is’ for the happy--_they_ may shrink
From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink;
They to whom earth is paradise--their doom
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb:
Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe,
Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102]
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw
Eternal shadows o’er the glen below;
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way,
He holds his venturous track:--supported now
By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough;
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell.
Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head,
A level span, with emerald verdure spread,
A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise,
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies;
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side:
But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye
Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity.
That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day
Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray;
Around, untrodden woods; and far above,
Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove,
Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes
Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103]
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high,
That seems a part of heaven’s eternity.
There is no track of man where Hamet stands,
Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands;
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word
Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown,
Now but the lingering echo of a tone.
That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear,
He follows, reckless if his bands are near.
On by the rushing stream his way he bends,
And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends;
Piercing the still and solitary shades
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades,
Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past,
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last,
And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course.
But there he pauses--for the lonely scene
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien,
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry,
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky,
So deep the solemn and majestic sound
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round--
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets.
--What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell
In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods,
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods?
These their own grandeur on the soul impress,
And bid each passion feel its nothingness.
Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave;
Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone,
It seems the temple of some power unknown,
Where earthly being may not dare intrude
To pierce the secrets of the solitude.
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale.
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone?
Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan?
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled,
The unforgotten accents of the dead!
E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance
His eager footsteps to the sound advance.
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er
He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends
Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends,
Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh,
Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity,
She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief,
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief;
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past,
And every woe forgetting--but the last.
“Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft.
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier;
His child may call, but he no more shall hear.
He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose;
’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose;
Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn?
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn?
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know,
That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”
But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name,
When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came
Each dark remembrance--by affliction’s power
Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour,
To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty,
And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow
Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow.
“Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might
Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light--
That I should thus forget! and bid _thy_ tear
With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier!
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand,
In the last combat with thy ruthless band?
The morn beheld that conflict of despair:--
’Twas then he fell--he fell!--and thou wert there!
Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude.
Was it for this I loved thee?--Thou hast taught
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought!
’Twill soon be past--I bow to heaven’s decree,
Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.”
“I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below
For me to prove of yet untasted woe;
But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart
One more, one keener agony of heart.
Oh, hear me yet!--I would have died to save
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave;
But in the fierce confusion of the strife,
In my own stern despair and scorn of life,
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught,
Save that to perish there in vain I sought.
And let me share thy sorrows!--hadst thou known
All I have felt in silence and alone,
E’en _thou_ mightst then relent, and deem, at last,
A grief like mine might expiate all the past
“But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower,
So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower,
From every danger, every storm secured,
How hast _thou_ suffer’d! what hast thou endured!
Daughter of palaces! and can it be
That this bleak desert is a home for thee!
These rocks _thy_ dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone!
Oh, yet forgive!--be all my guilt forgot,
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”
“That lot is fix’d--’twere fruitless to repine:
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine.
I may forgive--but not at will the heart
Can bid its dark remembrances depart.
No, Hamet! no!--too deeply are these traced;
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced!
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep
Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep.
E’en now, prophetic of my early doom,
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb;
And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel
That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal!
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died;
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot,
In pain and peril--I forsook him not.
“And now, farewell!--behold the summer-day
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away.
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,
With the last rites his bier to sanctify.
Oh, yet in time, away!--’twere not _my_ prayer
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare!
This hour they come--and dost thou scorn to fly?
Save me that one last pang--to see thee die!”
E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread;
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.
They reach the cave--they enter--slow their pace,
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face;
And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait
In silent stern devotedness his fate,
Hath met their glance--then grief to fury turns:
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath.
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!
They close around him: lofty still his mien,
His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene.
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry;
Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony.
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend
Against the life he seeks not to defend,
Wildly she darts between--each feeling past,
Save strong affection, which prevails at last.
Oh, not in vain its daring!--for the blow
Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow;
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest,
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er,
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.
She, she alone is calm:--a fading smile,
Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while;
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell
Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.
“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved!
Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide
The heart so long and so severely tried:
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d,
But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d.
And I am blest!--To every holier tie
My life was faithful,--and for thee I die!
Nor shall the love so purified be vain;
Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again.
Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer,
Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare!
Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes,
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.”
Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint
The grief to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d:
These have no words--nor are by words portray’d.
A dirge is rising on the mountain-air,
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear
Far o’er the Alpuxarras;--wild its tone,
And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!”
“Daughter of heroes! thou art gone
To share his tomb who gave thee birth:
Peace to the lovely spirit flown!
It was not form’d for earth.
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race,
Which brightly pass’d and left no trace.
“But calmly sleep!--for thou art free,
And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise.
Sleep! they are closed at length for thee,
Life’s few and evil days!
Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye,
The lingering death of liberty.
“Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom
Didst early to the storm resign:
We bear it still--and dark _their_ doom
Who cannot weep for thine!
For us, whose every hope is fled,
The time is past to mourn the dead.
“The days have been, when o’er thy bier
Far other strains than these had flow’d;
Now, as a home from grief and fear,
We hail thy dark abode!
We, who but linger to bequeath
Our sons the choice of chains or death.
“Thou art with those, the free, the brave,
The mighty of departed years;
And for the slumberers of the grave
Our fate hath left no tears.
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain
For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again.
“Have we not seen despoil’d by foes
The land our fathers won of yore?
And is there yet a pang for those
Who gaze on _this_ no more?
Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest!
Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!”
A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave.
Sever’d in life, united in the tomb--
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom!
Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan;
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone.
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze,
Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days,
(When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there,
The stern and lofty councils of despair,)
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild,
Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled,
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those
Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose.
[86] The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular
feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli’s capitulation.
“Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y temiendo no ser ya el Dueño
de un pueblo amotinádo, se apresuró á concluir una capitulation, la
menos dura que podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio
entregor á Granada el dia seis de Enero.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i.
p. 298.
[87] The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle.
[88] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is
frequently styled, “he who was born in happy hour.”
[89] “Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa against
King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of
the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, since the
destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered
his country in that great danger; for the night before the battle was
fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty sound
was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great
army passing through; and it passed on to the royal monastery of St
Isidro, and there was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they
called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him
that the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and
Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up King Don
Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, that he might go
with them to deliver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle of the
Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers
were slain, which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won
over the Moors.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_.
[90] The name of Andalusia, the _region of evening_, or _of the west_,
was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so called, but to the
whole peninsula.
[91] “En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz,
de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremoláran sobre la torre
mas alta, llamada de _la Vela_; y un exercito prosternado, inundandose
en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los
espectaculos.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i. p. 299.
[92] Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V.
in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: “Adjoining (to the
north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen,
all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming
_one_ habitation out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all
gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand;
yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably
the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps in Europe.
In many countries you may see excellent modern as well as ancient
architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with any
where else can convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from
the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii.”--Swinburne’s
_Travels through Spain_.
[93] “Passing round the corner of the emperor’s palace, you are
admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On my first visit,
I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the threshold,
to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land.
The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or _del
Mesucar_, that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with a deep
basin of clear water in the middle; two flights of marble steps leading
down to the bottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row of
orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with marble;
the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and style
different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceilings and
walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate
that the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow
it, unless he made himself master of the general plan.”--Swinburne’s
_Travels in Spain_.
[94] The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with
inscriptions in Arabic characters. “In examining this abode of
magnificence,” says Bourgoanne, “the observer is every moment
astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and
poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of
fugitive pieces; and whatever duration these may have, time, with which
every thing passes away, has too much contributed to confirm to them
that title.”--See Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.
[95] Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum.
[96] “Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima de
la torre de Comares tan famosa se levantò la señal de la Santa Cruz,
y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos reyes. Y al punto
los reyes de armas, à grandes bozes dizieron, ‘Granada! Granada! por
su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.’ La serenissima reyna D. Isabel,
que viò ia señal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y
el su estandarte real con ella, se hincò de rodillas, y diò infinitas
gracias à Dios por la victoria que le avia dado contra aquella gran
ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey luego à canto de organo
cantò _Te Deum laudamus_. Fuè tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan.
Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas
trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya
cabeza era el valeroso Muça, tomaron mil dulzaynas y añafiles, sonando
grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad.”--_Historia de las
Guerras Civiles de Granada._
[97] “Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron
galanamente alcancias y cañas. Andava Granada aquella noche con
tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la
terra.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._
Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 and 1776,
mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand
and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great festival and day
of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion paid an annual
visit to the Moorish palace.
[98] “Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con
ellos, que no quisò estar en España, y en Africa le mataron los Moros
de aquellas partes, porque perdiò a Granada.”--_Guerras Civiles de
Granada._
[99] Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand
and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his
city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was
thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Ayxa,--“Thou dost well to
weep like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not
how to defend and die for like a man.”
[100] “El rey mandò, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en
Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra los Abencerrages.”--_Guerras
Civiles de Granada._
[101] “The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the
cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits; they
are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria,
and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit trees of great beauty and
prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the Moors
took refuge.”--Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_.
[102] “Plût à Dieu que je craignisse!”--_Andromaque._
[103] Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine,
thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the mountains of the
Bergstrasse. “The nearer we approached these mountains, the more we had
occasion to admire the various tints of their granites. Sometimes the
precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or
a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow
mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was
cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived
by the illusions of aërial colouring; the real hues of their features
were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime.”
THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.
[“In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited
by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the
ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the
Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered
them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho
in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called
the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon
this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his
imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights
of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into
his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans.
Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment
for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved
to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a
pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had
induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him,
and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon
afterwards the cause of his painful death.”--Sismondi, _History of the
Italian Republics_, vol. i.]
“L’orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la
tête levée.”--Mad. de Stael.
Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades,
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades,
Where dwelt, in days departed long,
The sons of battle and of song,
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears
But o’er the wrecks of other years,
Temples and domes, which long have been
The soil of that enchanted scene.
There the wild fig-tree and the vine
O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104]
The cypress, in funereal grace,
Usurps the vanish’d column’s place;
O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze;
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide
They once adorn’d in sculptured pride;
And nature hath resumed her throne
O’er the vast works of ages flown.
Was it for this that many a pile,
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile,
To Anio’s banks the image lent
Of each imperial monument?[105]
Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes,
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains;
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d
From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d.
We need no prescient sibyl there
The doom of grandeur to declare;
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time;
Each relic utters Fate’s decree--
The future as the past shall be.
Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale,
Who now shall tell your lofty tale?
Who trace the high patrician’s dome,
The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home?
When moss-clad wrecks alone record
There dwelt the world’s departed lord,
In scenes where verdure’s rich array
Still sheds young beauty o’er decay,
And sunshine on each glowing hill
Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.
Sunk is thy palace--but thy tomb,
Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106]
Though vanish’d with the days of old
Its pillars of Corinthian mould;
Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought,
Each bodying some immortal thought,
Which o’er that temple of the dead
Serene but solemn beauty shed,
Have found, like glory’s self, a grave
In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107]
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair
Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er.
High thoughts of many a mighty mind
Expanding when all else declined,
In twilight years, when only they
Recall’d the radiance pass’d away,
Have made that ancient pile their home,
Fortress of freedom and of Rome.
There he, who strove in evil days
Again to kindle glory’s rays,
Whose spirit sought a path of light
For those dim ages far too bright--
Crescentius--long maintain’d the strife
Which closed but with its martyr’s life,
And left th’ imperial tomb a name,
A heritage of holier fame.
There closed De Brescia’s mission high,
From thence the patriot came to die;[108]
And thou, whose Roman soul the last
Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109]
Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled
To mingle with the glorious dead,
That midst the world’s degenerate race
They vainly sought a dwelling-place,
Within that house of death didst brood
O’er visions to thy ruin woo’d.
Yet, worthy of a brighter lot,
Rienzi, be thy faults forgot!
For thou, when all around thee lay
Chain’d in the slumbers of decay--
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye
Had scarce a _tear_ for liberty--
Alone, amidst the darkness there,
Couldst gaze on Rome--yet not despair![110]
’Tis morn--and nature’s richest dyes
Are floating o’er Italian skies;
Tints of transparent lustre shine
Along the snow-clad Apennine;
The clouds have left Soracte’s height,
And yellow Tiber winds in light,
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew’d
The wide Campagna’s solitude.
’Tis sad amidst that scene to trace
Those relics of a vanish’d race;
Yet, o’er the ravaged path of time--
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime,
Where nature still, though empires fall,
Holds her triumphant festival--
E’en desolation wears a smile,
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while;
And heaven’s own light, earth’s richest bloom,
Array the ruin and the tomb.
But she, who from yon convent tower
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour;
She, whose rich flow of raven hair
Streams wildly on the morning air,
Heeds not how fair the scene below,
Robed in Italia’s brightest glow.
Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains
Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes,
And they, the Pleiades of earth,
The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth,
Lie spread beneath; not now her glance
Roves o’er that vast sublime expanse;
Inspired, and bright with hope,’tis thrown
On Adrian’s massy tomb alone;
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled,
His faithful few Crescentius led;
While she, his anxious bride, who now
Bends o’er the scene her youthful brow,
Sought refuge in the hallow’d fane,
Which then could shelter, not in vain.
But now the lofty strife is o’er,
And Liberty shall weep no more.
At length imperial Otho’s voice
Bids her devoted sons rejoice;
And he, who battled to restore
The glories and the rights of yore,
Whose accents, like the clarion’s sound,
Could burst the dead repose around,
Again his native Rome shall see
The sceptred city of the free!
And young Stephania waits the hour
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower--
Her ardent heart with joy elate,
That seems beyond the reach of fate;
Her mien, like creature from above,
All vivified with hope and love.
Fair is her form, and in her eye
Lives all the soul of Italy;
A meaning lofty and inspired,
As by her native day-star fired;
Such wild and high expression, fraught
With glances of impassion’d thought,
As fancy sheds, in visions bright,
O’er priestess of the God of Light;
And the dark locks that lend her face
A youthful and luxuriant grace,
Wave o’er her cheek, whose kindling dyes
Seem from the fire within to rise,
But deepen’d by the burning heaven
To her own land of sunbeams given.
Italian art that fervid glow
Would o’er ideal beauty throw,
And with such ardent life express
Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,--
Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall,
The shade of glory still recall.
But see!--the banner of the brave
O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave.
’Tis lower’d--and now Stephania’s eye
Can well the martial train descry,
Who, issuing from that ancient dome,
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome.
Now from her watch-tower on the height,
With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light,
She flies--and swift her way pursues
Through the lone convent’s avenues.
Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread
With records of the conquering dead,
And paths which track a glowing waste,
She traverses in breathless haste;
And by the tombs where dust is shrined
Once tenanted by loftiest mind,
Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate!
Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d,
Rush on the gathering multitude.
--Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet
That thus the Roman thousands meet?
With names that bid their thoughts ascend,
Crescentius! thine in song to blend;
And of triumphal days gone by
Recall th’ inspiring pageantry?
--There is an air of breathless dread,
An eager glance, a hurrying tread;
And now a fearful silence round,
And now a fitful murmuring sound,
Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream.
Quick is each step and wild each mien,
Portentous of some awful scene.
Bride of Crescentius! as the throng
Bore thee with whelming force along,
How did thine anxious heart beat high,
Till rose suspense to agony!--
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close,
And leave thy heart to deeper woes.
Who midst yon guarded precinct stands,
With fearless mien but fetter’d hands?
The ministers of death are nigh,
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye;
And in his glance there fives a mind
Which was not form’d for chains to bind,
But cast in such heroic mould
As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old.
Crescentius! freedom’s daring son,
Is this the guerdon thou hast won?
Oh, worthy to have lived and died
In the bright days of Latium’s pride!
Thus must the beam of glory close
O’er the seven hills again that rose,
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke,
The soul of Rome indignant woke?
Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111]
Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112]
Th’ illusions, that around her cast
Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113]
Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray,
Shed o’er her midnight of decay;
Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine
Must rivet every chain--but thine.
Calm is his aspect, and his eye
Now fix’d upon the deep blue sky,
Now on those wrecks of ages fled
Around in desolation spread--
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray,
Recording triumphs pass’d away;
Works of the mighty and the free,
Whose steps on earth no more shall be,
Though their bright course hath left a trace
Nor years nor sorrows can efface.
Why changes now the patriot’s mien,
Erewhile so loftily serene?
Thus can approaching death control
The might of that commanding soul?
No!--Heard ye not that thrilling cry
Which told of bitterest agony?
_He_ heard it, and at once, subdued,
Hath sunk the hero’s fortitude.
_He_ heard it, and his heart too well
Whence rose that voice of woe can tell;
And midst the gazing throngs around
One well-known form his glance hath found--
One fondly loving and beloved,
In grief, in peril, faithful proved.
Yes! in the wildness of despair,
She, his devoted bride, is there.
Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies,
The light of frenzy in her eyes:
But ere her arms can clasp the form
Which life ere long must cease to warm--
Ere on his agonising breast
Her heart can heave, her head can rest--
Check’d in her course by ruthless hands,
Mute, motionless, at once she stands;
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance,
Frozen and fix’d in horror’s trance;
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled,
And thought o’erwhelm’d, and feeling dead;
And the light waving of her hair,
And veil, far floating on the air,
Alone, in that dread moment, show
She is no sculptured form of woe.
The scene of grief and death is o’er,
The patriot’s heart shall throb no more:
But _hers_--so vainly form’d to prove
The pure devotedness of love,
And draw from fond affection’s eye
All thought sublime, all feeling high--
When consciousness again shall wake,
Hath now no refuge but to break.
The spirit long inured to pain
May smile at fate in calm disdain,
Survive its darkest hour, and rise
In more majestic energies.
But in the glow of vernal pride,
If each warm hope _at once_ hath died,
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower,
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower;
A broken gem, whose inborn light
Is scatter’d--ne’er to re-unite.
[104] “J’étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus
les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la
pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des
_Thermes_ voisins du _Pécile_, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier
qui avait renversé le pan d’un mur en s’élevant. Dans un petit salon
octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte
de l’édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le
long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades
des ruines, s’ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine.
Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient
se réfugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maçonnerie
étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée
se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des
marbres: çà et là de hauts cyprès remplaçaient les colonnes tombées
dans ces palais de la Mort; l’acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds,
sur des débris, comme si la nature s’était plu à reproduire sur ces
chefs-d’œuvre mutilés d’architecture, l’ornement de leur beauté
passée.”--Chateaubriand’s _Souvenirs d’ Italie_.
[105] The gardens and buildings of Hadrian’s villa were copies of the
most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions--the Lycæum, the
Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria,
the Vale of Tempe, &c.
[106] The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first
converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of
Rome against the Goths. “The lover of the arts,” says Gibbon, “must
read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn
from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of
the besiegers.” He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun
of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch
of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the
Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government,
and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which
had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and
the brazen cone which crowned its summit.
[107] “Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues,
out étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait
si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais
quand on songe que les chefs-d’œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là
devant nous, et qu’un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes,
l’on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse
sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans
les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs.”--Mad. de Stael.
[108] Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman
liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution
of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV.
This event is thus described by Sismondi, _Histoire des Républiques
Italiennes_, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. “Le préfet demeura dans le
château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin
sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple.
Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en
face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui
aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu’ une moitié de
Rome. C’est là qu’habitoient les hommes qu’il avoit si souvent appelés
à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de
leur législateur. Le tumulte de l’exécution et la flamme du bûcher
réveillèrent les Romains; ils s’armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop
tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux
qui, n’ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses
cendres comme de précieuses reliques.”
[109] “Posterity will compare the virtues and fadings of this
extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude,
the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his
country, and the last of the Roman patriots.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and
Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 362.
[110] “Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu’à
Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n’avoit été élevé au
consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le sénat ne voulut pas
jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire
qu’il s’attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple--il alla
au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce _qu’il n’avoit pas désespéré de
la republique_.”--Montesquieu’s _Grandeur et Décadence des Romains_.
[111] Of the sacred bucklers, or _ancilia_ of Rome, which were kept
in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account:--“In the
eighth year of Numa’s reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy; Rome also
felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we are told
that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this
he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria and the Muses:
that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the city, and
should be kept with great care; that eleven others should be made as
like it as possible in size and fashion, in order that, if any person
were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that
which fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the
place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently conversed with the
Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities; and that the spring
which watered the ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal
Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate
cessation of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of this
account.”--_Life of Numa._
[112] “Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the _crowning city_,
whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of
the earth?”--_Isaiah_, chap. 23.
[113] “Un mélange bizarre de grandeur d’àme et de foiblesse entroit
dès cette époque (l’onzième siècle) dans le caractère des Romains. Un
mouvement généreux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-à-coup
à l’abattement; ils passoient de la liberté la plus orageuse, à la
servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les
portiques déserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans
dans le sentiment de leur impuissance; au milieu de ces monumens de
leur domination passée, les citoyens éprouvoient d’une manière trop
décourageante leur propre nullité. Le nom des Romains qu’ils portoient
ranimoit fréquemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore
aujourd’hui; mas bientôt la vue de Rome, du forum désert, des sept
collines de nouveau rendues au pâturage des troupeaux, des temples
désolés, des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit à sentir qu’ils
n’étoient plus les Romains d’autrefois.”--Sismondi, _Histoire des
Républiques Italiennes_, vol. i. p. 172.
PART II.
Hast thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty’s farewell?
Italia! thou art but a grave
Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave,
And nature gives her treasures birth
O’er all that hath been great on earth.
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled
When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child:
Though fane and tomb alike are low,
Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow;
And, robed in that exulting ray,
Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay--
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,
In nature’s pomp magnificent!
What marvel if, when all was lost,
Still on thy bright enchanted coast,
Though many an omen warn’d him thence,
Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114]
Still gazing on the lovely sky,
Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die?
Like him, _who_ would not linger there,
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?
Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?
Hath not thy pure and genial air
Balm for all sadness but despair?[115]
No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace
Not all thy magic can efface!
Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn
The world and all its gifts to spurn;
Time may steal on with silent tread,
And dry the tear that mourns the dead,
May change fond love, subdue regret,
And teach e’en vengeance to forget:
But thou, Remorse! there is no charm
_Thy_ sting, avenger, to disarm!
Vain are bright suns and laughing skies
To soothe thy victim’s agonies:
The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.
In vain for Otho’s joyless eye
Smile the fair scenes of Italy,
As through her landscapes’ rich array
Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way.
Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight
Rises when nature laughs in light,
Glides round him at the midnight hour,
Is present in his festal bower,
With awful voice and frowning mien,
By all but him unheard, unseen.
Oh! thus to shadows of the grave
Be every tyrant still a slave!
Where, through Gargano’s woody dells,
O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116]
A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb
Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom,
In shades that saw him live and die
Beneath their waving canopy.
’Twas his, as legends tell, to share
The converse of immortals there;
Around that dweller of the wild
There “bright appearances” have smiled,
And angel-wings at eve have been
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between.
And oft from that secluded bower
Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour,
A swell of viewless harps, a sound
Of warbled anthems pealing round.
Oh, none but voices of the sky
Might wake that thrilling harmony,
Whose tones, whose very echoes made
An Eden of the lonely shade!
Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps
Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps;
Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown
And veil’d his low sepulchral stone:
Yet still the spot is holy, still
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer
Aërial vesper-hymns may hear
Around those forest-precincts float,
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote.
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint
To that rude shrine’s departed saint,
And deem that spirits of the blest
There shed sweet influence o’er her breast.
And thither Otho now repairs,
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;
And if for him, on holy ground,
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,
She dwells, remote from heedless eye,
With nature’s lonely majesty.
Vain, vain the search!--his troubled breast
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest:
The weary pilgrimage is o’er,
The hopes that cheer’d it are no more.
Then sinks his soul, and day by day
Youth’s buoyant energies decay.
The light of health his eye hath flown,
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone.
Joyless as one on whom is laid
Some baleful spell that bids him fade,
Extending its mysterious power
O’er every scene, o’er every hour:
E’en thus _he_ withers; and to him
Italia’s brilliant skies are dim.
He withers--in that glorious clime
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time;
And suns, that shed on all below
Their full and vivifying glow,
From him alone their power withhold,
And leave his heart in darkness cold.
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair--
_He_ only seems to perish there.
Yet sometimes will a transient smile
Play o’er his faded cheek awhile,
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain
Of power to lull all earthly pain--
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem
Th’ ethereal music of a dream,
A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown,
Deep thrilling power in every tone!
Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow
Hath language only given to woe;
And if at times its wakening swell
Some tale of glory seems to tell,
Soon the proud notes of triumph die,
Lost in a dirge’s harmony.
Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved,
Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved,
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence
Such deep impassion’d eloquence!
Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy--
He is no child of hope and joy!
Though few his years, yet have they been
Such as leave traces on the mien,
And o’er the roses of our prime
Breathe other blights than those of time.
Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,
By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d.
Oh! there are sorrows which impart
A sternness foreign to the heart,
And, rushing with an earthquake’s power,
That makes a desert in an hour,
Rouse the dread passions in their course,
As tempests wake the billows’ force!--
’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face,
The stamp of woes like these to trace.
Oh! where can ruins awe mankind
Dark as the ruins of the mind?
His mien is lofty, but his gaze
Too well a wandering soul betrays:
His full dark eye at times is bright
With strange and momentary light,
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw
O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow:
And oft his features and his air
A shade of troubled mystery wear,
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught
With some unfathomable thought.
Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d
Dwells the sad secret in his breast;
The pride his haughty brow reveals
All other passion well conceals--
He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone
In music’s eloquence alone;
His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d
Through his full song and swelling chord.
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train
Of courtiers with a proud disdain;
And, save when Otho bids his lay
Its half unearthly power essay
In hall or bower the heart to thrill,
His haunts are wild and lonely still.
Far distant from the heedless throng,
He roves old Tiber’s banks along,
Where Empire’s desolate remains
Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains;
Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine
That strews the desert Palatine,
With mournful yet commanding mien,
Like the sad genius of the scene,
Entranced in awful thought appears
To commune with departed years.
Or at the dead of night, when Rome
Seems of heroic shades the home;
When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls
The mighty to their ancient halls;
When hush’d is every meaner sound,
And the deep moonlight-calm around
Leaves to the solemn scene alone
The majesty of ages flown--
A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb,
He wanders through the sacred gloom;
And midst those dwellings of decay
At times will breathe so sad a lay,
So wild a grandeur in each tone,
’Tis like a dirge for empires gone!
Awake thy pealing harp again,
But breathe a more exulting strain,
Young Guido! for awhile forgot
Be the dark secrets of thy lot,
And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song
To speed the banquet’s hour along!--
The feast is spread, and music’s call
Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O’er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep--
The still small voice of conscience--die,
Lost in the din of revelry.
On his pale brow dejection lowers,
But that shall yield to festal hours;
A gloom is in his faded eye,
But that from music’s power shall fly;
His wasted cheek is wan with care,
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.
Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,
Strike the bold chord exultingly!
And pour upon the enraptured ear
Such strains as warriors love to hear!
Let the rich mantling goblet flow,
And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart--but not the mien!
Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o’erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson’d with a hectic dye,
The burning flush of agony!
His lip is quivering, and his breast
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d;
Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed,
And now to heaven in anguish raised;
And as, with unavailing aid,
Around him throng his guests dismay’d,
He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath
Hath power to falter--“This is death!”
Then rush’d that haughty child of song,
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng.
Fill’d with a strange delirious light,
His kindling eye shone wildly bright;
And on the sufferer’s mien awhile
Gazing with stem vindictive smile,
A feverish glow of triumph dyed
His burning cheek, while thus he cried:--
“Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow
Is set the seal of vengeance now!
Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught,
And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d;
And bitter as thy pangs may be,
They are but guerdons meet from me!
Yet these are but a moment’s throes--
Howe’er intense, they soon shall close.
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath--
_My_ life hath been a lingering death,
Since one dark hour of woe and crime,
A blood-spot on the page of time!
“Deem’st thou my mind of reason void?
It is not frenzied--but destroy’d!
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought--
That work of ruin thou hast wrought!
The secret of thy doom to tell,
My name alone suffices well!
Stephania!--once a hero’s bride!
Otho! thou know’st the rest--_he died_.
Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word,
The Roman fell, untried, unheard!
And thou, whose every pledge was vain,
How couldst _thou_ trust in aught again?
“He died, and I was changed--my soul,
A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control.
From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d,
The outcast of a purer world,
I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown,
And lived for one dread task alone.
The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow--
The hand of death is on thee now.
Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d,
The debt of blood shall soon be paid!
Thine hour is come--the time hath been
My heart had shrunk from such a scene;
_That_ feeling long is past--my fate
Hath made me stern as desolate.
“Ye that around me shuddering stand,
Ye chiefs and princes of the land!
Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom?
Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb!
_He_ sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine
To share his low, neglected shrine.
His soul with freedom finds a home,
His grave is that of glory--Rome!
Are not the great of old with her,
That city of the sepulchre?
Lead me to death! and let me share,
The slumbers of the mighty there!”
The day departs--that fearful day
Fades in calm loveliness away:
From purple heavens its lingering beam
Seems melting into Tiber’s stream,
And softly tints each Roman hill
With glowing light, as clear and still
As if, unstain’d by crime or woe,
Its hours had pass’d in silent flow.
The day sets calmly--it hath been
Mark’d with a strange and awful scene:
One guilty bosom throbs no more,
And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er.
And thou, ere yet another sun
His burning race hath brightly run,
Released from anguish by thy foes,
Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.
Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky
Fix yet once more thy parting eye!
A few short hours--and all shall be
The silent and the past for thee.
Oh! thus with tempests of a day
We struggle, and we pass away,
Like the wild billows as they sweep,
Leaving no vestige on the deep!
And o’er thy dark and lowly bed
The sons of future days shall tread,
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,
By them unknown, by thee forgot.
[114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a
vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with
a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from
thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given
up all his hopes in Cæsar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred
furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination.
Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again
for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing and horrid
thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately
into Cæsar’s house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic
gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was
deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally
distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands
of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where
he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian winds set
in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight
of crows came with great noise towards Cicero’s vessel as it was
making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon
this as an ill omen; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house,
lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows
settled in the chamber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner.
One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with
its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face.
On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ‘Shall
we,’ said they, ‘remain to be spectators of our master’s murder? Shall
we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when
the brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?’ Then,
partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and
carried him towards the sea.”--Plutarch, _Life of Cicero_.
[115]
“Now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair.”--Milton.
[116] Mount Gargano. “This ridge of mountains forms a very large
promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the
Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took
a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble
woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient
times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of
Garganus:
‘Aquilonibus
Querceta Gargani laborant,
Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace.
“There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak,
pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys
are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant
vegetation.”--Swinburne’s _Travels_.
[117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote
3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances,
or footstep trace?”--Milton.
THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in
battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and
land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his
servants at supper to render him their best services that evening,
and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might
belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no
longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were
affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived,
he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious
victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the
dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city--a
silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day--on
a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which
resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession
seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which
led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded
that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then
forsaken him.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch_.]
Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around
O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall,
In gay magnificence the feast was spread;
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall,
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed
O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes,
That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.
And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d
O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!--in every face
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind,
Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,
Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth,
But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.
Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom
May still survive the wearers--and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle, and may set
In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess’d
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.
Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien,
And read their annals on that brow of care!
Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been:
Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair.
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire
The buoyant energies of days gone by;
There is delusion in its meteor fire,
And all within is shame, is agony!
Away! the tear in bitterness may flow,
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.
Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame,
O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow,
To that ascendant and undying name,
Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now.
Thy glory is departed, but hath left
A lingering light around thee: in decay
Not less than kingly--though of all bereft,
Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.
Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!
But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made
His desolation--thou art by his side,
In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d,
To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride.
Imperial being! e’en though many a stain
Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.
Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright
With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire--in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]
And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With all the majesty of mighty woes:
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,
Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be
In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.
But there is sadness in the eyes around,
Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;
“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies
Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;
While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me.
“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,
O victors of Philippi! many a field
Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.
Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world
How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread,
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d,
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!
Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky,
The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”
The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night--
Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep;
From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light
The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep.
For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams,
The battle-signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;--
Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb;
Dreams dark and ominous, but _there_ to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.
Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound
Of gathering tumult?--Near and nearer still
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around.
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,
Is heard upon the midnight air to float;
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.
These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strain
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high;
And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119]
[118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being
desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried
them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their
operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions;
such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied
herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she
found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for
it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.--See Plutarch.
[119]
“To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”
_Richard III._
ALARIC IN ITALY.
[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and
Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of
_The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ thus proceeds:--“Whether
fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued
that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be
quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached
the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring
prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of
Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important
expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa.
The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and,
in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the
fabulous monsters of the deep--the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool
of Charybdis--could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful
mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had
embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the
transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element;
and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric,
which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests.
The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral
of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful
applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted
the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of
Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and
trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were
then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the
remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the
inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the
work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.]
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
His steps have track’d that glorious clime,
The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dead,[120]
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries
From temple and from tomb arise.
He pass’d--the light of burning fanes
Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;
And woke they not--the brave, the free,
To guard their own Thermopylæ?
And left they not their silent dwelling,
When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,
Sad freedom battled not--but wept!
For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;
Nor one high soul from slumber broke
When Athens own’d the northern yoke.
But was there none for _thee_ to dare
The conflict, scorning to despair?
O City of the seven proud hills!
Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,
As doth a clarion’s battle-call--
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?
Did no Camillus from the chain
Ransom thy Capitol again?
Oh, who shall tell the days to be
No patriot rose to bleed for thee!
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121]
Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:--
How woke the mighty? She whose will
So long had bid the world be still,
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye
Th’ ascendant star of destiny!
She woke--to view the dread array
Of Scythians rushing to their prey,
To hear her streets resound the cries
Pour’d from a thousand agonies!
While the strange light of flames, that gave
A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave,
Bursting in that terrific hour
From fane and palace, dome and tower,
Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine,
Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine:
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed
O’er spear and sword, with carnage red,
Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying,
And kindled pyres for Romans dying.
Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!
The time hath been when _thy_ distress
Had roused up empires for redress!
Now, her long race of glory run,
Without a combat Rome is won,
And from her plunder’d temples forth
Rush the fierce children of the North,
To share beneath more genial skies
Each joy their own rude clime denies.
Ye who on bright Campania’s shore
Bade your fair villas rise of yore,
With all their graceful colonnades,
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,
Along the blue Hesperian deep,
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep--
Beneath your olive and your vine
Far other inmates now recline;
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed
With rich libations duly shed,[122]
O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends,
Its bowery canopy extends.
For them the southern heaven is glowing,
The bright Falernian nectar flowing;
For them the marble halls unfold,
Where nobler beings dwelt of old,
Whose children for barbarian lords
Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords.
Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.
Yet, though luxurious they repose
Beneath Corinthian porticoes--
While round them into being start
The marvels of triumphant art--
Oh! not for them hath Genius given
To Parian stone the fire of heaven,
Enshrining in the forms he wrought
A bright eternity of thought.
In vain the natives of the skies
In breathing marble round them rise,
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade
People the dark-green laurel shade.
Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye
To visions of divinity;
And rude his hand which dares deface
The models of immortal grace.
Arouse ye from your soft delights!
Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites;
And other lands must yet be won,
And other deeds of havoc done.
Warriors! your flowery bondage break,
Sons of the stormy North, awake!
The barks are launching from the steep--
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123]
And Afric’s burning winds afar
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war.
Where shall his race of victory close?
When shall the ravaged earth repose?
But hark! what wildly mingling cries
From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise?
Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air?
A sterner conquerer hath been there!
A conqueror--yet his paths are peace,
He comes to bring the world’s release;
He of the sword that knows no sheath,
The avenger, the deliverer--Death!
Is then that daring spirit fled?
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?
Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength,
And he and earth are calm at length.
The land where heaven unclouded shines,
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;
The land by conquest made his own,
Can yield him now--a grave alone.
But his--her lord from Alp to sea--
No common sepulchre shall be!
Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye
Its buried wealth may ne’er descry!
Where mortal foot may never tread
Above a victor-monarch’s bed.
Let not his royal dust be hid
’Neath star-aspiring pyramid;
Nor bid the gather’d mound arise,
To bear his memory to the skies.
Years roll away--oblivion claims
Her triumph o’er heroic names;
And hands profane disturb the clay
That once was fired with glory’s ray;
And Avarice, from their secret gloom,
Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.
But thou, O leader of the free!
That general doom awaits not thee:
Thou, where no step may e’er intrude,
Shalt rest in regal solitude,
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,
The Awakener’s final trumpet sound.
Turn ye the waters from their course,
Bid Nature yield to human force,
And hollow in the torrent’s bed
A chamber for the mighty dead.
The work is done--the captive’s hand
Hath well obey’d his lord’s command.
Within that royal tomb are cast
The richest trophies of the past,
The wealth of many a stately dome,
The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome;
And when the midnight stars are beaming,
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear
The Chastener of the Nations there;
To rest at length from victory’s toil,
Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!
Then the freed current’s rushing wave
Rolls o’er the secret of the grave;
Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood
To crimson that sepulchral flood,
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep
The mystery in its bosom deep.
Time hath past on since then--and swept
From earth the urns where heroes slept;
Temples of gods and domes of kings
Are mouldering with forgotten things;
Yet not shall ages e’er molest
The viewless home of Alaric’s rest:
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,
The guardian of his dust for ever.
[120] After the taking of Athens by Sylla, “though such numbers were
put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon
themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best
men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms
for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by
the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw
themselves at his feet--partly by the entreaties of the senators who
attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with
blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in
compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ‘he forgave the many for
the sake of the few, the _living for the dead_.’”--Plutarch.
[121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened,
and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic
trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation
of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so
considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury
of the tribes of Germany and Scythia.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire_, vol. v. p. 311.
[122] The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account
of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine
instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that “this
tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its
shade.”--See the notes to Melmoth’s _Pliny_.
[123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar
dominion of Ceres.
THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.
[“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and
protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage--this
fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately
throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see
his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his
triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that
their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the
gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had
now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who,
being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius,
which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul
attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to
escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated
from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building:
there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of
her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the
most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing
below with Emilianus,--‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou
hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this
instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew
out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling
for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after
them into the flames.”--_Ancient Universal History._]
The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow
O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw.
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire
In lurid splendour from her domes aspire;
Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky
As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh;
The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall;
Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams--
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams;
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains,
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes;
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around,
Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124]
--But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight,
All regal in magnificent attire,
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire?
She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour
Of dread communion and delirious power;
A being more than earthly, in whose eye
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency.
The flames are gathering round--intensely bright,
Full on her features glares their meteor light;
But a wild courage sits triumphant there,
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate.
The dark profusion of her locks unbound
Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round;
Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien--
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene.
Are those _her_ infants, that with suppliant cry
Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh,
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?
Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands;
On him who left her to that burning tomb,
Alone to share her children’s martyrdom;
Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife,
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life.
“Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee,
E’en in thy fetters, can existence be!
Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name,
The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame.
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain!
Still may the manès of thy children rise
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes;
Still may their voices on the haunted air
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,
Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume,
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!
E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire,
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think’st thou I love them not?--’Twas thine to fly--
’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”
Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,
Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams;
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,
Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.
[124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy.
HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.
[From _Maccabees_, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have
pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude of all sorts,
and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony.--22. They
then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed
of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them.--23.
Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed.--24.
Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the
treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused
a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him
were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore
afraid.--25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible
rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair covering; and he ran
fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed
that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold.--26.
Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in
strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by
him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many
sore stripes.--27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and
was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took
him up, and put him into a litter.--28. Thus him that lately came
with great train, and with all his guard into the said treasury,
they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and
manifestly they acknowledged the power of God.--29. For he by the hand
of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life.”]
A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries
Rose from her dwellings--youthful cheeks were pale,
Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes,
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail;
Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer,
And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair.
Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside
The regal splendour of their fair array,
With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride,
And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay;
While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine
Who made of old renown and empire thine.
But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate,
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold;
And all the scene reveals its solemn state,
Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold;
And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode,
The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God.
Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest,
Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest?
Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne,
And call the oracle’s recess thine own!
Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host,
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour,
To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast,
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power,
Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene,
And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been.
Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might,
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill,
Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light
Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill?
Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain,
Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again!
Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore
Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid,
The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store:
What recks _his_ heart though age unsuccour’d die,
And want consume the cheek of infancy?
Away, intruders!--hark! a mighty sound!
Behold, a burst of light!--away, away!
A fearful glory fills the temple round,
A vision bright in terrible array!
And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame,
His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame!
His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane
Seems waving fire--the kindling of his eye
Is as a meteor--ardent with disdain
His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty!
Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear
Some dread archangel through the fields of air.
But who is he, in panoply of gold,
Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form,
Yet in its brightness awful to behold,
And girt with all the terrors of the storm!
Lightning is on his helmet’s crest--and fear
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe.
And by his side two radiant warriors stand,
All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace--
Oh! more than kingly--godlike!--sternly grand,
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face
Beams with the beauty to immortals given,
Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven.
Then sinks each gazer’s heart--each knee is bow’d
In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight,
Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd,
Bursts on their leader in terrific might;
And the stern angels of that dread abode
Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God.
Darkness--thick darkness!--low on earth he lies,
Rash Heliodorus--motionless and pale--
Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil;
And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train,
Is borne from that inviolable fane.
The light returns--the warriors of the sky
Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away;
Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high
Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day;
Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill!
Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.
[125] “Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck
with thunder?”--_Job_, chap. xxxix. v. 19.
NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.
[“En même temps que les Génois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre
contre Pise, ils étoient déchirés eux-mêmes par une discorde civile.
Les consuls de l’année 1169, pour rétablir la paix dans leur patrie,
au milieu des factions sourdes à leur voix et plus puissantes qu’eux,
furent obligés d’ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils
commencèrent par s’assurer secrètement des dispositions pacifiques
de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant étoient entraînés dans
les émeutes par leur parenté avec les chefs de faction; puis, se
concertant avec le vénérable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevêque,
ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des
cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que la surprise
et l’alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de l’obscurité
de la nuit, rendroit l’assemblée et plus complète et plus docile. Les
citoyens, en accourant au parlement général, virent, au milieu de la
place publique, le vieil archevêque, entouré de son clergé en habit de
cérémonies, et portant des torches allumées; tandis que les reliques
de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Gênes, étoient exposées
devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient à
leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Dès que l’assemblée fut formée, le
vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassée il conjura les chefs de parti,
au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs âmes, au nom de leur
patrie et de la liberté, dont leurs discordes entraîneroient la ruine,
de jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix à venir.
“Les hérauts, dès qu’il eut fini de parler, s’avancèrent aussitôt
vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l’une des factions, qui étoit présent
à l’assemblée, et, secondés par les acclamations de tout le peuple,
et par les prières de ses parens eux-mêmes, ils le sommèrent de se
conformer au vœu des consuls et de la nation.
“Roland, à leur approche, déchira ses habits, et, s’asseyant par terre
en versant des larmes, il appela à haute voix les morts qu’il avoit
juré de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs
vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le déterminer à s’avancer, les
consuls eux-mêmes, l’archevêque et le clergé, s’approchèrent de lui,
et, renouvelant leurs prières, ils l’entraînèrent enfin, et lui firent
jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de ses inimitiés passées.
“Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de Volta,
n’étoient pas présens à l’assemblée, mais le peuple et le clergé se
portèrent en foule à leurs maisons; ils les trouvèrent dejà ébranlés
par ce qu’ils venoient d’apprendre, et, profitant de leur émotion, ils
leur firent jurer une réconciliation sincère, et donner le baiser de
paix aux chefs de la faction opposée. Alors les cloches de la ville
sonnèrent en témoignage d’allégresse, et l’archevêque de retour sur la
place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eu honneur du
Dieu de paix qui avoit sauvé leur patrie.”--_Histoire des Républiques
Italiennes_, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.]
In Genoa, when the sunset gave
Its last warm purple to the wave,
No sound of war, no voice of fear,
Was heard, announcing danger near:
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate
But slumber’d till its hour of fate,
Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close,
Sunk the wide city to repose.
But when deep midnight reign’d around,
All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound,
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze
Bore its dread summons o’er the seas.
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted;
Then mingled with th’ awakening peal
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel.
Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls;
Arise to guard your native walls!
With breathless haste the gathering throng
Hurry the echoing streets along;
Through darkness rushing to the scene
Where their bold counsels still convene.
But there a blaze of torches bright
Pours its red radiance on the night,
O’er fane, and dome, and column playing,
With every fitful night-wind swaying:
Now floating o’er each tall arcade,
Around the pillar’d scene display’d,
In light relieved by depth of shade:
And now, with ruddy meteor glare,
Full streaming on the silvery hair
And the bright cross of him who stands
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands,
Girt with his consecrated train,
The hallow’d servants of the fane.
Of life’s past woes the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch’s face
Expression holy, deep, resign’d,
The calm sublimity of mind.
Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d,
And left him of his race the last,
Alone on earth--yet still his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;
And those high hopes, whose guiding star
Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar,
Have with that light illumed his eye
Whose fount is immortality,
And o’er his features pour’d a ray
Of glory, not to pass away.
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone,
On earth by nought but pity’s tie
Detain’d a moment from on high!
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passion purified,
E’en now half mingled with the sky,
And all prepared--oh! not to die--
But, like the prophet, to aspire,
In heaven’s triumphal car of fire.
He speaks--and from the throngs around
Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound;
Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance,
They stand as in a spell-bound trance:
He speaks--oh! who can hear nor own
The might of each prevailing tone?
“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate
Hath made your country desolate;
Now by the love ye bear her name,
By that pure spark of holy flame
On freedom’s altar brightly burning,
But, once extinguished, ne’er returning;
By all your hopes of bliss to come
When burst the bondage of the tomb;
By Him, the God who bade us live
To aid each other, and forgive--
I call upon ye to resign
Your discords at your country’s shrine,
Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”
No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.
To him they lift the cross--in vain:
He turns--oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not e’en from heaven relief.
He rends his robes--he sternly speaks--
Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:--
“Father! not thus the wounds may close
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deem’st thou _thy_ mandate can efface
The dread volcano’s burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene
Be smiling as it once hath been?
No! for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words by hatred spoke may not
Be as a summer breeze forgot!
’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage
A portion of our heritage.
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,
Bequeath’d us that undying flame;
Hearts that have long been still and cold
Yet rule us from their silent mould;
And voices, heard on earth no more,
Speak to our spirits as of yore.
Talk not of mercy!--blood alone
The stain of bloodshed may atone;
Nought else can pay that mighty debt,
The dead forbid us to forget.”
He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now;
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command;
His voice is awful, and his eye
Fill’d with prophetic majesty.
“The dead!--and deem’st thou _they_ retain
Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain?
Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by,
Aught but the fearful penalty?
And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone
For deeds of slaughter may atone?
There _hath_ been blood--by Him ’twas shed
To expiate every crime who bled;
Th’ absolving God, who died to save,
And rose in victory from the grave!
And by that stainless offering given
Alike for all on earth to heaven;
By that inevitable hour
When death shall vanquish pride and power,
And each departing passion’s force
Concentrate all in late remorse;
And by the day when doom shall be
Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee--
The doom that shall not be repeal’d,
Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d--
I summon thee, O child of clay!
To cast thy darker thoughts away,
And meet thy foes in peace and love,
As thou wouldst join the blest above.”
Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling
Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing.
Oh, not in vain the pleading cries
Of anxious thousands round him rise!
He yields: devotion’s mingled sense
Of faith, and fear, and penitence,
Pervading all his soul, he bows
To offer on the cross his vows,
And that best incense to the skies,
Each evil passion’s sacrifice.
Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing,
High hearts with soft emotions glowing;
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,
And ardent throngs in transport meeting;
And eager footsteps forward pressing,
And accents loud in joyous blessing;
And when their first wild tumults cease,
A thousand voices echo “Peace!”
Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away,
And the rich Orient burns with day;
Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth,
Rises the choral hymn of earth--
Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling,
Of peace and holy rapture telling.
Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep,
The seaman hears them on the deep--
So mellow’d by the gale, they seem
As the wild music of a dream.
But not on mortal ear alone
Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone;
For beings of a purer sphere
Bend with celestial joy, to hear.
THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.
[“Not only the place of Richard’s confinement,” (when thrown into
prison by the Duke of Austria,) “if we believe the literary history of
the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully
concealed by his vindictive enemies; and both might have remained
unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or
minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince’s friendship and
tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent
to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got
intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of
distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded
by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the
minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut
against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name
or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he
bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery.
He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been
composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable
joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the
royal captive.--(_Hist. Troubadours._) To this discovery the English
monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.”--See Russell’s
_Modern Europe_, vol. i. p. 369.
The Troubadour o’er many a plain
Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain.
O’er many a rugged mountain-scene
And forest wild his track hath been:
Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky
He hath sung the songs of chivalry;
His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze,
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees;
From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave,
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave;
And yet, if still on earth thou art,
Monarch of the lion-heart!
The faithful spirit, which distress
But heightens to devotedness,
By toil and trial vanquish’d not,
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.
He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine,
And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine:
The feudal towers that crest its height
Frown in unconquerable might;
Dark is their aspect of sullen state--
No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126]
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest,
At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest;
Vainly rich evening’s parting smile
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile,
That midst bright sunshine lowers on high,
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.
Not these the halls where a child of song
Awhile may speed the hours along;
Their echoes should repeat alone
The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan,
Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast,
When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127]
The weary minstrel paused--his eye
Roved o’er the scene despondingly:
Within the length’ning shadow, cast
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast,
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around
Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d;
Proud guardians of the regal flood,
In giant strength the mountains stood--
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven,
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow,
But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below;
In purple tints the vineyards smiled,
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild;
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell;
But all was lonely, silent, rude,
A stern, yet glorious solitude.
But hark! that solemn stillness breaking,
The Troubadour’s wild song is waking.
Full oft that song in days gone by
Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry:
It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone,
Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone;
On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung,
The leagued Crusaders’ tents among;
Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won
The palm in the field of Ascalon;
And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine
Peals the bold strain of Palestine.
[126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a
castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake
of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient
mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un _heaulme_, en signe que tous les
gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel
comme en leur propre.”
[127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt
of the _wild Jager_, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales
relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s _Classical Tour_;
and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that
the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces
the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the
opposite castle of Schnellerts.--See the “_Manuel pour les Voyageurs
sur le Rhin_,” and “_Autumn on the Rhine_.”
THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG.
“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,”
The Soldan cried to the captive knight,
“And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met
To gaze on the fearful sight.
“But be our faith by thy lips profess’d,
The faith of Mecca’s shrine,
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,
And life shall yet be thine.”
“I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood,
And gazed with undaunted eye;
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,
And think’st thou I fear to die?
“I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers,
Have fall’n for the name Divine;
And the faith that cheer’d _their_ closing hours
Shall be the light of mine.”
“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,
And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom?
Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth,
Or torture and the tomb.”
“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined
For a dying Saviour’s brow;
_He_ spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind,
And I reject them now!”
“Art thou the son of a noble line
In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine
Again on its shores to rest?
“Thine own is the choice to hail once more
The soil of thy father’s birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er,
Forgotten in foreign earth.”
“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise
In the country of my love;
But yet, though cloudless my native skies,
There’s a brighter clime above!”
The bard hath paused--for another tone
Blends with the music of his own;
And his heart beats high with hope again,
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.
“Are there none within thy father’s hall,
Far o’er the wide blue main,
Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall,
With sorrow deep and vain?”
“There are hearts that still, through all the past,
Unchanging have loved me well;
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast
When I bade my home farewell.
“Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier
Than th’ apostate’s living stain;
There’s a land where those who loved when here
Shall meet to love again.”
’Tis he! thy prince--long sought, long lost,
The leader of the red-cross host!
’Tis he!--to none thy joy betray,
Young Troubadour! away, away!
Away to the island of the brave,
The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129]
Arouse the sons of the noble soil
To win their Lion from the toil.
And free the wassail-cup shall flow,
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow;
The festal board shall be richly crown’d,
While knights and chieftains revel round,
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring,
When merry England hails her king.
[128] The Plain of Esdräelon, called by way of eminence the “Great
Plain;” in Scripture, and elsewhere, the “field of Megiddo,” the
“Galilean Plain.” This plain, the most fertile part of all the land
of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the
first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the
Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for
encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days
of Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of
Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of “every nation which
is under heaven” have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdräelon,
and have beheld the various banners of their nations wet with the dews
of Hermon and Thabor.--_Dr Clarke’s Travels._
[129] “This precious stone set in the sea.”--_Richard II._
THE DEATH OF CONRADIN.
[“La défaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni à ses malheurs,
ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d’Anjou.) L’amour du peuple pour
l’héritier légitime du trône avoit éclaté d’une manière effrayante;
il pouvoit causer de nouvelles révolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en
vie; et Charles, revêtant sa défiance et sa cruauté des formes de la
justice, résolut de faire périr sur l’échafaud le dernier rejeton de
la Maison de Souabe, l’unique espérance de son parti. Un seul juge
Provençal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n’ont pas voulu
conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d’autres se renfermèrent
dans un timide et coupable silence; et Charles, sur l’autorité de ce
seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume,
la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette
sentence fut communiquée à Conradin, comme il jouoit aux échecs; on
lui laissa peu de temps pour se préparer à son exécution, et le 26
d’Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marché
de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles étoit présent, avec
toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et
le roi condamné. Conradin étoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il
détacha lui-même son manteau, et s’étant mis à genoux pour prier,
il se releva en s’écriant: ‘Oh, ma mère, quelle profonde douleur te
causera la nouvelle qu’on va te porter de moi!’ Puis il tourna les
yeux sur la foule qui l’entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les
sanglots de son peuple; alors, détachant son gant, il jeta au milieu
de ses sujets ce gage d’un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tête au
bourreau. Après lui, sur le même échafaud, Charles fit trancher la
tête au Duc d’Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia,
et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un raffinement
de cruauté, Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, précédât
son père, et mourût entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d’après ses ordres,
furent exclus d’une terre sainte, et inhumés sans pompe sur le rivage
de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite bâtir sur le
même lieu une église de Carmélites, comme pour apaiser ces ombres
irritées.”--Sismondi’s _Républiques Italiennes_.]
No cloud to dim the splendour of the day
Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay,
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore
With every tint that charm’d the great of yore--
Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade
Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade.
That race is gone--but glorious Nature here
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career,
And bids these regions of the sun display
Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away.
The beam of heaven expands--its kindling smile
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle,
Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest,
With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast.
Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray,
On Roman streamers there no more to play;
Still, as of old, unalterably bright,
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height,
With all Italia’s sunshine to illume
The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb.
Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread
Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead;
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies,
Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise;
While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak,
Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak.
Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse!
Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues,
Who shall explore your regions, and declare
The poet err’d to paint Elysium there?
Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide
Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside;
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear,
And spells more potent shall pervade the air.
What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130]
Still dwell the beings of his verse around,
Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground;
His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves
Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves;
His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea,
The soul, the genius of Parthenope;
Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill
The purple radiance of Elysium still.
Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky
Have witness’d many a dark reality.
Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne
The sighs of exiles never to return.[131]
There with the whisper of Campania’s gale
Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail,
Mourning for buried heroes--while to her
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132]
And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan
Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone;
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note
Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float
Around the spot where Agrippina died,
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133]
Pass’d are those ages--yet another crime,
Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime.
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore--
It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er!
There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,--
A scene of death from thence must be survey’d.
Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?--each mien is pale,
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale:
But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast,
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d;
The burning tear awhile must check its course,
Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force;
For tyranny is near, and will not brook
Aught but submission in each guarded look.
Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134]
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance,
Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace;
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament:
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there,
May read at once her sentence--to despair!
But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave,
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave,
While all is yet around thee which can give
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live;
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye,
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die
Hath grown too full for utterance--Can it be!
And is this pomp of death prepared for _thee_?
Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone!
Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom
Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb,
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul,
Emotions tyranny may ne’er control?
Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led,
Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed,
Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride,
May hope for mercy--if to thee denied?
There is dead silence on the breathless throng,
Dead silence all the peopled shore along,
As on the captive moves--the only sound,
To break that calm so fearfully profound,
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave,
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave;
While on that shore, his own fair heritage,
The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage
Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him.
He mounts the scaffold--doth his footstep fail?
Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale?
Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught,
To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed,
And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed!
If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows,
One human fear convulse his parting breath,
And shrink from all the bitterness of death!
But no! the spirit of his royal race
Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye
Is eloquent with injured majesty.
He kneels--but not to man; his heart shall own
Such deep submission to his God alone!
And who can tell with what sustaining power
That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour?
How the still voice, which answers every moan,
May speak of hope--when hope on earth is gone?
That solemn pause is o’er--the youth hath given
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven:
The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky,
Life all around him glows--and he must die?
Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes;
Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire,
May sleep suppress’d a while--but not expire.
One softer image rises o’er his breast,
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest!
“Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair,
When thy lost child is gone?”--that thought can thrill
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still.
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun--
It falls--the race of Conradin is run!
Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain,
A voice shall cry to heaven--and not in vain!
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne,
In proud supremacy of guilt alone,
Charles of Anjou!--but that dread voice shall be
A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee!
The scene of death is closed--the throngs depart,
A deep stem lesson graved on every heart.
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes,
High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies.
O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave,
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave;
Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot,
Unhonour’d, unadorn’d--but _unforgot_;
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live,
Now mutely suffering--never to forgive!
The sunset fades from purple heavens away--
A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay:
Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135]
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm;
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek,
And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak,
Inured to woes--yet what were all the past!
_She_ sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast,
While one bright hope remain’d--who now shall tell
Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell?
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save,
The mother came--and she hath found his grave!
And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief,
Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief,
Awhile she kneels--till roused at length to know,
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe,
On the still air a voice of anguish wild,
A mother’s cry is heard--“My Conradin! my child!”
[130] The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long
since been lost.
[131] Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some
of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy.
Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the isle
of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus,
afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot.
[132] “Quelques souvenirs du cœur, quelques noms de femmes, réclament
aussi vos pleurs. C’est à Misène, dans le lieu même où nous sommes, que
la veuve de Pompée Cornélie conserva jusqu’à la mort son noble deuil.
Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords: un jour, le même
assassin qui lui ravit son époux la trouva digne de le suivre. L’île de
Nisida fut témoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie.”--Madame de Stael,
_Corinne_.
[133] The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime
had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors; besides,
there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries
from Agrippina’s tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the
neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such
tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples.--See _Ancient Universal History_.
[134] “Ce Charles,” dit Giovanni Villani, “fut sage et prudent dans
les conseils, preux dans les armes, âpre et forte redouté de tous les
rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensées qui l’égaloient aux plus
grandes entreprises; inébranlable dans l’adversité, ferme et fidèle
dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, _ni riant
presque jamais_, décent comme un religieux, zélé catholique, âpre à
rendre justice, féroce dans ses regards. Sa taille étoit grande et
nerveuse, sa couleur olivâtre, son nez fort grand. Il paroissoit plus
fait qu’aucun autre chevalier pour la majesté royale. Il ne dormoit
presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours,
et aux gens de cour.”--Sismondi, _Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii.
[135] “The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe
of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered
before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned
at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of
Conradin’s mother, who, landing on the beach with her son’s ransom,
found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous
conqueror.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_.
EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.
_Quarterly Review._--“‘Tales and Historic Scenes’ is a collection,
as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on
consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem of picture-drawing
and reflection to the writing of tales; but if we were to prescribe
to a young poet his _course_ of practice, this would certainly be
our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description,
and the quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing
judgments,--in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect,
are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written
rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more
care must be taken: if the tale be fictitious, the conception and
sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief
of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form
so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed
from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned,
in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the
ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully
performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to
make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and
a more practical readiness in the detail of the art.
“The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates
the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it,
in great measure, to the revenge of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages,
who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors,
in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father
and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower
of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her
character is very finely drawn; and she repels with firmness all the
solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following
lines form part of their dialogue,--they are spirited and pathetic, but
perfectly free from exaggeration,--
‘Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,’” etc.
_Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The more we become acquainted with Mrs
Hemans as a poet, the more we are delighted with her productions,
and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place
among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna
Baillie; but, even compared with the living _masters_ of the lyre, she
is entitled to a very high distinction....
“Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is
less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom
we could name. We think it impossible that she can write by mere rule,
more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms.
It is by inspiration--as it is poetically called--by a fine tact of
sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours
forth her enchanting song and ‘builds her lofty rhyme.’ The judicious
propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its
due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her
powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which
quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich and
glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a sublime eloquence
is the charm of her sentiments of magnanimity; while she melts into
tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals.
“It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public
taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales.”
_Constable’s Magazine._--“The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of
which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the
country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful,
and lingered longest--in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the
Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance.... The
leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these
the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally
interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite.... Choice
is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract
from The Abencerrage.
“If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts
profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so
much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often
occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature.”
THE SCEPTIC.[136]
“Leur raison, qu’ils prennent pour guide, ne presente à leur esprit
que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en
niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont
la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres
incomprehensibles, ils suivent l’une après l’autre d’incomprehensibles
erreurs.”--Bossuet.
When the young Eagle, with exulting eye,
Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky,
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,
To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source;
Will his free wing, from that majestic height,
Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light,
Which far below, with evanescent fire,
Shines to delude and dazzles to expire?
No! still through clouds he wins his upward way,
And proudly claims his heritage of day!
--And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze
The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze,
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam,
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith
To the deep valley of the shades of death?
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given,
For the high birthright of its hope in heaven?
If lost the gem which empires could not buy,
What yet remains?--a dark eternity!
Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest
Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest?
Is all so cloudless and so calm below,
We seek no fairer scenes than _life_ can show?
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,
Rejects the promise of a brighter state,
And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace,
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base?
Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng,
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song,
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high,
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die!
’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time,
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime;
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice,
And in the glory of thy strength rejoice!
But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man!
Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared--
Proud child of reason! how art _thou_ prepared?
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d,
And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain
With the bright images of pleasure’s train?
Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore,
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more,
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave!
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call,
She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all?
Will _she_ speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!
For she was born beyond the stars to soar,
And kindling at the source of life, adore;
Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth;
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free,
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.
Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft,
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left;
And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour,
Still with fond care supports thy languid head,
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.
But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above,
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to _love_?
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest
Within that hallow’d shrine--a parent’s breast,
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,
On one frail idol--destined but to die;
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,
Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite?
Then tremble! cling to every passing joy,
Twined with the life a moment may destroy!
If there be sorrow in a parting tear,
Still let “_for ever_” vibrate on thine ear!
If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown,
Find more than anguish in the thought--’tis gone!
Go! to a voice such magic influence give,
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live;
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul,
And let a glance the springs of thought control;
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust,
Lean on the willow, idolise the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread “_for ever_”--and despair!
And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.
Watch well its course--explore with anxious eye
Each little cloud that floats along the sky:
Is the blue canopy serenely fair?
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there,
And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep!
Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate,
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate!
Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds
His awful form in tempests and in clouds;
He fills the summer air with latent power,
He hides his venom in the scented flower,
He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath,
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!
Where art thou _then_, who thus didst rashly cast
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast,
And vainly hope the tree of life to find
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind?
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well,
It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell,
Become a desert _now_, a vale of gloom,
O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb?
Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze--
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast;
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed
Her glory round the image of the dead;
And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest,
The form departed be thy spirit’s guest,
It bears no light from purer worlds to this;
Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss.
But who shall dare the gate of life to close,
Or say, _thus far_ the stream of mercy flows?
That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace
Each distant isle, and visit every race,
Pours from the throne of God its current free,
Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee.
Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed,
While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead--
While still, suspended by a single hair,
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air,
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break
The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake!
Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear,
And send his chastening Spirit from above,
O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.
But seek thou mercy through his name alone,
To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown;
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode,
As man to suffer, and to heal as God;
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless,
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress.
Call thou on Him! for he, in human form,
Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm.
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past,
O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last--
Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d
O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored;
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live,
Taught from his Cross the lesson--to forgive!
Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose,
Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes.
And haste!--ere bursts the lightning from on high,
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139]
So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away,
And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey.
Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood,
As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued;
Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed
Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head.
--He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade
Of such deep night as man for man hath made,
Through lingering years--if call’d at length to be
Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun,
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun.
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d,
If the Deliverer, in his might at last,
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast,
The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight,
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light.
But this will pass away: that spark of mind,
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined,
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray,
Born to be foster’d with ethereal day.
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d,
On wing of flame, the purifying blast,
And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod,
Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God!
But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride,
Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride?
In thine own strength unaided to defy,
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky?
Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock,
Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock?
Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow
A thousand years may awe the vale below,
Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height
By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might!
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne,
In silent fortitude or haughty scorn,
Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent
To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent.
Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye,
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply!
The wild delirious laughter of despair,
The mirth of frenzy--seek an answer there!
Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale,
Close not thine ear against their awful tale.
They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way,
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save!
Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains
Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur--mouldering fanes,
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown,
And regal cities, now the serpent’s own:
Earth has more awful ruins--one lost mind,
Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.
But who with eye unshrinking shall explore
That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more?
Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll
Around the shatter’d temple of the soul,
Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie,
And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140]
Sunk are its idols now--and God alone
May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown!
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare,
Is heard an oracle that cries--“Beware!
Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies!
One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies!
Haste, ere the hour of doom--draw nigh to Him
Who dwells above, between the cherubim!”
Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career--
Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere,
Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run
With science in the chariot of the sun;
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep,
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep,
And search the laws that nature’s springs control,
There tracing all--save Him who guides the whole!
Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past;
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled,
The depths of time exploring, to retrace
The glorious march of many a vanish’d race.
Or did thy power pervade the living lyre
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire,
Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high,
Full and alone, their mighty harmony;
While woke each passion from its cell profound,
And nations started at th’ electric sound?
Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now,
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow?
What though thy name, through distant empires heard,
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word?
Was it for _this_ thy still unwearied eye
Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky,
To make the secrets of all ages thine,
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine
O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?--hath thy mind
Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind,
For _this_ to woo their homage! Thou hast sought
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught,
Won every wreath--but that which will not die,
Nor aught neglected--save eternity!
And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath,
When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path?
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then,
O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men,
With an immortal’s courage, to sustain
The transient agonies of earthly pain?
--One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved
When the loud fury of the billow raved;
But him thou knew’st not--and the light he lent
Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement,
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet,
A thing we shrink from--vainly to forget!
--Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide!
The dagger, grasp’d in death--the brow, the eye,
Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony;
The soul’s dark traces left in many a line
Graved on _his_ mein, who died--“and made no sign!”
Approach not, gaze not--lest thy fever’d brain
Too deep that image of despair retain.
Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour
Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power,
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above
See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love!
O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!--Thou whose ways,
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze,
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand,
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand,
And countless ages, trampling into clay
Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day;
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!--Thou,
With whom all time is one eternal _now_,
Who know’st no past nor future--Thou whose breath
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death!
Look on us! guide us!--wanderers of a sea
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee?
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight,
A star may set--and we are lost in night;
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink,
A treacherous song allure us--and we sink!
Oh! by _His_ love, who, veiling Godhead’s light,
To moments circumscribed the Infinite,
And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally
By that dread union--Man with Deity;
Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed,
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead;
Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control
The earthquakes of that universe--the soul;
Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore,
“Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain,
The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain.
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure
In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure;
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just
Look upward still, in high and holy trust,
And by affliction guided to Thy shrine,
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.
And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power,
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour:
When on the edge of that unknown abyss
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss,
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave,
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave,
Must drink the cup of trembling[141]--when we see
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee,
Forsake us not! If still, when life was young,
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung,
If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past,
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast,
Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge--
When from thy justice to thy love we fly,
On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye;
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease,
Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper--Peace![142]
For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld
The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d,
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain,
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain;
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe
Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe,
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,
We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet
In glory’s arms exultingly to meet--
A closing triumph, a majestic scene,
Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien,
As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all,
He folds his mantle, regally to fall!
--Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone,
Yet not less terrible because unknown,
Is the last hour of thousands: they retire
From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire.
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect’s little world of cares,
Descends in silence--while around waves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!
Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown,
--Start not, thou trifler!--such may be thine own.
But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear,
A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before,
We fain would stifle--but it sleeps no more!
There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng
That join the masque of revelry and song:
Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored,
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board;
And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood,
And the heart owns the might of solitude,
Is its low whisper heard?--a note profound,
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose
Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!
Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove
That life had nought to claim such lingering love,
And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d,
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d.
In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride,
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide,
Call up the countless armies of the dead,
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,
And say--“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree,
Made for creation, be reversed for _thee_?”
Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why--
It is enough that nature shrinks to die.
Enough, _that_ horror, which thy words upbraid,
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid!
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined
And mystic questions of the parting mind,
Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst,
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first,
When freed from mortal films--what viewless world
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d--
What awful and unbodied beings guide
Her timid flight through regions yet untried;
Say if at once, her final doom to hear,
Before her God the trembler must appear,
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?
Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more
The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore
The unknown, the unseen, the future--though the heart,
As at unearthly sounds, before them start;
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh,
They have their source in immortality!
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies,
An equal to the mortal conflict rise?
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace,
Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race,
The mighty rider comes--oh whence shall aid
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d?
Whence, but from thee, Messiah!--thou hast drain’d
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d;
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known,
The mystic horror--all became thine own!
But did no hand celestial succour bring,
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting?
Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour,
To arm thee with invulnerable power?
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed,
From man averted--and thy path on high
Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony:
For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes,
Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!
But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom!
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod.
Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God;
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar,
And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.
He rose! the everlasting gates of day
Received the King of Glory on his way!
The hope, the comforter of those who wept,
And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept,
He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain.
Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame,
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice!
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend,
He whom the busy world shall miss no more
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!
And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft
Of that high hope, to misery what were left?
But for the vision of the days to be,
But for the comforter despised by thee,
Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look,
Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke,
When o’er our heads the desolating blast,
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d,
And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey
Hath call’d our fairest and our best away?
Should we not madden when our eyes behold
All that we loved in marble stillness cold,
No more responsive to our smile or sigh,
Fix’d--frozen--silent--all mortality?
But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,”
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel
Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land;
And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless,
Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness,
With all a nation’s blessings on thy head,
O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead?
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart
Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart!
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled,
When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child
Yearn’d with vain longing--still thy patient eye
To its last light beam’d holy constancy!
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,
Amidst those agonies--thy first and last,
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,
Breathed not a plaint--and settled in repose;
While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own,
And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast,
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!
“It is the will of God!”--yet, yet we hear
The words which closed thy beautiful career;
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,
But for that thought--“It is the will of God!”
Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree
If not one murmur then escaped from thee?
Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace,
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race,
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,
Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song!
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well,
E’en as an angel, with presiding care,
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.
For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies
Call on the watchers of the land to rise,
To set the sign of fire on every height,[144]
And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might,
Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die,
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory!
By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood
Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood,
When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown,
In high and holy singleness, alone,
But mighty in her God--and shall she now
Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow?
From the bright fountain of her glory turn,
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn?
No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude,
Throned in thy majesty of solitude,
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest,
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers,
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!
Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle!
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,
Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes
That guard the peasant’s records and remains,
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell,
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades,
When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades,
Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise,
And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies.
There may the mother, as with anxious joy
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy,
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays
Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days,
When angels, whispering through the cedar shade,
Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d;
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes,
She bids the prayer of infancy arise,
Tell of His name who left his throne on high,
Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify,
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried,
And fondly say--“My child, for thee He died!”
[136] “The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in which her
revered friend[137] took a peculiar interest. It had been her original
wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute, thinking it
might be more advantageous to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford,
with whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who
entered very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them
with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to command frankly
whatever assistance his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans,
in the first instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding
the altered dedication; but was afterwards deterred from putting it
into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manœuvre
to propitiate the good graces of the _Quarterly Review_; and from the
slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her sensitive
nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy.”--_Memoir_, p. 31.
“One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the _Edinburgh
Monthly Magazine_; and there is something in its tone so far more
valuable than ordinary praise, and at the same time so prophetic of
the happy influence her writings were one day to exercise, that the
introduction of the concluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the
readers of this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the
reviewer thus proceeds,--‘These extracts must, we think, convey to
every reader a favourable impression of the talents of their author,
and of the admirable purposes to which her high gifts are directed.
It is the great defect, as we imagine, of some of the most popular
writers of the day, that they are not sufficiently attentive to the
moral dignity of their performances; it is the deep, and will be the
lasting reproach of others, that in this point of view they have
wantonly sought and realised the most profound literary abasement.
With the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior
to most of them, the author before us is not only free from every
stain, but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a
memorable coincidence if the era of a woman’s sway in literature shall
become coeval with the return of its moral purity and elevation.’
From suffrages such as these, Mrs Hemans derived not merely present
gratification, but encouragement and cheer for her onward course.
It was still dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it
often fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of
the talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feelings of
the sorrowful, or taught the desponding where to look for comfort.
In a letter written at this time to a valued friend, recently
visited by one of the heaviest of human calamities--the loss of an
exemplary mother--she thus describes her own appreciation of such
heart-tributes:--‘It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know, that
you should find any thing I have written at all adapted to your present
feelings, and that The Sceptic should have been one of the last books
upon which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast.
Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will inform me
which were the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure
and pious mind: they will be far more highly valued by me than any
thing I have ever written.’--_Ibid._ pp. 334-4.
“It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs Hannah More,
in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy of The Sceptic. ‘I
cannot refuse myself the gratification of saying, that I entertain a
very high opinion of Mrs Hemans’s superior genius and refined taste. I
rank her, as a poet, very high, and I have seen no work on the subject
of her _Modern Greece_ which evinces more just views, or more delicate
perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad she has employed
her powerful pen, in this new instance, on a subject so worthy of it;
and, anticipating the future by the past, I promise myself no small
pleasure in the perusal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure,
but benefit.’”--_Ibid._
[137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph.
[138] “He is patient, because He is eternal.”--St Augustine.
[139] “Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge
for you; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person
at unawares.--And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from the
avenger.”--_Numbers_, chap. xxxv.
[140] “Every man in the chambers of his imagery.”--_Ezekiel_, chap.
viii.
[141] “Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung
them out.”--_Isaiah_, chap. li.
[142] “And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent
the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but
the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but
the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire;
but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small
voice.”--_Kings_, book i. chap. 19.
[143] The Princess Charlotte.
[144] “And set up a sign of fire.”--_Jeremiah_, chap. vi.
[What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thirteen years after
the publication of the Sceptic, and when the author, towards the
termination of her earthly career, was residing with her family in
Dublin, a circumstance occurred by which Mrs Hemans was greatly
affected and impressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and
begged earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one
of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of
all but her immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told that
she was unable to receive him; but he persisted in entreating for a
few minutes’ audience, with such urgent importunity that at last the
point was conceded. The moment he was admitted, the gentleman (for
such his manner and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words
and tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was to
acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest satisfied
without avowing--that to her he owed, in the first instance, that
faith and those hopes which were now more precious to him than life
itself; for that it was by reading her poem of The Sceptic he had
been first awakened from the miserable delusions of infidelity, and
induced to “search the Scriptures.” Having poured forth his thanks and
benedictions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but
interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her overwhelmed with
a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and wondering humility.--_Memoir_,
p. 255-6.]
CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS.
_North American Review._--“In 1820 Mrs Hemans published The Sceptic,
a poem of great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we
shall give a rapid sketch. She considers the influence of unbelief on
the affections and gentler part of our nature, and, after pursuing
the picture of the misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that
may be found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality.
Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she turns to
the sterner tasks of life:--
‘E’en youth’s brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man.’
But then the sceptic has no relief in memory; for memory recalls no
joys but such as were transitory, and known to be such; and as for
hope--
‘She, who like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all,
Will she speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’
“The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no home
for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feelings as delight
to enshrine themselves in the breast of a parent. She addresses him
on the insecurity of an attachment to a vain idol, from which death
may at any time divide him ‘_for ever_.’... For relief the infidel
is referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites the
fervour of devotion with poetic sensibility.... The poem proceeds to
depict, in a forcible manner, the unfortunate state of a mind which
acquires every kind of knowledge but that which gives salvation; and,
having gained possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed with
the majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects
nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, finds
relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal rest. The
thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, and calls forth a
fervent prayer for the divine presence and support in the hour of
dissolution; for the hour, when the soul is brought to the mysterious
verge of another life, is an ‘awful one.’... This is followed by an
allusion to the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and
the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind muses on its
future condition, and asks of itself mystic questions, that it cannot
solve. But through the influence of religion--
‘He whom the busy world shall miss no more
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart.’
“After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, in a
manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, the poem closes
with the picture of a mother teaching her child the first lessons of
religion, by holding up the divine example of the Saviour.
“We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for it
illustrates the character of Mrs Hemans’s manner. We perceive in it a
loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, sometimes made more
interesting by a tinge of melancholy, a depth of religious feeling, a
mind alive to all the interests, gratifications, and sorrows of social
life.”--Professor Norton.
_Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“We have on more than one occasion
expressed the very high opinion which we entertain of the talents of
this lady; and it is gratifying to find that she gives us no reason
to retract or modify in any degree the applause already bestowed, and
that every fresh exhibition of her powers enhances and confirms her
claims upon our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy of
her poetical career; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, and of
very high promise. Not but that she has already performed more than
has often been sufficient to win for other candidates no mean place in
the roll of fame, but because what she has already done shrinks, when
compared with what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere
incipient excellence--the intimation rather than the fulfilment of the
high destiny of her genius.
... “The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spontaneous offspring of
intense and noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and
fashioned into elegance by an exquisite delicacy and precision of
taste. With more than the force of many of her masculine competitors,
she never ceases to be strictly _feminine_ in the whole current of
her thought and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of
that free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness
is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some of the most
remarkable among the female literati of our times have freely and
fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem before us, made choice of a
subject of which it would have been very difficult to have reconciled
the treatment, in the hands of some female authors, to the delicacy
which belongs to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which
form its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of
the exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by the
hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, by the revival
of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and by the revolting
exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its attractions, and wrapt
in darkness and defiance. But Mrs Hemans has chosen the better and
the nobler cause, and, while she has left in the poem before us every
trace of vigorous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far
transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of unbelief,
she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and confiding piety, and
has thus proved that the humility of hope and of faith has in it none
of the weakness with which it has been charged by the arrogance of
impiety, but owns a divine and mysterious vigour residing under the
very aspect of gentleness and devotion.”
_Quarterly Review._--“Her last two publications are works of a higher
stamp; works, indeed, of which no living poet need to be ashamed.
The first of them is entitled The Sceptic, and is devoted, as our
readers will easily anticipate, to advocating the cause of religion.
Undoubtedly the poem must have owed its being to the circumstances of
the times--to a laudable indignation at the course which literature in
many departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and at
the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but by no means
exclusively, as has been falsely supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs
Hemans, however, does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously
in verse; few poems, ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have
ever been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the
writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in poetry,
and much less will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise
in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force
to confirm a wavering mind; it is simply resting the truth of religion
on the necessity of it--on the utter misery and helplessness of man
without it. This argument is in itself available for all the purposes
of poetry: it appeals to the imagination and passions of man; it is
capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of
acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs Hemans has gone through this
range with great feeling and ability; and when she comes to the mind
which has clothed itself in its own strength, and relying proudly on
that alone in the hour of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the
contest, she rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed:--
‘Oh, what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye,
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,’ etc.”]
SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION,
AN UNFINISHED POEM.
I.
Beings of brighter worlds! that rise at times
As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught,
In those brief visions of celestial climes
Which pass like sunbeams o’er the realms of thought,
Dwell ye around us?--are ye hovering nigh,
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air?
And in deep solitudes, where human eye
Can trace no step, Immortals! are ye there?
Oh! who can tell?--what power, but Death alone,
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown?
II.
But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers
Of Eden wither’d, when reveal’d ye shone
In all your brightness midst those holy bowers--
Holy, but not unfading, as your own!
While He, the child of that primeval soil,
With you its paths in high communion trode,
His glory yet undimm’d by guilt or toil,
And beaming in the image of his God,
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky,
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity.
III.
Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays,
Mingling their tones, from nature’s temple rose,
When nought but that majestic song of praise
Broke on the sanctity of night’s repose,
With music since unheard: and man might trace
By stream and vale, in deep embow’ring shade,
Devotion’s first and loveliest dwelling-place,
The footsteps of th’ Omnipotent, who made
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass’d.
IV.
Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven!
Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour,
When from his paradise the alien driven
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower,
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell
With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame,
And his first cry of misery was--“Farewell!”
His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot
Is still for happier lands to pine--and reach them not.
V.
Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld
Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep?
From all its founts the world of waters swell’d,
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep!
For He, to whom the elements are slaves,
In wrath unchain’d the oceans of the cloud,
And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves
Folded creation in their mighty shroud;
Then left the earth a solitude, o’erspread
With its own awful weeks--a desert of the dead.
VI.
But onward flow’d life’s busy course again,
And rolling ages with them bore away--
As to be lost amidst the boundless main,
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey--
The hallow’d lore of old--the guiding light
Left by tradition to the sons of earth,
And the blest memory of each sacred rite
Known in the region of their father’s birth,
When in each breeze around his fair abode
Whisper’d a seraph’s voice, or lived the breath of God.
VII.
Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day,
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast,
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray,
Catching brief splendour from the purple west?
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile
With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone;
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile,
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own,
Blending her rites with thine--while yet afar
Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.
VIII.
Yet still one stream was pure--one sever’d shrine
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands;
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine,
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands.
There still the father to his child bequeath’d
The sacred torch of never-dying flame;
There still Devotion’s suppliant accents breathed
The One adored and everlasting Name;
And angel guests would linger and repose
Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose.
IX.
But far o’er earth the apostate wanderers bore
Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade,
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore,
In thrilling whispers to the soul convey’d
High inspiration: yet in every clime,
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought
With beings, in their essence more sublime,
To hold communion of mysterious thought;
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean,
And hear in every wind the accents of th’ Unseen.
X.
Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repose
On some protecting influence: here confined,
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes,
Earth is too narrow for th’ immortal mind.
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day,
As exiles panting for their native coast,
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way,
And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross’d.
Death hovers round us: in the zephyr’s sigh,
As in the storm, he comes--and lo! Eternity!
XI.
As one left lonely on the desert sands
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide,
He gazes as the pathless waste expands--
Around, beyond, interminably wide;
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom,
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky,
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume
The glistening Serab[145] which illudes his eye:
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown,
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown.
XII.
His thoughts explored the past--and where were they,
The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by?
He turn’d--a boundless void before him lay,
Wrapp’d in the shadows of futurity.
How knew the child of Nature that the flame
He felt within him struggling to ascend,
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame
Doom’d with the earth on which it moved, to blend?
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed,
If ’twere a Father’s love or Tyrant’s wrath decreed?
XIII.
Oh! marvel not if then he sought to trace
In all sublimities of sight and sound,
In rushing winds that wander through all space,
Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom embrown’d,
The oracles of Fate! or if the train
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep,
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer’s brain,
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep,
Were deem’d mysterious revelations, sent
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element.
XIV.
Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time,
Clothed with a deeper power?--earth’s wandering race,
Exploring realms of solitude sublime,
Not as _we_ see, beheld her awful face!
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met
Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay
In savage pomp before them--all was yet
Silent and vast, but not as in decay;
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne,
Look’d o’er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, lone.
XV.
The forests in their dark luxuriance waved,
With all their swell of strange Æolian sound;
The fearful deep, sole region ne’er enslaved,
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round.
Then, brooding o’er the images, imprest
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye,
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast,
Midst dim remembrances of infancy,
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams,
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and streams.
XVI.
Then bled the victim--then in every shade
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine;
Fear bow’d before the phantoms she portray’d,
And Nature teem’d with many a mystic sign.
Meteors, and storms, and thunders! ye whose course
E’en yet is awful to th’ enlighten’d eye,
As, wildly rushing from your secret source,
Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high,
Then o’er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast,
And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass’d.
XVII.
But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning,
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky!
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning,
Would pierce the secrets of infinity--
To you the heart, bereft of other light,
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains,
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night,
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns,
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race
Of some unnumber’d orbs, that light the depths of space.
XVIII.
Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought,
Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored
The wide creation, and beholding nought
Like your eternal beauty, then adored
Its living splendours; deeming them inform’d
By natures temper’d with a holier fire--
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm’d,
Who to the source of spirit might aspire,
And mortal prayers benignantly convey
To some presiding Power, more awful far than they.
XIX.
Guides o’er the desert and the deep! to you
The seaman turn’d, rejoicing at the helm,
When from the regions of empyreal blue
Ye pour’d soft radiance o’er the ocean-realm;
To you the dweller of the plains address’d
Vain prayers, that call’d the clouds and dews your own;
To you the shepherd, on the mountain’s crest,
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone,
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie
With your immortal host, and image back the sky.
XX.
Hail to the queen of heaven! her silvery crown
Serenely wearing, o’er her high domain
She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down,
As if to smile on her terrestrial reign.
Earth should be hush’d in slumber--but the night
Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread,
On hoary Lebanon’s umbrageous height
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed
To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades
Faintly as Nature’s light the ’wilder’d soul pervades.
XXI.
But when _thine_ orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring,
Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme,
Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring
Beauty and life in each triumphant beam,
Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d!
What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire
Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled
The precious incense of each odorous pyre,
Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales,
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.
XXII.
Yet not with Saba’s fragrant wealth alone,
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew’d;
For the dark children of the burning zone
Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew’d
With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene,
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view’d,
And though with glory mantled, and severe
In his own fulness of beatitude,
Yet mourn’d for those whose spirits from thy ray
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day.
XXIII.
But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers!
Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies,
And hold high converse, midst his native bowers,
With the once glorious son of Paradise,
Look’d ye from heaven in sadness! were your strains
Of choral praise suspended in dismay,
When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains
With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day?
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes.
While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice?
XXIV.
And well the powers of evil might rejoice,
When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry,
And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice,
The frantic mother bore her child to die!
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway,
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands,
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey.
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale!
Well may the drum’s loud peal o’erpower an infant’s wail?
XXV.
A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose;
’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids,
Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows,
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades.
With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound,
Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns:
Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found--
To life and love the buried god returns!
Then wakes the timbrel--then the forests ring,
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing!
XXVI.
But fill’d with holier joy the Persian stood,
In silent reverence, on the mountain’s brow,
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood
Of radiance burst around, above, below--
Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o’erflow’d
In worship of th’ Invisible, and praised
In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode
Of life, and power, and excellence--the throne
Where dwelt the Unapproach’d, resplendently alone.[146]
XXVII.
What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave
Mysterious sanctity to things which wear
Th’ Eternal’s impress?--if the living wave,
The circling heavens, the free and boundless air--
If the pure founts of everlasting flame,
Deep in his country’s hallow’d vales enshrined,
And the bright stars maintain’d a silent claim
To love and homage from his awe-struck mind?
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream
Of uncreated Power, far, far o’er these supreme.
XXVIII.
And with that faith was conquest. He whose name
To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung--
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung,
He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d,
Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast
Their ancient idols down before _his_ way,
Who in majestic march, from shore to shore,
The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore.
[145] _Serab_, mirage.
[146] At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the
following stanza was here inserted:--
“Nor rose the Magian’s hymn, sublimely swelling
In full-toned homage to the source of flame,
From fabric rear’d by man, the gorgeous dwelling
Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame.
Be rear’d no temple, bade no walls contain
The breath of incense or the voice of prayer;
But made the boundless universe his fane,
The rocks his altar-stone--adoring there
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades
All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.”
[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of
one who became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in
life, and sincerely mourned in death--Bishop Heber, then Rector of
Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his
father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an
intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much
kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent
literary character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and
she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to
the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they
were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic
of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this
occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:--“I am more delighted
with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is
quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had
been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his
society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the
first perusal of _Ivanhoe_ did; and was something so perfectly new
to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long
conversation with him on the subject of _the_ poem, which he read
aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely
that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate
to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where
they did not exactly coincide with his own.”
The poem here alluded to was the one entitled _Superstition_ and
_Revelation_, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and
which was intended to embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her
original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter
to her friend Miss Park:--“I have been thinking a good deal of the
plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. ‘Our
thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,’ and in the course of my
lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you
will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a
poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal
to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets
of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course,
much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions
of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more
barbarous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation
they could convey in the hour of affliction--or hope, in that of
death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of
this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality
of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for
poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are
still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest
part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical; but
the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled
by its magnitude.”
Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her
every encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many
admirable suggestions, both as to the illustrations which might be
introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the
requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour
and research necessary to the development of a plan which included
the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of
all idolatries--the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven,
alluded to in the book of Job--to the still existing rites of the
Hindoos--would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be
compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary,
which daily pressed more and more upon the author’s time. The work
was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published
is all that remains of it, though the project was never distinctly
abandoned.]
ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147]
THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.
FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”
[147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor
to the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, then conducted by the Rev.
Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his
editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the
period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared
in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on
foreign literature, which, with very few exceptions, were the only
prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these
papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable,
as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical
translations, which it is used to introduce.”--_Memoir_, p. 41.
Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous
consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living poets.
Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by
the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most
enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts--they
are present, and clothed with life--before him, and a flexible and
harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the
richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of
painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent,
to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for
himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not
contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has
restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted
beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds
from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to
himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his
manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character
should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many
other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances
have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his
glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual
opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian
revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his
compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in
proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that
he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly
excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests,
however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these
political poems--the object and purport of which are so different--the
invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The _Basvigliana_,
or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since
its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated
Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.
Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the
people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite
a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the
poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that,
at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a sudden repentance,
from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited.
But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of
purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until
the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and
doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has
contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revolution.
An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that
he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys
him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis
XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon
France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before
the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of
three hundred lines each, and written in _terza rima_, like the poem
of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed
from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel
conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful
guide, who consoles and supports the _spectator-hero_ of the poem,
acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante.
Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would
have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary
character--he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse--and he
seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has
at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an
infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The _Basvigliana_ is, perhaps,
more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the
sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the
first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body:--
“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,
Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose;
Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed,
Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.
“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower,
And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour;
Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.
“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire;
And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore
Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”
Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried,
Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide;
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh,
A lingering step, and oft reverted eye--
As when a child’s reluctant feet obey
Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.
Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast,
When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d,
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome,
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome,
Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d,
But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven,
Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire
Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire;
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood,
A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood.
He waved his sword--its red, terrific light
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night;
While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast,
Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom
O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar;
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar,
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest,
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast,
They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high
Breaks not their calm and proud security.
In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at
the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.
The air was heavy, and the brooding skies
Look’d fraught with omens, as to harmonise
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round
Not a leaf whisper’d--and the only sound
That broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moan
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone,
As if a storm within the woodland bowers
Were gathering. On they moved--and lo! the towers
Of a far city! Nearer now they drew;
And all reveal’d, expanding on their view,
The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes--
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose!
In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d,
Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade
Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d
The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies.
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw
That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe,
Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell
Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell,
The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled
Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe,
Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low,
Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep
That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard
At intervals, in many a broken word--
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d
Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast;
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries,
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs,
On their own thresholds striving to detain
Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain
Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour
Of fate and fury--Love hath lost his power!
For evil spirits are abroad, the air
Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there,
Fired by that thirst for victims which of old
Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d,
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey
The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day.
Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair,
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare,
Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands
And serpent scourges in their restless hands
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high
The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by,
With touch of fire contagious fury dart
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart.
Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more,
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour;
From every heart affrighted mercy flies,
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies.
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet,
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze,
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas
Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone
Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d,
O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast;
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold
Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold!
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high--
The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye,
Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good,
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood
Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien,
Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene;
And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved!
Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved--
Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale,
Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil;
The misty air is silent, as in dread,
And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread;
While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest,
Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.
* * * * *
In that dread moment, to the fatal pile
The regal victim came; and raised the while
His patient glance, with such an aspect high,
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty,
That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook
Before the grandeur of that kingly look;
And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d,
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.
* * * * *
Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last,
Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past--
E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour
When his soul yielded to affliction’s power,
And the winds bore his dying cry abroad--
“Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”--
E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose,
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes--
“To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried;
“And my lost people, Father! be their guide!”
* * * * *
But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given,
And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven;
Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns,
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones!
[148] The observation of a French author (_Le Censeur du Dictionnaire
des Girouettes_) on the general versatility of poets, seems so
peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might
almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of
such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et
flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit,
et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie
sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et
sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus
et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la
Vielleuse.”
THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.
The _Alcestis_ of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy
he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that
tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would
appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity
of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his
life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of
that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a
resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever
at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant
and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his
youth was consumed; but the poetry of _Alcestis_ must find its echo in
every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the
bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however,
though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish;
nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the
action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The
character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic
affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination
the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek
sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is
never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The
union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur
on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration
of this analogy.
The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father
of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared
that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author,
even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared
that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the
severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it
dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the
original language.
ACT I.--Scene II.
Alcestis, Pheres.
_Alc._ Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears!
For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate
Bereave thee of thy son.
_Phe._ What mean thy words?
Hath then Apollo--is there then a hope?
_Alc._ Yes! hope for _thee_--hope by the voice announced
From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield
To other lips the tidings, meet alone
For thee to hear from mine.
_Phe._ But say! oh! say,
Shall then my son be spared?
_Alc._ He shall, to _thee_.
Thus hath Apollo said--Alcestis thus
Confirms the oracle--be thou secure.
_Phe._ O sounds of joy! He lives!
_Alc._ But not for this,
Think not that e’en for _this_ the stranger Joy
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls.
_Phe._ Can there be grief when from his bed of death
Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks
Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven!
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear
Transport and life in that glad oracle
To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged
With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow,
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy,
Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt
In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak!
_Alc._ The gods
Themselves have limitations to their power
Impassable, eternal--and their will
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate:
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life
Of thy restored Admetus.
_Phe._ In thy looks
There is expression, more than in thy words,
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms
Can render fatal to thyself and us
The rescued life of him thy soul adores?
_Alc._ O father! could my silence aught avail
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear,
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish;
And since too soon, too well it must be known,
Hear it from me.
_Phe._ Throughout my curdling veins
Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel
I am not all a father. In my heart
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love,
O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son!
More than a daughter; and thine infant race,
The cherish’d hope and glory of my age;
And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast,
High, holy, and unalterable love
For her, the partner of my cares and joys,
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then,
In what suspense, what agony of fear,
I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries,
To some one of my race.
_Alc._ Death hath his rights,
Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand,
Already seized, the noble victim lay,
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime
And noonday, struck:--Admetus, the revered,
The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway--
By his illustrious parents, by the realms
Surrounding his--and oh! what need to add,
How much by his Alcestis?--Such was he,
Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence
Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead,
Though not an equal--(who can equal him?)
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice.
Another, of his lineage or to him
By closest bonds united, must descend
To the dark realm of Orcus in _his_ place,
Who thus alone is saved.
_Phe._ What do I hear?
Woe to us, woe!--what victim?--who shall be
Accepted in his stead?
_Alc._ The dread exchange
E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him
For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou,
O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades!
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor,
Disdain the victim.
_Phe._ All prepared the prey!
And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!--and yet
Thou had’st me weep no more!
_Alc._ Yes! thus I said,
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep
Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom.
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard,
Than those _his_ death had caused.--With some few tears,
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy,
E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts,
The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d
Life for Admetus.--Would’st thou know the prey,
The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one,
Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods,
Father!--’tis I.
_Phe._ What hast thou done? Oh, heaven!
What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved
By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live
Bereft of thee?--Of thee, his light of life,
His very soul!--Of thee, beloved far more
Than his loved parents--than his children more--
More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be?
_Thou_ perish, O Alcestis! in the flower
Of thy young beauty!--perish, and destroy
Not him, not _him_ alone, but us, but all,
Who as a child adore thee! Desolate
Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee.
And think’st thou not of those whose tender years
Demand thy care?--thy children! think of them!
O thou, the source of each domestic joy,
Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives,
His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die
While I can die for thee! Me, me alone,
The oracle demands--a wither’d stem,
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die.
My race is run--the fulness of my years,
The faded hopes of age, and all the love
Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart,
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent,
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts
So richly is endow’d;--all, all unite
To grave in adamant the just decree,
That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live!
Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis--live!
Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass
An aged sire’s devotedness.
_Alc._ I know
Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love;
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain
Strove to anticipate their high resolves.
But if in silence I have heard thy words,
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own
They may not be withstood.
_Phe._ What canst thou say
Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save
Him who with thee would perish;--to the shrine
E’en now I fly.
_Alc._ Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late.
Already hath consenting Proserpine,
From the remote abysses of her realms,
Heard and accepted the terrific vow
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties,
To death. And I am firm, and well I know
None can deprive me of the awful right
That vow hath won.
* * * * *
Yes! thou mayst weep my fate,
Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame
My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d
My life by every tie--the more I feel
Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead
A guest more honour’d....
In thy presence here
Again I utter’d the tremendous vow,
Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know,
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins
Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er.
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard--he calls,
He summons me away--and thou art saved,
O my Admetus!
In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles,
and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of
Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus.
_Alc._ Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet
Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch;
For I myself e’en now must offer here
The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile,
My children! seek your sire. Behold him there,
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins
Health’s genial current flows once more, as free
As in his brightest days: and he shall live--
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck,
And with your innocent encircling arms
Twine round him fondly.
_Eum._ Can it be indeed,
Father, loved father! that we see thee thus
Restored? What joy is ours!
_Adm._ There is no joy!
Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief
Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more!
I know not of affection, and I feel
No more a father.
_Eum._ Oh! what words are these?
Are we no more thy children? Are we not
Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck
More close; he must return the fond embrace.
_Adm._ O children! O my children! to my soul
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts,
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound
Of your soft accents but too well recalls
The voice which was the music of my life.
Alcestis! my Alcestis!--was she not
Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er
Adored like her before? Yet this is she,
The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left
Her husband and her infants! This is she,
O my deserted children! who at once
Bereaves you of your parents.
_Alc._ Woe is me!
I hear the bitter and reproachful cries
Of my despairing lord. With life’s last powers,
Oh! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach,
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence,
That he may hear and see me.
_Adm._ Is it thou?
And do I see thee still? and com’st thou thus
To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear
The dying accents _thus_? Alas! return
To thy sad couch--return! ’tis meet for me
There by thy side for ever to remain.
_Alc._ For me thy care is vain. Though meet for
thee--
_Adm._ O voice! O looks of death! are these, are _these_,
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality,
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life
Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once,
Upon my drooping brow! How heavily,
With what a weight of death thy languid voice
Sinks on my heart! too faithful far, too fond.
Alcestis! thou art dying--and for me!
* * * * *
Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports
With its last power, supports my sinking head,
E’en now, while death is on thee! Oh! the touch
Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart.
I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine,
The image of yon ruthless Deity,
Impatient for her prey. Before thy death,
There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall.
* * * * *
Vain is each obstacle--in vain the gods
Themselves would check my fury. I am lord
Of my own days--and thus I swear----
_Alc._ Yes! swear,
Admetus! for thy children to sustain
The load of life. All other impious vows,
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will
Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form
Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain’d,
Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not,
It is from them the inspiration flows
Which in my language breathes? They lend me power,
They bid me through thy strengthen’d soul transfuse
High courage, noble constancy. Submit,
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm;
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme
To which I now approach, from whom but thee
Should comfort be derived? Afflict me not,
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death.
O faithful and beloved, support me still!
The choruses with which this tragedy is interspersed are distinguished
for their melody and classic beauty. The following translation will
give our readers a faint idea of the one by which the third act is
concluded.
_Alc._ My children! all is finish’d. Now, farewell!
To thy fond care, O Pheres! I commit
My widow’d lord: forsake him not.
_Eum._ Alas!
Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us? From thy side
Are we for ever parted?
_Phe._ Tears forbid
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense,
More lifeless than the dying victim, see
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet,
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight
Of his Alcestis.
_Alc._ O my handmaids! still
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs
When death’s last pang is o’er.
_Chorus._
Alas! how weak
Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near.
Peace, mourners, peace!
Be hush’d, be silent, in this hour of dread!
Our cries would but increase
The sufferer’s pang; let tears unheard be shed,
Cease, voice of weeping, cease!
Sustain, O friend!
Upon thy faithful breast,
The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest!
And thou assistance lend
To close the languid eye,
Still beautiful in life’s last agony.
Alas, how long a strife!
What anguish struggles in the parting breath,
Ere yet immortal life
Be won by death!
Death! death! thy work complete!
Let thy sad hour be fleet,
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh!
No more keen pangs impart
To her, the high in heart,
Th’ adored Alcestis, worthy ne’er to die.
_Chorus of Admetus._
’Tis not enough, oh no!
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes;
Still must our silent band
Around him watchful stand,
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow,
That his ear catch not grief’s funereal cries.
Yet, yet hope is not dead,
All is not lost below,
While yet the gods have pity on our woe.
Oft when all joy is fled,
Heaven lends support to those
Who on its care in pious hope repose.
Then to the blessed skies
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise.
Pray! bow the knee, and pray!
What other task have mortals, born to tears,
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway?
O ruler of the spheres!
Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on high,
Our supplication hear!
Nor plunge in bitterest woes
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye
But as a child, which only knows
Its father to revere.
IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA;
A TRAGEDY.
BY ALESSANDRO MANZONI.
Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in Carmagnola, from whence his
_nom-de-guerre_ was derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a
boy, and employed in the care of flocks and herds, the lofty character
of his countenance was observed by a soldier of fortune, who invited
the youth to forsake his rustic occupations, and accompany him to
the busier scenes of the camp. His persuasions were successful, and
Francesco entered with him into the service of Facino Cane, Lord of
Alessandria. At the time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities
acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di
Carmagnola was amongst the most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice
afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke of Milan, (who rewarded her
by an ignominious death for the regal dowery she had conferred upon
him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the same time; and having, by
his eminent services, firmly established the tottering power of that
prince, received from him the title of Count, and was placed at the
head of all his forces. The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip’s
disposition, however, at length prevailed; and Carmagnola, disgusted
with the evident proof of his wavering friendship and doubtful
faith, left his service and his territories, and after a variety of
adventures took refuge in Venice. Thither the treachery of the Duke
pursued him, and emissaries were employed to procure his assassination.
The plot, however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was elected
captain-general of the Venetian armies, during the league formed by
that republic against the Duke of Milan. The war was at first carried
on with much spirit and success, and the battle of Maclodio, gained
by Carmagnola, was one of the most important and decisive actions of
those times. The night after the combat, the victorious soldiers gave
liberty to almost all their prisoners. The Venetian envoys having
made a complaint on this subject to the Count, he inquired what was
become of the captives; and upon being informed that all, except four
hundred, had been set free, he gave orders that the remaining ones also
should be released immediately, according to the custom which prevailed
amongst the armies of those days, the object of which was to prevent
a speedy termination of the war. This proceeding of Carmagnola’s
occasioned much distrust and irritation in the minds of the Venetian
rulers; and their displeasure was increased when the armada of the
Republic, commanded by Il Trevisani, was defeated upon the Po, without
any attempt in its favour having been made by the Count. The failure of
their attempt upon Cremona was also imputed to him as a crime; and the
Senate, resolving to free themselves from a powerful chief, now become
an object of suspicion, after many deliberations on the best method of
carrying their designs into effect, at length determined to invite him
to Venice, under pretence of consulting him on their negotiations for
peace. He obeyed their summons without hesitation or mistrust, and was
every where received with extraordinary honours during the course of
his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before he entered his own
house, eight gentlemen were sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted
to St Mark’s Place. When he was introduced into the ducal palace, his
attendants were dismissed, and informed that he would be in private
with the Doge for a considerable time. He was arrested in the palace,
then examined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a wound
he had received in the service of the Republic rendered still more
agonising, and condemned to death. On the 5th May 1432 he was conducted
to execution, with his mouth gagged, and beheaded between the two
columns of St Mark’s Place. With regard to the innocence or guilt of
this distinguished character, there exists no authentic information.
The author of the tragedy, which we are about to analyse, has chosen
to represent him as entirely innocent, and probability at least is on
this side. It is possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior,
accustomed to command, and impatient of control, might have been the
principal cause of offence to the Venetians; or perhaps their jealousy
was excited by his increasing power over the minds of an obedient army;
and, not considering it expedient to displace him, they resolved upon
his destruction.
This tragedy, which is formed upon the model of the English and German
drama, comprises the history of Carmagnola’s life, from the day on
which he was made commander of the Venetian armies to that of his
execution, thus embracing a period of about seven years. The extracts
we are about to present to our readers, will enable them to form
their own opinion of a piece which has excited so much attention in
Italy. The first act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. The
Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola should be consulted on the
projected league between the Republic and the Florentines, against
the Duke of Milan. To this all agree; and the Count is introduced. He
begins by justifying his conduct from the imputations to which it might
be liable, in consequence of his appearing as the enemy of the Prince
whom he had so recently served:--
----He cast me down
From the high place my blood had dearly won;
And when I sought his presence, to appeal
For justice there, ’twas vain! My foes had form’d
Around his throne a barrier: e’en my life
Became the mark of hatred; but in this
Their hopes have fail’d--I gave them not the time.
My life!--I stand prepared to yield it up
On the proud field, and in some noble cause
For glory well exchanged; but not a prey,
Not to be caught ignobly in the toils
Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain’d
With you a place of refuge; yet e’en here
His snares were cast around me. Now all ties
Are broke between us; to an open foe,
An open foe I come.
He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate
engaged in deliberation. War is resolved upon, and he is elected
commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. His
soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English
than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the
celebrated monologue of Hamlet.
A leader--or a fugitive? To drag
Slow years along in idle vacancy,
As a worn veteran living on the fame
Of former deeds--to offer humble prayers
And blessings for protection--owing all
Yet left me of existence to the might
Of other swords, dependent on some arm
Which soon may cast me off; or on the field
To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life
Rush proudly through my veins--to hail again
My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice
To wake! to rule! to conquer!--Which must be
My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace
Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling
Still poorly to ignoble safety here,
Secluded as a homicide, who cowers
Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he
Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own!
Is there not one among the many lords
Of this divided Italy--not one
With soul enough to envy that bright crown
Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not
’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp,
Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow
Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns
Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize
On him who best shall call the prowess forth
Which slumbers in my arm?
Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces
to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the
command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with
caution towards his enemies in the Republic.
_Car._ Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes?
Ay, I could number all.
_Mar._ And know’st thou, too,
What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art
So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one
Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved,
Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts,
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs;
But they remember _thee_. The high in soul
Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not;
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own.
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul
Revolts indignantly--thou know’st it well:
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet
For the most lofty nature,--there is power
Of winning meaner minds, without descent
From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,--
And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.
The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of
Milan’s camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and
Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon
the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle,
Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and
Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours
to convince them of its inexpediency.
_Sfo._ Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul
Which fires each soldier’s eye?
_Tor._ I mark’d it well.
I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice
Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside,
That on my brow the warrior might not read
Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought,
That this vain semblance of delusive joy
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought
On wasted valour doom’d to perish here.
* * * * *
For these--what boots it to disguise the truth?--
These are no wars in which, for all things loved,
And precious, and revered--for all the ties
Clinging around the heart--for those whose smile
Makes home so lovely--for his native land,
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights!
These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim
Is but to station his devoted bands,
And theirs, thus fix’d--to die! It is _our_ fate
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on;
But if delay’d, if between flight and death
Pausing they stand--is there no cause to doubt
What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts
That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times,
When for the leader care augments, the more
Bright glory fades away! Yet once again,
This is no field for us.
After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The
fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the
Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And
here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the
battle is described, and its fatal effects lamented with all the
feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that
this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking
as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less
powerful impression in the situation it occupies at present. It is even
necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should
be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition
is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the
characters are represented as clothed with existence, and passing
before us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to
our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric piece, where the
author’s imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into
this error by a definition of Schlegel’s, who, speaking of the Greek
choruses, gives it as his opinion, that “the chorus is to be considered
as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action--as
the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race.
The chorus, in short, is the _ideal_ spectator.”
But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed
of _real_ characters, and expressed the sentiments of the people
before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing: thus the
_true_ spectator, after witnessing in representation the triumphs
or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea
supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more enlightened part
of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for
lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had
brought his chorus into action--introducing, for example, a veteran
looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its
vicissitudes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange
a variety of national and moral reflections--it appears to us that
the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the
assertion that the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system of
the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers
with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read
separately, and one to which the following title would be much more
appropriate.
_The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode._
Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound,
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies!
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise,
Hollow and deep--and banners, all around,
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies;
Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine,
And there a host confronts their glittering line.
Lo! half the field already from the sight
Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes!
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight,
And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows!
Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might
Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose?
What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave?
One race, alas! these foes--one kindred race,
Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among!
The stranger calls them brothers--and each face
That brotherhood reveals;--one common tongue
Dwells on their lips--the earth on which we trace
Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung.
One mother gave them birth--this chosen land,
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand.
Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare
Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield?
What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare,
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field?
Think’st thou they know?--they but inflict and share
Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d!
--Sold to a leader, sold _himself_ to die,
With him they strive--they fall--and ask not why.
But are there none who love them? Have they none--
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between,
And win with tears the husband and the son
Back to his home, from this polluted scene?
And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done,
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene,
Thoughts of the tomb--why cannot _they_ assuage
The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!--the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d.
Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd
In tranquil safety number o’er the slain,
Or tell of cities burning on the plain.
There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze
Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know,
By names of insult, those whom future days
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe.
There proudly many a glittering dame displays
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow,
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne,
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.
Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe!
The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain;
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow--
A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain.
But from th’ embattled front, already, lo!
A band recedes--it flies--all hope is vain,
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife,
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.
As the light grain disperses in the air,
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around,
Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair,
Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground.
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there,
Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound
Of fierce pursuit!--still nearer and more near,
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear.
The day is won! They fall--disarm’d they yield,
Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying!
Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field,
Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d!
E’en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs--he speeds--with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes,
O eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not _whence_ th’ ill-omen’d herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?--
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,--
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told.
I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry!
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains:
E’en now the homicides assail the sky
With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains!
But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains,
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe,
Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below.
Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true!
Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending.
Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew,
Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending!
Victors! why pause ye?--Are ye weak and few?--
Ay! such he deem’d you, and for _this_ descending,
He waits you on the field ye know too well,
The same red war-field where your brethren fell.
O thou devoted land! that canst not rear
In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won,
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear
Too narrow still for each contending son;
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career
Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun!
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword,
Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.
Are these infatuate too!--Oh! who hath known
A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest?
The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone,
Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest,
Well hath it mark’d him--and decreed the hour,
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine,
Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine,
Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!
The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is
composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys.
One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory,
which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the
field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses.
Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released
their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established
military custom; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives,
he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the
suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola’s conduct, is
rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola,
which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined.
As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola,
and stops him.
_Car._ Thou art not, youth!
One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd.
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest
Thou minglest, and art silent!
_Per._ Silence best,
O chief! befits the vanquish’d.
_Car._ Bearing up
Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved
Worthy a better star. Thy name?
_Per._ ’Tis one
Whose heritage doth impose no common task
On him that bears it; one which to adorn
With brighter blazonry were hard emprise:
My name is Pergola.
_Car._ And art thou, then,
That warrior’s son?
_Per._ I am.
_Car._ Approach! embrace
Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now
I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring
Back on my heart remembrance of the days,
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days,
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou!
My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled,
But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises
Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile,
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute
Thy sire for me; and say, though not of _thee_
I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured
He counsell’d not this battle.
_Per._ Oh! he gave
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words
Were spoken to the winds.
_Car._ Lament thou not.
Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest
Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood
Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun
A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me,
I will restore thy sword.
The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count’s enemies
at Venice; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and
the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed
in many of the scenes.
The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the
Council of Ten. Carmagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms
of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with
disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His
astonishment and indignation at this unexpected charge are expressed
with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence.
_Car._ A traitor! I!--that name of infamy
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear
Who best deserves such meed--it is not mine.
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit,
For such my part is here; yet would I not
Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still.
A traitor!--I retrace in thought the time
When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path
Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which
A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d
Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises
Of high reward! What more? Behold me here!
And when I came to seeming honour call’d,
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith--
Of trusting faith!--Oh, no! Doth he who comes
Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith?
I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done,
And be it so! but since deceitful hate
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside,
Praise be to heaven! an open field at least
Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak,
Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then
My treasons!
_Doge._ By the secret college soon
All shall be told thee.
_Car._ I appeal not there.
What I have done for you hath all been done
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds
Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose
To be mine arbiters--my proud defence
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear.
_Doge._ The time for choice is past.
_Car._ What! Is there force
Employ’d against me?--Guards! (_raising his voice._)
_Doge._ They are not nigh.
Soldiers! (_enter armed men._) Thy guards are these.
_Car._ I am betray’d!
_Doge._ ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised,
Might prove a rebel too.
_Car._ E’en as ye list.
Now be it yours to charge me.
_Doge._ Bear him hence,
Before the secret college.
_Car._ Hear me yet
One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death
I well perceive; but with that death ye doom
Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers,
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats
The banner of the Lion, in its pride
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know
_I_ bore it thus to empire. _Here_, ’tis true,
No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond
The limits of your sway, in other scenes,
Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d,
Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds
And your reward will live in chronicles
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect
Your annals, and the future! Ye will need
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours?
Forget not, though your captive now I stand,
I was not born your subject. No! my birth
Was midst a warlike people, one in soul,
And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem
The honour of each citizen its own.
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard?
There is some treachery here. Our common foes
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know
I have been faithful still. There yet is time.
_Doge._ The time is past. When thou didst meditate
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy
Those destined to chastise it; then the hour
Of foresight should have been.
_Car._ O mean in soul!
And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast
For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon
Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate
On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet
Its summons with far other mien than such
As I shall bear to ignominious death.
Scene II.--_The House of Carmagnola._
Antonietta, Matilda.
_Mat._ The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet
My father comes not!
_Ant._ Ah! thou hast not learn’d,
By sad experience, with how slow a pace
Joys ever come; expected long, and oft
Deceiving expectation! while the steps
Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh.
But night is past, the long and lingering hours
Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more,
And he is with us. E’en from this delay
I augur well. A council held so long
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours.
Perhaps for years our own.
_Mat._ O mother! thus
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears,
And days in all the sickness of suspense,
Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time
That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale,
Each idle murmur of the people’s voice,
We should not longer tremble, that no more
This thought should haunt our souls--E’en now,
perchance,
He for whom thus your hearts are yearning--dies!
_Ant._ Oh! fearful thought--but vain and distant
now!
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief.
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led
In triumph midst the noble and the brave,
Thy glorious father to the temple bore
The banners won in battle from his foes?
_Mat._ A day to be remember’d!
_Ant._ By his side
Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air
Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while
Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng,
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all,
While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d,
Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d--“We are his.”
_Mat._ Moments of joy!
_Ant._ What have we done, my child,
To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate,
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow
Inscribed a lofty name--a name so bright,
That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark
For envy is the glory of our lot!
And we should weigh its joys against these hours
Of fear and sorrow.
_Mat._ They are past e’en now.
Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!--it swells--’tis hush’d!
The gates unclose. O mother! I behold
A warrior clad in mail--he comes, ’tis he!
_Ant._ Whom should it be if not himself?--my
husband!
(_She comes forward._)
(_Enter_ Gonzaga _and others._)
_Ant._ Gonzaga!--Where is he we look’d for?
Where?
Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught
With prophecies of woe!
_Gon._ Alas! too true
The omens they reveal!
_Mat._ Of woe to whom?
_Gon._ Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness
Fallen to my lot?
_Ant._ Thou wouldst be pitiful,
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense;
Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God!
Where is my husband?
_Gon._ Heaven sustain your souls
With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief----
_Mat._ Is he return’d unto the field?
_Gon._ Alas!
Thither the warrior shall return no more.
The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now
A prisoner!
_Ant._ He is a prisoner!--and for what?
_Gon._ He is accused of treason.
_Mat._ Treason! _He_
A traitor!--Oh! my father!
_Ant._ Haste! proceed,
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all.
Say, what shall be his sentence?
_Gon._ From my lips
It shall not be reveal’d.
_Ant._ Oh! he is slain!
_Gon._ He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d.
_Ant._ He lives!
Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act.
For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones.
He was thy friend--ah! haste, then, be our guide;
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child!
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left
Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves
Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d
The fearful sentence, they remember’d not
_He_ was a father and a husband too.
But when their eyes behold the agony
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt:
They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight
Of mortal woe is terrible to man!
Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall
His triumphs won for them. It is for us
To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend,
And we will pray.
_Gon._ Oh, heaven! that I could leave
Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear,
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf,
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt
Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d
Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still,
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour,
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet.
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart.
Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God
Of mourners will be with you.
_Mat._ Is there not
One hope?
_Ant._ Alas! my child!
Scene IV.--_A Prison._
Carmagnola.
They must have heard it now.--Oh! that at least
I might have died far from them! Though their hearts
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour,
The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now,
And we must drain its draught of bitterness
Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields,
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms!
O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries,
And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes
Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys
Death seem’d all beautiful.--And must I then,
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate
Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints?
And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too?
Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul
Before I die!--But no! What boots it now
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns
To linger where my footstep may not tread?
Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so!
I too have proved such vain and impious joys,
And know their value now. But oh! again
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last,
Last accents of their voices! By those arms
Once more to be encircled, and from thence
To tear myself for ever!--Hark! they come!--
O God of mercy, from thy throne look down
In pity on their woes!
Scene V.
Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, _and_ Carmagnola.
_Ant._ My husband!
_Mat._ O my father!
_Ant._ Is it thus
That thou returnest? and is this the hour
Desired so long!
_Car._ O ye afflicted ones!
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone.
Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death,
And calmly wait his time. For you alone
My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then,
Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows
The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours
Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy
In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven.
Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife!
Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on
In peace and gladness; I united thee
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought
Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen
The woes I cause thee!
_Ant._ Husband of my youth!
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright,
Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there,
And yet e’en now--I would not but be thine.
_Car._ Full well I know how much I lose in thee;
Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now.
_Mat._ The homicides!
_Car._ No, sweet Matilda, no!
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb
These moments--they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs
Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess,
That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe,
High, holy joy remains. Death! death!--our foes,
Our most relentless foes, can only speed
Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not
Invented death for man; it would be _then_
Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven
’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs
With such blest comfort as no mortal power
Can give or take away. My wife! my child!
Hear my last words--they wring your bosoms now
With agony, but yet, some future day,
’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife!
Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence,
Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs,
Of their own blood--and they so loved thee once!
Then, to their foe united, thou becamest
Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds
Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names.
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return
A mourner; and the object of their hate
Will be no more.--Oh! there is joy in death!--
And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms,
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head
Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart
Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe.
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast--
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim
Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st
That the forsaken have a Father still
On high. Confide in Him, and live to days
Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee
He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d
The torrent of affliction on thy youth,
If to thy future years be not reserved
All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!--
Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts
Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve.
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith
To guide and guard these mourners, till they join
Their friends and kindred?
_Gon._ Rest assured, I will.
_Car._ I am content. And if, when this is done,
Thou to the field returnest, there for me
Salute my brethren; tell them that I died
Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds,
Hast read my inmost thoughts--and know’st it well.
Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame
Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!--I myself
Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me
When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart,
And banners proudly waving in the air,--
Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day
Following the combat, when upon the field,
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites,
With lifted hands, is offering for the slain
His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not!
For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain
E’en so to die.
_Ant._ Have mercy on us, heaven!
_Car._ My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh,
And we must part.--Farewell!
_Mat._ No, father! no!
_Car._ Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then
For pity’s sake depart!
_Ant._ No! force alone
Shall tear us hence.
(_A sound of arms is heard._)
_Mat._ Hark! what dread sound!
_Ant._ Great God!
(_The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom
advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless._)
_Car._ O God! I thank thee. O most merciful!
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs
Of this dread moment’s conflict!
Thou, my friend,
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe,
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose
To meet the day--that naught is left to fear.
Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention
which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed
to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself
from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the
tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves
to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least,
temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should
attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of
several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of
fate”--days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies
of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting
interests--there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident,
as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures
contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in
words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of
opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only
commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The
merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the
language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the
spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that
suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government,
as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of
war--
“Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.”
CAIUS GRACCHUS.
A TRAGEDY,
BY MONTI.
This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the
_Aristodemo_ of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished
by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully
establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto
received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in
the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an
impressive character to the piece, yet those workings of passion and
tenderness--without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism
unnatural--have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar
subjects) too rigidly suppressed.
The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the
calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with
the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal
affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are
beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the
intense anxieties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied
in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made by
Gracchus to the people are full of majestic eloquence; and the whole
piece seems to be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of
freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascendency give so vivid
a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the annals of the ancient
republics.
The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius Gracchus, who is returned
in secret to Rome, after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage,
which Scipio had utterly demolished.
Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night
Hath spread her favouring shadows o’er thy path:
And thou, be strong, my country! for thy son
Gracchus is with thee! All is hush’d around,
And in deep slumber; from the cares of day
The worn plebeians rest. Oh! good and true,
And only Romans! your repose is sweet,
For toil hath given it zest; ’tis calm and pure,
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile,
My brother’s murderers, the patricians, hold
Inebriate vigils o’er their festal boards,
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me
To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem
Of the unlook’d-for and tremendous foe
So near at hand!--It is enough. I tread
In safety my paternal threshold.--Yes!
This is my own! O mother! O my wife!
My child!--I come to dry your tears. I come
Strengthen’d by three dread furies:--One is wrath,
Fired by my country’s wrongs; and one deep love,
For those, my bosom’s inmates; and the third--
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother’s blood!
His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Fulvius, his friend,
with whose profligate character and unprincipled designs he is
represented as unacquainted. From the opening speech made by Fulvius
(before he is aware of the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he
is attended, it appears that he is just returned from the perpetration
of some crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the second
act.
The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, by the obscure
allusions to some act of signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius
throws out in the course of the ensuing discussion.
_Ful._ This is no time for grief and feeble tears,
But for high deeds.
_Caius._ And we will make it such.
But prove we first our strength. Declare, what friends
(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain
True to our cause?
_Ful._ Few, few, but valiant hearts!
* * * * *
Oh! what a change is here! There was a time
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law
To nations and their rulers; in thy presence
The senate trembled, and the citizens
Flock’d round thee in deep reverence. Then a word,
A look from Caius--a salute, a smile,
Fill’d them with pride. Each sought to be the friend,
The client, ay, the very slave, of him,
The people’s idol; and beholding them
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself,
Didst blush to see their vileness! But thy fortune
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt
Into dim vapour; and the earthly god,
So worshipp’d once, from his forsaken shrines
Down to the dust is hurl’d.
_Caius._ And what of this?
There is no power in fortune to deprive
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart
As meets the storm exultingly--a heart
Whose stem delight it is to strive with fate,
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible
But because man is vile. A coward first
Made her a deity.
* * * * *
But say, what thoughts
Are foster’d by the people? Have they lost
The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name
Of Gracchus in their hearts--reveal the truth--
Already number’d with forgotten things?
_Ful._ A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now there,
Borne on light pinion--such the people’s love!
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults
Are of their miseries; and their feebleness
Is to their woes proportion’d. Haply still
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine.
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute;
And the deep paleness of their timid mien,
And eyes in fix’d despondence bent on earth,
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name,
Alone accuse them. They are hush’d--for now
Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich,
And the patrician Romans. Yes! and well
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth,
For Rome is widow’d! Distant wars engage
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led,
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart
Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people,
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought,
But yet are silent.
_Caius._ I will make them heard.
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came
Prepared for all; and as I track’d the deep
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew
Familiar in its musings. With a voice
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell’d; the waves
Mutter’d around; heaven flash’d in lightning forth,
And the pale steersman trembled: I the while
Stood on the tossing and bewilder’d bark,
Retired and shrouded in my mantle’s folds,
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb’d
In a far deeper storm! Around my heart,
Gathering in secret then, my spirit’s powers
Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts
My country rose,--and I foresaw the snares,
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate,
And my false friends, awaiting my return.
* * * * *
Fulvius! I wept; but they were tears of rage!
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought
Of my wrong’d country, and of him, that brother
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly cried
“Vengeance!”--nor found it yet.
_Ful._ It is fulfill’d.
_Caius._ And how?
_Ful._ Thou shalt be told.
_Caius._ Explain thy words.
_Ful._ Then know--(incautious that I am!)
_Caius._ Why thus
Falters thy voice? Why speak’st thou not?
_Ful._ Forgive!
E’en friendship sometimes hath its secrets.
_Caius._ No!
True friendship never!
Caius afterwards inquires what part his brother-in-law, Scipio
Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their enterprises.
His high renown--
The glorious deeds, whereby was earn’d his name
Of second Africanus; and the blind,
Deep reverence paid him by the people’s hearts,
Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still--
All this disturbs me: hardly will be won
Our day of victory, if by him withstood.
_Ful._ Yet won it _shall_ be. If but this thou fear’st,
Then be at peace.
_Caius._ I understand thee not
_Ful._ Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste
Our time and words. Soon, will the morning break,
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return;
I fly to cheer them with the tidings.
_Caius._ Stay!
_Ful._ And wherefore?
_Caius._ To reveal thy meaning.
_Ful._ Peace!
I hear the sound of steps.
This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the
wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house
of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger
which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians,
who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the
Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus,
on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent
with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on
the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an inquiry
after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the
conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of _nature_.
Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem
to be laid down for the delineation of Roman character in dramatic
poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose
institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the
actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to
enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured
by the austerity of even their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without
compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the
formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their _official_ garb, and
has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature,
without effacing the impress which distinguished “the men of iron,”
from the nations who “stood still before them.”
The first act concludes with the parting of Caius and Fulvius in wrath
and suspicion--Cornelia having accused the latter of an attempt to
seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most
atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty.
Of liberty
What speak’st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no shame--
No virtue--and thy boast is, to be free!
Oh! zeal for liberty! eternal mask
Assumed by every crime!
In the second act, the death of Emilianus is announced to Opimius
the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is
accompanied by a rumour of his having perished by assassination. The
mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia,
immediately recur to the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which
his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, are well contrasted
with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up.
_Caius._ Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius rush,
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart!
(_Fulvius enters._)
Thou comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend!
Scipio lies murder’d on his bed of death!--
Who slew him?
_Ful._ Ask’st thou me?
_Caius._ Thee! thee, who late
Didst in such words discourse of him as now
Assure me thou ’rt his murderer. Traitor, speak!
_Ful._ If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart,
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!
More grateful praise and warmer thanks might well
Reward the generous courage which hath freed
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe.
_Caius._ Then he was slain by thee?
_Ful._ Ungrateful friend!
Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces
Thy honour. Freedom’s wavering light is dim;
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate;
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death
Of infamy, another seeks _thy_ fall;
And when one noble, one determined stroke
To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks
The people’s vengeance, gives thee life and fame
And pacifies thy brother’s angry shade,
Is it a cause for wailing? Am I call’d
For _this_ a murderer? Go!--I say once more,
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!
_Caius._ I know thee now, barbarian! Would’st thou serve
My cause with crimes?
_Ful._ And those of that proud man
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are _they_
To be forgotten? Hath oblivion then
Shrouded the stern destroyer’s ruthless work,
The famine of Numantia? Such a deed
As on our name the world’s deep curses drew!
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray’d,
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs
Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot?
Go, ask of Carthage!--bid her wasted shores
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount
The terrible achievements! At the cries,
The groans, th’ unutterable pangs of those,
The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom’d
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword,
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth
In horror doth not open! They were foes,
They were barbarians, but unarm’d, subdued,
Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak,
To tame the lofty! But in other lands,
Why should I seek for records of his crimes,
If there the suffering people ask in vain
A little earth to lay their bones in peace?
If the decree which yielded to their claims
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal
Thy brother’s blood was shed--if this remain
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he
That mock’d its power?--Who to all Rome declared
Thy brother’s death was just, was needful?--Who
But Scipio? And remember thou the words
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e’en then,
Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart
They have been deeply treasured. He must die,
(Thus did’st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need
That he should perish! I have done the deed;
And call’st thou _me_ his murderer? If the blow
Was guilt, then _thou_ art guilty. From thy lips
The sentence came--the crime is thine alone.
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey
Thy mandate.
_Caius._ Thou my friend! I am not one
To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught
With fate and death, awake to scatter those
Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood,
Bring chains!--degrading Freedom’s lofty self
Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not,
Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine!
I wish’d him slain!--’tis so--but by the axe
Of high and public justice--that whose stroke
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced
Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble!
_Ful._ Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee:
Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty,
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not
To utter more.
_Caius._ And what hast thou to say?
_Ful._ That which I now suppress.
_Caius._ How! are there yet,
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d?
_Ful._ I know not.
_Caius._ Thou know’st not?--Horror chills my curdling veins;
I dare not ask thee further.
_Ful._ Thou dost well.
_Caius._ What saidst thou?
_Ful._ Nothing.
_Caius._ On my heart the words
Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light
Bursts o’er my soul!--Hast thou accomplices?
_Ful._ Insensate! ask me not.
_Caius._ I must be told.
_Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent.
_Caius._ No more of this, for I _will_ know.
_Ful._ Thou wilt?
Ask then thy sister.
_Caius._ (_alone_.) Ask my sister! What!
Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain
Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name
Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus
Consign’d to infamy!--to infamy?
The very hair doth rise upon my head,
Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains
From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do?
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry,
“Away!--and pause not--slay thy guilty sister!”
Voice of lost honour, of a noble line
Disgraced, I will obey thee!--terribly
Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased.
PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.
Whoever has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from
the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must
have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the
renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest
to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country,
the warning voice of her bards has still been heard to prophesy
the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring
recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the
land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have
made her--
“Long, long, a bloody stage
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage.”
There is something very affecting in these vain, though exalted
aspirations after that independence which the Italians, as a nation,
seem destined never to regain. The strains in which their high-toned
feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our minds the same
effect with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught,
in our imagination, with recollections of the green woodland, the free
air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the perpetual _violets
and zephyrs_, whose cloying sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni
of the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to “die in aromatic
pain;” nor is our interest much more excited even by the everlasting
_laurel_ which inspires the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious a
variety of _concetti_, as might reasonably cause it to be doubted
whether the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are the real
object of the bard’s affection; but the moment a patriotic chord is
struck, our feelings are awakened, and we find it easy to sympathise
with the emotions of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the
Capitol; a Venetian when contemplating the proud trophies won by his
ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty
dead, in the church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, _now_ the time
to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; yet cannot we consider
that nation as altogether degraded, whose literature, from the dawn of
its majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture of every
generous principle and ennobling recollection; and whose “choice and
master spirits,” under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive
a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the “ten
thousand tyrants” of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We
present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the
indignant though unavailing regrets of those who, to use the words of
Alfieri, are “slaves, yet still _indignant_ slaves,”[149] have been
feelingly portrayed.
The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to
every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature.
VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.
When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shades
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell:
Day beams o’er other lands, if here she fades,
Nor bids the universe at once farewell.
But thou, I cry, my country! what a night
Spreads o’er thy glories one dark sweeping pall!
Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour’s might
And wisdom’s voice--what now remains of all?
And see’st thou not th’ ascending flame of war
Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar?
Is not thy misery’s evidence complete?
But if endurance can thy fall delay,
Still, still endure, devoted one! and say,
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat.
CARLO MARIA MAGGI.
I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep,
And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep
Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,
Forgetting valour, sinking in despair,
At strangers’ feet!--our land is all too fair;
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed.
In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye,
For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony,
Her death alone may now appease her foes.
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun!
But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone,
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!
[149] “Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi.”--Alfieri.
ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.
Italia! oh, no more Italia now!
Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear:
She was a queen with glory mantled--thou,
A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear,
Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies;
And shadows, born of terror and despair--
Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes.
Italia! oh, Italia now no more!
For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow;
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour
Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe
Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while
Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.
ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.
She that cast down the empires of the world,
And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome,
Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d,
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome:
I see her now, dismantled of her state,
Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground
Beneath a hostile car--and lo! the weight
Of fetters, her imperial neck around!
Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought
This desolation! for I then would say,
“Vengeance, Italia!”--in the burning thought
Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway
Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease,
_Theirs_ is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.
FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.
THE SHORE OF AFRICA.
Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore,
Where verdure never spreads its bright array;
Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore
From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away.
Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay;
Nor found _his_ relics a sepulchral stone,
Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day,
O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone!
Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth,
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth
Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die;
But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins,
Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains,
And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.
JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.”
[“It was either during the present or a future visit to the same
friends,[150] that the _jeu-d’esprit_ was produced which Mrs Hemans
used to call her ‘sheet of forgeries’ on the use of the word Barb.
A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities
from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use
as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the
following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the
mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some
time afterwards.”--_Memoir_, p. 43.]
[150] The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near
Liverpool.
The warrior donn’d his well-worn garb,
And proudly waved his crest,
He mounted on his jet-black barb,
And put his lance in rest.
Percy’s _Reliques_.
Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay,
Spurr’d his brown _barb_, and rode full swiftly on his way.
Spenser.
Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard?
The soul of battle is awake within me!
The fate of ages and of empires hangs
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms?
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed!
Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me?
Haste with my _barb_, or, by the holy saints,
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow!
Massinger.
No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora
tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than
the graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of ladies’
eyes--he of the dazzling breastplate and swanlike plume--sprang
impatiently from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble
_barb_ presented to him by the Emperor of Aspramontania.
Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_.
See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule
The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest--
Fate on his sword is throned--and his white barb,
As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot,
Seems breathing fire. Potter’s _Æschylus_.
Oh! bonnie look’d my ain true knight,
His _barb_ so proudly reining;
I watch’d him till my tearfu’ sight
Grew amaist dim wi’ straining. _Border Minstrelsy._
Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery _barb_, as well as any
gallant in Christendom. He’s the very pink and mirror of accomplishment.
Shakspeare.
Fair star of beauty’s heaven! to call thee mine,
All other joys I joyously would yield;
My knightly crest, my bounding _barb_ resign,
For the poor shepherd’s crook and daisied field;
For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove,
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love!
Earl of Surrey’s _Poems_.
For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown
Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more
Or joyous dance, or music’s thrilling tone,
Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore,
Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet,
Borne on impetuous _barbs_ to bleed at beauty’s feet.
Shakspeare’s _Sonnets_.
As a warrior clad
In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
But mounted on a _barb_ as white
As the fresh new-born light,--
So the black night too soon
Came riding on the bright and silver moon,
Whose radiant heavenly ark
Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem
E’en more than doubly dark,
Mourning, all widow’d of her glorious beam.
Cowley.
THE FEVER DREAM.
[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs
Hemans’s livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other
view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle,
is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then
travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle
may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she
latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange
fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had
given rise to many pleasantries--being an imaginary voyage to China,
performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy,
John Evelyn.]
Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please,
Some account of the converse you held on high seas
With Evelyn, the excellent author of “Sylva,”
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa.
I think that old Neptune was visited ne’er
In so well-rigg’d a ship, by so well-matched a pair.
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any
Companion more pleasant, since you’re fond of botany,
And _his_ horticultural talents are known,
Just as well as Canova’s for fashioning stone.
Of the vessel you sail’d in, I just will remark
That I ne’er heard before of so curious a bark.
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe,
I have read very often, as doubtless have you;
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason;
Of the ship moor’d by Trajan in Nemi’s deep basin;
Of the galley (in Plutarch you’ll find the description)
Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian;
Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”)
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama,
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China,
(I’m astonish’d no shocking disaster befel,)
In that swift-sailing first-rate--a cocoa-nut shell!
I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo,
That abode of a people so gentle and true,
Who with arms and with money have nothing to do.
How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears
Of running _in_ debt, or of running _on_ spears!
Oh dear! what an Eden!--a land without money!
It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey,
Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.”
But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi,
Of whose travels--related in elegant phrases--
I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises,
And have copied (you know I let nothing escape)
His striking account of the frozen North Cape.
I think ’twas in his works I read long ago
(I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,)
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored,
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board)
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero,
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero.
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out,
And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about,
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together.
When my _first_ for a moment had harden’d my _last_,
My _second_ burst out, and all melted as fast;
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on,
But I quite forget which of the elements won.
But a truce with all joking--I hope you’ll excuse me,
Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,
To which answers from you all my wishes will crown;
For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily,
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy;
From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour,
To Forsyth’s _one_ volume, and Eustace’s _four_,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances.
--Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,)
The literal state of the famed Bucentaur,
And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s,
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze;
For some travellers say one thing, and some say another,
And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother.
Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot,
_Are_ the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not?
These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow,
For Venice must interest all--even now.
These points being settled, I ask for no more hence,
But should wish for a few observations from Florence.
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti
Are finish’d; if not ’tis a shame for the city
To let _one_ for ages--was e’er such a thing?--
Its entablature want, and the other its wing.
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter,
And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her)
Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a _wood_-pigeon,
Which makes people _gulls_ in the name of Religion?
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa
Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a _Cosa_
About which I’m anxious--as also to know
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago,
Came back (above all, don’t forget this to mention)
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.
Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out,
That the horses _are_ bright yellow brass beyond doubt;
So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing,
Do you think they are truly Lysippus’s doing?
--When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will,
If the Acqua Toffana’s in fashion there still;
For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity,
’Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity.
I should like to have also, and not written shabbily,
Your opinion about the _Piscina mirabile_;
And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro’s,
Is decided by you to be really Maro’s.
DARTMOOR.
A PRIZE POEM.
[In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention
of awarding a prize for the best poem on “Dartmoor;” and, as might
have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the
following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs Hemans for the composition
which follows.
She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her
the pleasing intelligence of her success:--
“What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost
bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was
announced to them yesterday.... The Bishop’s kind communication put
us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we
should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary’s
letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the
prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which,
although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows
an interest in my literary success, which, from so distinguished a
writer as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of _Paris_,)
cannot but be highly gratifying.”]
“Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.” Campbell.
“May ne’er
That true succession fail of English hearts,
That can perceive, not less than heretofore
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive,
... the charm
Of pious sentiment, diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.” Wordsworth.
Amidst the peopled and the regal isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of power;
Hath Desolation rear’d herself a throne,
And mark’d a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore;
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent
When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent;
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess,
Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given,
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains rude,
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,
As a dark cloud on summer’s clear blue sky,
A mourner, circled with festivity!
For all beyond is life!--the rolling sea,
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E’en on mysterious Afric’s boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,
And naught of life be near, his camel’s tread
Is o’er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear’d by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands--
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory’s footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass’d,
Not without record; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away
The proud creations rear’d to brave decay.
But _thou_, lone region! whose unnoticed name
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Who shall unfold thine annals?--who shall tell
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell,
In those far ages which have left no trace,
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race?
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days
Of kings and chiefs who pass’d without their praise,
Thou mightst have rear’d the valiant and the free,
In history’s page there is no tale of thee.
Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild,
Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled,[151]
But hallow’d by that instinct which reveres
Things fraught with characters of elder years.
And such are these. Long centuries are flown,
Bow’d many a crest, and shatter’d many a throne,
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust,
With what they hide--their shrined and treasured dust.
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold
Earth’s glorious works fast mingling with her mould;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
Th’ eternity of nature, with the forms
Of the crown’d hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms.
Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep,
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season’s breath?
Where is the voice to tell _their_ tale who rest,
Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast?
Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been
A sound of battle midst the silent scene
Where now the flocks repose?--did the scythed car
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?
It may be thus:--the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell[152]
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride,
The chieftain’s power--they had no bard, and died.[153]
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere,
The eternal stars of night have witness’d here.
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,[154]
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone,
Propp’d on its granite pillars, whence the rains
And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains
Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore,
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore,
And many a crested oak, which now lies low,
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe--
Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade,
On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play’d,
And spells were breathed, that fill’d the deepening gloom
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb.
Or, haply, torches waving through the night
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,[155]
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams
Threw o’er the desert’s hundred hills and streams,
A savage grandeur; while the starry skies
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies,
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the North.
But wilder sounds were there: th’ imploring cry
That woke the forest’s echo in reply,
But not the heart’s! Unmoved the wizard train
Stood round their human victim, and in vain
His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance
Look’d up, appealing to the blue expanse,
Where in their calm immortal beauty shone
Heaven’s cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter moan,
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay,
Till, drop by drop, life’s current ebb’d away;
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red,
And the pale moon gleam’d paler on the dead.
Have such things been, and here?--where stillness dwells
Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells,
Thus undisturb’d? Oh! long the gulf of time
Hath closed in darkness o’er those days of crime,
And earth no vestige of their path retains,
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains
With records of man’s conflicts and his doom,
His spirit and his dust--the altar and the tomb.
But ages roll’d away: and England stood
With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood;
And with a lofty calmness in her eye,
And regal in collected majesty,
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze
Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas;
And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank
On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave
Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave.
’Twas then the captives of Britannia’s war[156]
Here for their lovely southern climes afar
In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng
Dragg’d at ambition’s chariot-wheels so long
To die--because a despot could not clasp
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp!
Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient thrones
And temples of the world--the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes--
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams,
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine;
And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept,
When on the field the unshelter’d conscript slept,
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there
Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim’s shriek, as music’s breath,
And lived o’er scenes, the festivals of death!
And there was mirth, too!--strange and savage mirth,
More fearful far than all the woes of earth!
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds for which there is no sacred thing;
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee--
The lightning’s flash upon its blasted tree!
But still, howe’er the soul’s disguise were worn,
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it--woe.
Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive’s doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d,
But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid;
Came _he_ not thither, in his burning force,
The lord, the tamer of dark souls--Remorse?
Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky,
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony,
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day
In light and sound are hurrying on their way:
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart,
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start,
Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill
With accents heard not, save when all is still!
The voice, inaudible when havoc’s strain
Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain;
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung,
And the broad light of conflagration sprung
From the south’s marble cities; hush’d midst cries
That told the heavens of mortal agonies;
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last
In concentrated thunders of the past!
And there, perchance, some long-bewilder’d mind,
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,
Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent
The earthquake power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high
One impulse more of desperate energy;
Might--when the billow’s awful rush was o’er
Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried,
Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified--
Have fix’d, at length, its troubled hopes and fears
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears;
And, in that hour of triumph or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn--but none declare,
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence,
Have turn’d to Him whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud--
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose!
Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell,
And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d--
The agony of prayer--the bursting tears--
The dark remembrances of guilty years,
Crowding upon the spirit in their might?
He, through the storm who look’d, and there was light!
That scene is closed!--that wild, tumultuous breast,
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest!
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife,
Who woke those passions to delirious life;
And days, prepared a brighter course to run,
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!
It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth
O’er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north,
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath,
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death;
While the glad voices of a thousand streams,
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!
But Peace hath nobler changes! O’er the mind,
The warm and living spirit of mankind,
_Her_ influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart,
To life and hope from desolation start!
She with a look dissolves the captive’s chain,
Peopling with beauty widow’d homes again;
Around the mother, in her closing years,
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears
Of the dim past but winning purer light,
To make the present more serenely bright.
Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime,
In silence gliding with the stream of time,
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze
With healing on its wings, o’er isles and seas.
And as Heaven’s breath call’d forth, with genial power,
From the dry wand the almond’s living flower,
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love;
While round its pathway nature softly glows,
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.
Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice!
And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper’s song
E’er lightly sped the summer hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; hope’s bright eye
Beams o’er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,
And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom’d spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.
Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of labour’s day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth;
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales,
And merry England’s voice floats up from all her vales.
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven’s immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky[157]
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,
When holy strains, from life’s pure fount which sprung,
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue.
And such shall be _thy_ music, when the cells,
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells,
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,
In silence broods o’er many a fearful thought,)
Resound to pity’s voice; and childhood thence,
Ere the cold blight hath reach’d its innocence,
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled,
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead,
Shall at the call press forward, to be made
A glorious offering, meet for Him who said,
“Mercy, not sacrifice!” and, when of old
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll’d,
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare
The heart’s deep folds, to read its homage there!
When some crown’d conqueror, o’er a trampled world
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl’d,
And, like those visitations which deform
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm
His pathway to dominion’s lonely sphere,
Silence behind--before him, flight and fear!
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels,
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels,
And earth is moulded but by one proud will,
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still;
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay,
The earthquake homage on its baleful way?
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains
O’er burning cities and forsaken plains?
And shall no harmony of softer close
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows,
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave,
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave?
Oh! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes
Have search’d the depths of life’s realities,
Than the red battle, or the trophied car,
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far;
There are more noble strains than those which swell
The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell!
Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days
Beneath the palms of Judah! ye whose lays
With torrent rapture, from their source on high,
Burst in the strength of immortality!
Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among,
Of conquering hosts, of empires crush’d, ye sung,
But of that spirit destined to explore,
With the bright day-spring, every distant shore,
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed,
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed;
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon’s gloom.
And pour eternal starlight o’er the tomb.
And bless’d and hallow’d be its haunts! for there
Hath man’s high soul been rescued from despair!
There hath th’ immortal spark for heaven been nursed;
There from the rock the springs of life have burst
Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts, that rise
Warm from the source of human sympathies--
Where’er its path of radiance may be traced,
Shall find their temple in the silent waste.
[151] “In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with
stones, which in many instances appear to have been collected into
piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the
natural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor resemble the cairns of
the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall.”--See Cooke’s
_Topographical Survey of Devonshire_.
[152] Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor.
[153]
“Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longâ
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.”--Horace.
“They had no poet, and they died.”--Pope’s _Translation_.
[154] On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one of which
is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous
table-stone, and form a kind of large irregular tripod.
[155] In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the
cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All
the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were
thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to relight them with a
flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.
[156] The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were
confined in a depot on Dartmoor.
[157] In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national
school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children
of convicts.
WELSH MELODIES.
THE HARP OF WALES.
INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY.
Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again
As when the foaming Hirlas[158] horn was crown’d,
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,
And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round:
Wake with the spirit and the power of yore!
Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!
Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came
O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars:
Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame;
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores:
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea--
Ring out, thou harp! he could not silence thee.
Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d,
His banners floated on Eryri’s gales;[159]
But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast,
E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales!
_Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free;
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.
Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall,
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board,
The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall--
Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord!
Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!
[158] Hirlas, from _hir_, long, and _glas_, blue or azure.
[159] Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains.
DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.
By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle’s[160] mystic bowers,
Romans! o’er the deep away!
Think ye, ’tis but nature’s gloom
O’er our shadowy coast which broods?
By the altar and the tomb,
Shun these haunted solitudes!
Know ye Mona’s awful spells?
She the rolling orbs can stay!
She the mighty grave compels
Back to yield its fetter’d prey!
Fear ye not the lightning stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence!--around our central oak
Gods are gathering--Romans, fly!
[160] _Ynys Dywyll_, or the Dark Island--an ancient name for Anglesey.
THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.[161]
Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing
In sunlight and beauty on ocean’s calm breast?
What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing,
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest?
Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith;
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages,
For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death.
Where are they, the high-minded children of glory,
Who steer’d for those distant green spots on the wave?
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story,
In the fields of their country they found not a grave.
Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers
From the flowers of each vale immortality’s breath;
But their steps shall be ne’er on the hills of their fathers--
For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death.
[161] The “Green Islands of Ocean,” or “Green Spots of the Floods,”
called in the _Triads_ “Gwerddonan Llion,” (respecting which some
remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed
to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids,
who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy
this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain
of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover
these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the
voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of
Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of
Britain.--See W. O. Pughe’s _Cambrian Biography_; also _Cambro-Briton_,
i. 124.
THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.[162]
Watch ye well! The moon is shrouded
On her bright throne;
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded,
Waves make wild moan.
’Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing,
And gay songs and wine-cups flowing;
But of winds, in darkness blowing,
O’er seas unknown!
In the dwellings of our fathers,
Round the glad blaze,
Now the festive circle gathers
With harps and lays;
Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing,
Steps are bounding, bards are singing,
--Ay! the hour to all is bringing
Peace, joy, or praise.
Save to us, our night-watch keeping,
Storm-winds to brave,
While the very sea-bird sleeping
Rests in its cave!
Think of us when hearths are beaming,
Think of us when mead is streaming,
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming
On the dark wave!
[162] See note to the “Green Isles of Ocean.”
THE HIRLAS HORN.
Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave[163]
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea;
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave,
The dragons of battle, the sons of the free!
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight,
A beam, like heaven’s lightning,[164] flash’d over the field;
To those who came rushing as storms in their might,
Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield;
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar,
When lances were red from the harvest of war.
Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill
For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour,
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill
That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power:
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn
Of honour and mirth,[165] for the conflict is o’er;
And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne
To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore,
Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won,
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun.
Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those
Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled!
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose,
Their lot shall be lovely--renown to the dead!
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung,
While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d--
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung,
And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound.
The free winds of Maelor[166] shall swell with their name,
And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame.
[163] “Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like
the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist,
and are tipped with gold.”--From the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog.
[164] “Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms,
their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire
flashed out of their spears?”--From the same.
[165] “Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn--badge of honour and
mirth.”--From the same.
[166] Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to
the modern division.
THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;[167]
I weep, for the grave has extinguish’d its light;
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o’er,
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more!
The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still,
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill!
Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene,
Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been!
The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare,
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there!
Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board?
--The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d!
The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night,
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright!
I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief,
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief!
[167]
“The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed--
I must weep awhile, and then be silent.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without being lighted--
Be thou encircled with spreading silence!
* * * * *
The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night,
Since he that own’d it is no more--
Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me.
The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night,
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth,
Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!”
Owen’s _Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.
THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN.
[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of
the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of
the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony,
and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest
maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the
Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek
refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the
residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically
laments in one of his poems. These are still extant; and his elegy on
old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity
and beauty.--See _Cambrian Biography_, and Owen’s _Heroic Elegies and
other poems of Llywarch Hen_.]
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing
With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom;
But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing,
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb!
Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding,
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave?
Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding?
--My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave!
Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger,
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168]
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
--O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping,
When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod![169]
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding,
Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave!
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding,
I turn from heaven’s light, for it smiles on your grave![170]
[168] “What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.”
[169]
“Four and twenty sons to me have been
Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes.”
_Elegies of Llywarch Hen._
The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently
alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards.
[170]
“Hardly has the snow covered the vale,
When the warriors are hastening to the battle;
I do not go, I am hinder’d by infirmity.”
_Elegies of Llywarch Hen._
GRUFYDD’S FEAST.
[“Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully
in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable
peace, made a great feast at his palace in _Ystrad Tywi_ to celebrate
this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he
invited all who would come in peace from _Gwynedd_, _Powys_, the
_Deheubarth_, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time
he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every
entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the
poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations
and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled
in them with honourable gifts.”--_Cambrian Biography._]
Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave,
By the bright festal torches around us that wave!
Set open the gates of the prince’s wide hall,
And hang up the chief’s ruddy spear on the wall!
There is peace in the land we have battled to save:
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,[171]
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight,
With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light;[172]
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown’d,
For the strong hearts in combat that leap’d at its sound!
Like the billows’ dark swell was the path of their might,
Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high,
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
And wake ye the children of song from their dreams,
On Maelor’s wild hills and by Dyfed’s fair streams![173]
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free,
Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be.
Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes,
And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high,
That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die!
[171] Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of
the ancient British bards.
[172] The horn was used for two purposes--to sound the alarm in war,
and to drink the mead at feasts.
[173] Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of water,)
the modern Pembrokeshire.
THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA.
When the last flush of eve is dying
On boundless lakes afar that shine;
When winds amidst the palms are sighing,
And fragrance breathes from every pine:[174]
When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming,
And fire-flies wander bright and free,
Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming,
My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee!
Alone o’er green savannas roving,
Where some broad stream in silence flows,
Or through th’ eternal forests moving,
One only home my spirit knows!
Sweet land, whence memory ne’er hath parted!
To thee on sleep’s light wing I fly;
But happier could the weary-hearted
Look on his own blue hills and die!
TALIESIN’S PROPHECY.
[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still
extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following
effect:--
“Their God they shall worship,
Their language they shall retain,
Their land they shall lose,
Except wild Wales.”]
A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among,
O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung:
“The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul,
The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll,
A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit pass’d,
A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast,
And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung.
“Green island of the mighty![175] see thine ancient race
Driven from their fathers’ realm to make the rocks their
dwelling-place!
I see from Uthyr’s[176] kingdom the sceptre pass away,
And many a fine of bards and chiefs and princely men decay.
But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms,
And wear the crown to which is given dominion o’er the storms,
So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue
To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!”
[174] The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by
travellers.
[175] _Ynys y Cedeirn_, or Isle of the Mighty--an ancient name given to
Britain.
[176] Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the
father of Arthur.
OWEN GLYNDWR’S WAR-SONG.
Saw ye the blazing star?[177]
The heavens look’d down on freedom’s war,
And lit her torch on high!
Bright on the dragon crest[178]
It tells that glory’s wing shall rest,
When warriors meet to die!
Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair
And vengeance in its flame;
Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair
Of conquest and of fame,
And swell the rushing mountain air
With songs to Glendwr’s name.
At the dead hour of night,
Mark’d ye how each majestic height
Burn’d in its awful beams?
Red shone th’ eternal snows,
And all the land, as bright it rose,
Was full of glorious dreams!
O eagles of the battle,[179] rise!
The hope of Gwynedd wakes![180]
It is your banner in the skies
Through each dark cloud which breaks,
And mantles with triumphal dyes
Your thousand hills and lakes!
A sound is on the breeze,
A murmur as of swelling seas!
The Saxon on his way!
Lo! spear and shield and lance,
From Deva’s waves, with lightning glance,
Reflected to the day!
But who the torrent-wave compels
A conqueror’s chain to bear?
Let those who wake the soul that dwells
On our free winds, beware!
The greenest and the loveliest dells
May be the lion’s lair!
Of us _they_ told, the seers,
And monarch bards of elder years,
Who walk’d on earth as powers!
And in their burning strains,
A spell of might and mystery reigns,
To guard our mountain-towers!
--In Snowdon’s caves a prophet lay:[181]
Before his gifted sight,
The march of ages pass’d away
With hero-footsteps bright;
But proudest in that long array,
Was Glendwr’s path of light!
[177] The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing star, which
the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to the cause of Glendwr. It
served to infuse spirit into the minds of a superstitious people, the
first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new
vigour to their actions.--Pennant.
[178] Owen Glendwr styled himself the _Dragon_; a name he assumed in
imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over the Saxons were foretold by
the appearances of a star with a dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as
his badge; and on that account it became a favourite one with the
Welsh.--Pennant.
PRINCE MADOC’S FAREWELL.
Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep?
Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer, whose way
Lies far o’er the measureless worlds of the deep!
Fall, shadows of twilight! and veil the green shore,
That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!
Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land
Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne?
Be hush’d, be forgotten! for ne’er shall the hand
Of minstrel with melody greet my return.
--No! no!--let your echoes still float on the breeze,
And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas!
’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth
Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh;
Away! we will bear over ocean and earth
A name and a spirit that never shall die.
My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign;
But my soul’s quenchless fire, O my country! is thine.
[179] “Bring the horn to Tudwrou, _the Eagle of Battles_.”--See the
_Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a very favourite image
with the ancient Welsh poets.
[180] Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales.
[181] Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his prophecies
on the future lot of the Britons, amongst the mountains of Snowdon.
Many of these, and other ancient prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to
his own cause, and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of his
followers.
CASWALLON’S TRIUMPH.
[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of
the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing
Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression
the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the
first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered
as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed
an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of
celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing.--_Cambrian
Biography._]
From the glowing southern regions,
Where the sun-god makes his dwelling,
Came the Roman’s crested legions
O’er the deep, round Britain swelling.
The wave grew dazzling as he pass’d,
With light from spear and helmet cast;
And sounds in every rushing blast
Of a conqueror’s march were telling.
But his eagle’s royal pinion,
Bowing earth beneath its glory,
Could not shadow with dominion
Our wild seas and mountains hoary!
Back from their cloudy realm it flies,
To float in light through softer skies;
Oh! chainless winds of heaven arise!
Bear a vanquish’d world the story!
Lords of earth! to Rome returning,
Tell how Britain combat wages,
How Caswallon’s soul is burning
When the storm of battle rages!
And ye that shrine high deeds in song,
O holy and immortal throng!
The brightness of his name prolong,
As a torch to stream through ages!
HOWEL’S SONG.
[Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth
century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a
celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the
remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy’s residence, Castle
Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.]
Press on, my steed! I hear the swell[182]
Of Valle Crucis’ vesper-bell,
Sweet floating from the holy dell
O’er woods and waters round.
Perchance the maid I love, e’en now,
From Dinas Brân’s majestic brow,
Looks o’er the fairy world below,
And listens to the sound!
I feel her presence on the scene!
The summer air is more serene,
The deep woods wave in richer green,
The wave more gently flows!
O fair as ocean’s curling foam![183]
Lo! with the balmy hour I come--
The hour that brings the wanderer home,
The weary to repose!
Haste! on each mountain’s darkening crest
The glow hath died, the shadows rest,
The twilight star on Deva’s breast
Gleams tremulously bright;
Speed for Myfanwy’s bower on high!
Though scorn may wound me from her eye,
Oh! better by the sun to die,
Than live in rayless night!
[182] “I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy
account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed
was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm’d steed of Alban reached
the summit of the high land of Brân.”
[183] “My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou
that hast the whiteness of the curling waves!... I know that this
pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose
countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!”--Howel’s _Ode to
Myfanwy_.
THE MOUNTAIN FIRES.
[“The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (_Coelcerthi_) on
November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of
the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is,
however, of older date, and had reference originally to the _Alban
Elved_, or new-year.”--_Cambro-Briton._
When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the
darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath
and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.]
Light the hills! till heaven is glowing
As with some red meteor’s rays!
Winds of night, though rudely blowing,
Shall but fan the beacon-blaze.
Light the hills! till flames are streaming
From Yr Wyddfa’s sovereign steep,[184]
To the waves round Mona gleaming,
Where the Roman track’d the deep!
Be the mountain watch-fires heighten’d,
Pile them to the stormy sky!
Till each torrent-wave is brighten’d,
Kindling as it rushes by.
Now each rock, the mist’s high dwelling,
Towers in reddening light sublime;
Heap the flames! around them telling
Tales of Cambria’s elder time.
Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted,
Many a solemn vigil kept,
When, in ages long departed,
O’er the noble dead they wept.
In the winds we hear their voices--
“Sons! though yours a brighter lot,
When the mountain-land rejoices,
Be her mighty unforgot!”
ERYRI WEN.
[“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus
was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that
whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had
taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest
attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to
their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.”--Pennant.]
Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill,
With heaven’s own azure crown’d!
Who call’d thee--what thou shalt be still,
White Snowdon!--holy ground.
_They_ fabled not, thy sons who told
Of the dread power enshrined
Within thy cloudy mantle’s fold,
And on thy rushing wind!
It shadow’d o’er thy silent height,
It fill’d thy chainless air,
Deep thoughts of majesty and might
For ever breathing there.
Nor hath it fled! the awful spell
Yet holds unbroken sway,
As when on that wild rock it fell
Where Merddin Emrys lay![185]
Though from their stormy haunts of yore
Thine eagles long have flown,[186]
As proud a flight the soul shall soar
Yet from thy mountain-throne!
Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams!
And make the snows thy crest!
The sunlight of immortal dreams
Around thee still shall rest.
Eryri! temple of the bard!
And fortress of the free!
Midst rocks which heroes died to guard,
Their spirit dwells with thee!
[184] Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the
_conspicuous place_, or _object_.
[185] Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock amongst
the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so called from having been the
residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius,
the celebrated prophet and magician: and there, tradition says, he
wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons.
There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the
ascent of Snowdon, called _Maen du yr Arddu_, the black stone of Arddu.
It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in
the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and
the other would become insane.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon
Mountains_.
[186] It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that
eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some
wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the
precipices.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_.
CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.[187]
Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given;
Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven!
So shall our spirits be free as our strains--
The children of song may not languish in chains!
Have ye not trampled our country’s bright crest?
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast?
Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow,
And think ye that still we would linger below?
Rest, ye brave dead! midst the hills of your sires,
Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires?
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain--
The children of song may not breathe in the chain!
[187] This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of
credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic
productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such an
event.--_Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 195.
THE DYING BARD’S PROPHECY.[188]
The hall of harps is lone to-night,
And cold the chieftain’s hearth:
It hath no mead, it hath no light;
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.
The bow lies broken on the floor
Whence the free step is gone;
The pilgrim turns him from the door
Where minstrel-blood hath stain’d the threshold stone.
“And I, too, go: my wound is deep,
My brethren long have died;
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
“Bear it where, on his battle-plain,
Beneath the setting sun,
He counts my country’s noble slain--
Say to him--Saxon, think not _all_ is won.
“Thou hast laid low the warrior’s head,
The minstrel’s chainless hand:
Dreamer! that numberest with the dead
The burning spirit of the mountain-land!
“Think’st thou, because the song hath ceased,
The soul of song is flown?
Think’st thou it woke to crown the feast,
It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone?
“No! by our wrongs, and by our blood!
We leave it pure and free;
Though hush’d awhile, that sounding flood
Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.
“We leave it midst our country’s woe--
The birthright of her breast;
We leave it as we leave the snow
Bright and eternal on Eryri’s crest.
We leave it with our fame to dwell
Upon our children’s breath;
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell--
The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death.
He dies; but yet the mountains stand,
Yet sweeps the torrent’s tide;
And this is yet Aneurin’s[189] land--
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride!
[188] At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward
the First.
[189] Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards.
THE FAIR ISLE.[190]
FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE “WELSH GROUND.”
[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always
accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country; and,
while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed
an ancient song, called _Unbennaeth Prydain_, the Monarchy of Britain.
It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition
of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by
their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon
invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the
bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most
valuable beast that remained.--Jones’s _Historical Account of the
Welsh Bards_.]
[190] Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies
_fair_ or _beautiful isle_.
I.
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time
Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your clime;
All that its eagles behold in their flight
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled height.
Though from your race that proud birthright be torn,
Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born.
CHORUS.
Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile,
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle.
II.
Ages may roll ere your children regain
The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain;
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power,
Around her still gathering in glory’s full hour.
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep,
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep.
CHORUS.
Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile,
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle.
THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS.
[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of
the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and
that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in
the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest
poetical inspiration.]
I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
’Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.
I lay there in silence--a spirit came o’er me;
Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw;
Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I view’d the dread beings around us that hover,
Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath;
And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover,
For a strife was within me of madness and death.
I saw them--the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion--
I _felt_ their dim presence, but knew not their forms!
I saw them--the mighty of ages departed--
The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,--
There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill.
I saw what man looks on, and dies--but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power!
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;--
But oh! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won![191]
[“The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public
as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are
remarkable for the melody of their numbers--in particular, the song
to the well-known air, ‘Ar hyd y nos.’ Her fine feeling for music, in
which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could
she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining
mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted
her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words; and,
although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of
the later ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further
clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in outline,
waiting for the musician’s colouring hand, they must be all praised
as flowing and expressive; and it is needless to remind the reader
how many of them, united with her sister’s music, have obtained the
utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the
Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient
Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But it was an
instinct with Mrs Hernans to catch the picturesque points of national
character, as well as of national music: in the latter she always
delighted.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 80-1.]
[191] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found for original page 153
footnote 1.
THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
[“Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition
of her tragedy, ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ which she originally
wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine
recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald Heber, and the equally
kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was
introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never
the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture
upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from
contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities.
Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed
upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most especially by the
critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed
a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations,
throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its
acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of
her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr
Milman:--‘As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with
much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly
acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in
having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost
to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind
encouragement I have received from you and Mr Reginald Heber, should
be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape,
than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct
my onward path.’”--_Memoir_, p. 81-2.]
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Count di Procida.
Raimond di Procida, _his Son_.
Eribert, _Viceroy_.
De Couci.
Montalba.
Guido.
Alberti.
Anselmo, _a Monk_.
Vittoria.
Constance, _Sister to Eribert_.
_Nobles_, _Soldiers_, _Messengers_, _Vassals_, _Peasants_, &c. &c.
Scene--_Palermo_.
ACT I.
Scene I.--_A Valley, with vineyards and cottages._
_Groups of Peasants_--Procida, _disguised as a Pilgrim, among them_.
_1st Pea._ Ay, this was wont to be a festal time
In days gone by! I can remember well
The old familiar melodies that rose
At break of morn, from all our purple hills,
To welcome in the vintage. Never since
Hath music seem’d so sweet. But the light hearts
Which to those measures beat so joyously,
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice
Of joy through all the land.
_2d Pea._ Yes! there are sounds
Of revelry within the palaces,
And the fair castles of our ancient lords,
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear
From _thence_ the peals of song and laughter rise
At midnight’s deepest hour.
_3d Pea._ Alas! we sat,
In happier days, so peacefully beneath
The olives and the vines our fathers rear’d,
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps
Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe’er
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France
Falls on the peasant’s neck as heavily
As on the crested chieftain’s. We are bow’d
E’en to the earth.
_Pea’s Child._ My father, tell me when
Shall the gay dance and song again resound
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days
Of which thou’rt wont to tell the joyous tale?
_1st Pea._ When there are light and reckless hearts once more
In Sicily’s green vales. Alas, my boy!
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl,
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside
The weight of work-day care: they meet to speak
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts
They dare not breathe aloud.
_Pro._ (_from the background._) Ay, it is well
So to relieve th’ o’erburthen’d heart, which pants
Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far
In silence to avenge them!
_An Old Pea._ What deep voice
Came with that startling tone?
_1st Pea._ It was our guest’s,
The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn’d here
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well:
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords
Ill with such vestments. How he folds around him
His pilgrim-cloak, e’en as it were a robe
Of knightly ermine! That commanding step
Should have been used in courts and camps to move.
Mark him!
_Old Pea._ Nay, rather mark him not; the times
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here?
_A Youth._ He spoke of vengeance!
_Old Pea._ Peace! we are beset
By snares on every side, and we must learn
In silence and in patience to endure.
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death.
_Pro._ (_coming forward indignantly._)
The word is death! And what hath life for _thee_,
That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing!
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,
And stamp’d with servitude. What! is it life
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e’en then,
Strangers should catch its echo?--Is there aught
In _this_ so precious, that thy furrow’d cheek
Is blanch’d with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on?
_Some of the Peas._ Away, away!
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence.
_Pro._ Why, what is danger? Are there deeper
ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain’d
The cup of bitterness till naught remains
To fear or shrink from--therefore, be ye strong!
Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts
Lock’d in your secret souls? Full well I know
There is not one among you but hath nursed
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make
One conflict of his life. I know _thy_ wrongs--
And thine--and thine; but if within your breast
There is no chord that vibrates to _my_ voice,
Then fare ye well.
_A Youth_ (_coming forward._) No, no! say on, say on!
There are still free and fiery hearts e’en here,
That kindle at thy words.
_Pea._ If that indeed
Thou hast a hope to give us----
_Pro._ There is hope
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts
Which work in silent strength. What! think ye heaven
O’erlooks the oppressor, if he bear awhile
His crested head on high? I tell you, no!
Th’ avenger will not sleep. It was an hour
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king,
Our young brave Conradin, in life’s fair morn
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less
Is Justice throned above; and her good time
Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth,
And hath been heard. The traces of the past
Fade in _man’s_ heart, but ne’er doth heaven forget.
_Pea._ Had we but arms and leaders, we are men
Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these,
What wouldst thou have us do?
_Pro._ Be vigilant;
And when the signal wakes the land, arise!
The peasant’s arm is strong, and there shall be
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well.
[_Exit_ Procida.
_1st Pea._ This man should be a prophet: how he seem’d
To read our hearts with his dark searching glance
And aspect of command! and yet his garb
Is mean as ours.
_2d Pea._ Speak low; I know him well.
At first his voice disturb’d me, like a dream
Of other days; but I remember now
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served
Beneath the banners of our kings! ’Tis he
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long,
The Count di Procida.
_Pea._ And is this he?
Then heaven protect him! for around his steps
Will many snares be set.
_1st Pea._ He comes not thus
But with some mighty purpose--doubt it not;
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved
True to our native princes. But away!
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now
We may resume our toil.
_Exeunt Peasants._
Scene II.--_The Terrace of a Castle._
Eribert, Vittoria.
_Vit._ Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart
Blighted and cold?--Th’ affections of my youth
Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed,
And all the soft and playful tenderness
Which hath its home in woman’s breast, ere yet
Deep wrongs have sear’d it--all is fled from mine.
Urge me no more.
_Eri._ O lady! doth the flower
That sleeps entomb’d through the long wintry storms,
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring,
And shall not woman’s heart, from chill despair,
Wake at love’s voice?
_Vit._ Love!--make _love’s_ name thy spell,
And I am strong!--the very word calls up
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array’d
In arms against thee! Know’st thou _whom_ I loved,
While my soul’s dwelling-place was still on earth?
One who was born for empire, and endow’d
With such high gifts of princely majesty,
As bow’d all hearts before him! Was he not
Brave, royal, beautiful? And such he died;
He died!--hast thou forgotten?--And thou’rt here,
Thou meet’st my glance with eyes which coldly look’d,
--Coldly!--nay, rather with triumphant gaze,
Upon his murder! Desolate as I am,
Yet in the mien of _thine_ affianced bride,
O my lost Conradin! there should be still
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o’erawe
The hearts of thine assassins.
_Eri._ Haughty dame!
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed,
Know danger is around thee: thou hast foes
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone
Can shield thee from their arts.
_Vit._ Provençal, tell
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart
Which hath its little world of loved ones round.
For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys
That make earth Paradise. I stand alone;
--They that are blest may fear.
_Eri._ Is there not one
Who ne’er commands in vain? Proud lady, bend
Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he,
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path,
O’er the bow’d neck of prostrate Sicily,
Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king,
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon
My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power
Against his mandates?
_Vit._ Viceroy, tell thy lord
That, e’en where chains lie heaviest on the land,
Souls may not all be fetter’d. Oft, ere now,
Conquerors have rock’d the earth, yet fail’d to tame
Unto their purposes that restless fire
Inhabiting man’s breast. A spark bursts forth,
And so they perish! ’Tis the fate of those
Who sport with lightning--and it may be his.
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free.
_Eri._ ’Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again
Bethink thee, lady! Love may change--_hath_ changed
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well.
--Look to it yet!--To-morrow I return.
[_Exit_ Eribert.
_Vit._ To-morrow!--Some ere now have slept and dreamt
Of morrows which ne’er dawn’d--or ne’er for them;
So silently their deep and still repose
Hath melted into death! Are there not balms
In nature’s boundless realm, to pour out sleep
Like this on me? Yet should my spirit still
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear
To _his_ a glorious tale of his own isle,
Free and avenged.--_Thou_ shouldst be now at work,
In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high,
Through the red heaven of sunset!--sleep’st thou still,
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread
The glowing vales beneath?
[Procida _enters, disguised_.
Ha! who art thou,
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step
Dost steal upon me?
_Pro._ One o’er whom hath pass’d
All that can change man’s aspect! Yet not long
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness.
I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous,
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence.
--Know’st thou _this_, lady?
[_He shows a ring._
_Vit._ Righteous heaven! the pledge
Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown
By him who perish’d, and whose kingly blood
E’en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high--
--Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida,
Th’ Avenger, the Deliverer!
_Pro._ Call me so,
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell
If the return’d _be_ welcome? Many a heart
Is changed since last we met.
_Vit._ Why dost thou gaze,
With such a still and solemn earnestness,
Upon my alter’d mien?
_Pro._ That I may read
If to the widow’d love of Conradin,
Or the proud Eribert’s triumphant bride,
I now intrust my fate.
_Vit._ Thou, Procida!
That _thou_ shouldst wrong me thus!--prolong thy gaze
Till it hath found an answer.
_Pro._ ’Tis enough.
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change
Is from death’s hue to fever’s; in the wild
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye,
And in thy wasted form. Ay, ’tis a deep
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace,
Instead of youth’s gay bloom, the characters
Of noble suffering: on thy brow the same
Commanding spirit holds its native state,
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed
This tyrant Eribert.
_Vit._ And told it not
A tale of insolent love repell’d with scorn--
Of stern commands and fearful menaces
Met with indignant courage? Procida!
It was but now that haughtily I braved
His sovereign’s mandate, which decrees my hand,
With its fair appanage of wide domains
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon,
To recompense his crimes.--I smiled--ay, smiled--
In proud security; for the high of heart
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace,
Though it be dark and lone.
_Pro._ Thou shalt not need
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words:
I tell thee that a spirit is abroad
Which will not slumber, till its path be traced
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live!
It is most meet that thou _shouldst_ live, to see
The mighty expiation; for thy heart
(Forgive me that I wrong’d its faith!) hath nursed
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set
Deep on thy marble brow.
_Vit._ Then thou _canst_ tell
By gazing on the wither’d rose, that there
Time, or the blight, hath work’d! Ay, this is in
Thy vision’s scope: but oh! the things unseen,
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass
Hourly o’er that mysterious world, a mind
To ruin struck by grief! Yet doth my soul,
Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope,
Wherein is bright vitality. ’Tis to see
_His_ blood avenged, and his fair heritage,
My beautiful native land, in glory risen,
Like a warrior from his slumbers!
_Pro._ Hear’st thou not
With what a deep and ominous moan the voice
Of our great mountain swells? There will be soon
A fearful burst! Vittoria! brood no more
In silence o’er thy sorrows, but go forth
Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,)
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark
Thou’lt find already kindled. I move on
In shadow, yet awakening in my path
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well.
_Vit._ When shall we meet again?--Are we not those
Whom most he loved on earth, and think’st thou not
_That_ love e’en yet shall bring his spirit near,
While thus we hold communion?
_Pro._ Yes, I feel
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee,
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb;
He shall have nobler tribute!--I must hence,
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time.
[_Exeunt separately._
Scene III.--_The Sea-shore._
Raimond di Procida, Constance.
_Con._ There is a shadow far within your eye,
Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont,
Upon the clearness of your open brow,
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well,
If some dark thought be gathering o’er your soul,
To hide it from affection. Why is this?
My Raimond, why is this?
_Raim._ Oh! from the dreams
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still
A wild and stormy wakening? They depart--
Light after light, our glorious visions fade,
The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil’d,
Lies pale around; and life’s realities
Press on the soul, from its unfathom’d depth
Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts,
In all their fearful strength! ’Tis ever thus,
And doubly so with me; for I awoke
With high aspirings, making it a curse
To breathe where noble minds are bow’d, as here.
--To breathe!--It is not breath!
_Con._ I know thy grief,
--And is’t not mine?--for those devoted men
Doom’d with their life to expiate some wild word,
Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt,
E’en at my brother’s feet, with fruitless tears,
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut
Against my voice; yet will I not forsake
The cause of mercy.
_Raim._ Waste not thou thy prayers,
O gentle love! for them. There’s little need
For pity, though the galling chain be worn
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart!
There is a world beyond the oppressor’s reach,
And thither lies their way.
_Con._ Alas! I see
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul.
_Raim._ Pardon, belovèd Constance, if my words,
From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance,
A tone of bitterness. Oh! when thine eyes,
With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix’d
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget
All else in their soft beams; and yet I came
To tell thee----
_Con._ What? What wouldst thou say? Oh speak!
Thou wouldst not leave me!
_Raim._ I have cast a cloud,
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin’d fortunes,
O’er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone,
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy,
E’en as before we met--before we loved!
_Con._ This is but mockery. Well thou know’st thy love
Hath given me nobler being; made my heart
A home for all the deep sublimities
Of strong affection; and I would not change
Th’ exalted life I draw from that pure source,
With all its checker’d hues of hope and fear,
E’en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind!
Have I deserved this?
_Raim._ Oh! thou hast deserved
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine.
Think not ’tis mockery! But I cannot rest
To be the scorn’d and trampled thing I am
In this degraded land. Its very skies,
That smile as if but festivals were held
Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine
For freedom’s charter’d air. I would go forth
To seek my noble father: he hath been
Too long a lonely exile, and his name
Seems fading in the dim obscurity
Which gathers round my fortunes.
_Con._ Must we part?
And is it come to this? Oh! I have still
Deem’d it enough of joy with _thee_ to share
E’en grief itself. And now! But this is vain.
Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman’s love:
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves
The treasures of her soul!
_Raim._ Oh, speak not thus!
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold
Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but
To be more worthy of a love like thine;
For I have dreamt of fame! A few short years,
And we may yet be blest.
_Con._ A few short years!
Less time may well suffice for death and fate
To work all change on earth; to break the ties
Which early love had form’d; and to bow down
Th’ elastic spirit, and to blight each flower
Strewn in life’s crowded path! But be it so!
Be it enough to know that happiness
Meets thee on other shores.
_Raim._ Where’er I roam,
Thou shalt be with my soul! Thy soft low voice
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back
Life’s morning freshness. Oh! that there should be
Things which we love with such deep tenderness,
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe
Dwells in one hour like this! Yet weep thou not!
We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love!
Ere I depart.
_Con._ Then there’s a respite still.
Days!--not a day but in its course may bring
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside
Th’ impending blow we shrink from. Fare thee well. (_Returning._)
--Oh, Raimond! this is not our _last_ farewell!
Thou wouldst not so deceive me?
_Raim._ Doubt me not,
Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again.
[_Exit_ Constance.
_Raim._ (_after a pause._)
When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope
To those untameable and burning thoughts,
And restless aspirations, which consume
My heart i’ th’ land of bondage? Oh! with you,
Ye everlasting images of power
And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep,
And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced--
With you my soul finds room, and casts aside
The weight that doth oppress her. But my thoughts
Are wandering far; there should be one to share
This awful and majestic solitude
Of sea and heaven with me.
[Procida _enters unobserved_.
It is the hour
He named, and yet he comes not.
_Pro._ (_coming forward._) He is here.
_Raim._ Now, thou mysterious stranger--thou, whose glance
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue
Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours--
Reveal thyself; what art thou?
_Pro._ One whose life
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms,
With still a mighty aim. But now the shades
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come
To this, my native land, that I may rest
Beneath its vines in peace.
_Raim._ Seek’st thou for peace?
This is no land of peace: unless that deep
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men’s thoughts
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien
With a dull hollow semblance of repose,
May so be call’d.
_Pro._ There are such calms full oft
Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been
So vainly school’d by fortune, and inured
To shape my course on peril’s dizzy brink,
That it should irk my spirit to put on
Such guise of hush’d submissiveness as best
May suit the troubled aspect of the times.
_Raim._ Why, then, thou’rt welcome, stranger, to the land
Where most disguise is needful. He were bold
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother’s eye
Doth search distrustfully the brother’s face;
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn
From the same past their long remembrances,
Now meet in terror, or no more; lest hearts
Full to o’erflowing, in their social hour,
Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds
Might whisper to our conquerers. This it is,
To wear a foreign yoke.
_Pro._ It matters not
To him who holds the mastery o’er his spirit,
And can suppress its workings, till endurance
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves
To all extremes, and there is that in life
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp,
Even when its lofty aims are all reduced
To the poor common privilege of breathing.
--Why dost thou turn away?
_Raim._ What wouldst thou with me?
I deem’d thee, by th’ ascendant soul which lived
And made its throne on thy commanding brow,
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn
So to abase its high capacities
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest.
What wouldst thou with me?
_Pro._ I would counsel thee.
Thou must do that which men--ay, valiant men--
Hourly submit to do; in the proud court,
And in the stately camp, and at the board
Of midnight revellers, whose flush’d mirth is all
A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze
Of mortal eye? If vengeance wait the foe,
Or fate th’ oppressor, ’tis in depths conceal’d
Beneath a smiling surface.--Youth, I say,
Keep thy soul down! Put on a mask!--’tis worn
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth
And specious intercourse of life requires
Its aid in every scene.
_Raim._ Away, dissembler!
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks,
Fitted to every nature. Will the free
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts
By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey?
It is because I _will_ not clothe myself
In a vile garb of coward semblances,
That now, e’en now, I struggle with my heart,
To bid what most I love a long farewell,
And seek my country on some distant shore,
Where such things are unknown!
_Pro._ (_exultingly._) Why, this is joy:
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears,
And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds,
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing
Oppression hath not crush’d. High-hearted youth,
Thy father, should his footsteps e’er again
Visit these shores----
_Raim._ My father! what of him?
Speak! was he known to thee?
_Pro._ In distant lands
With him I’ve traversed many a wild, and look’d
On many a danger; and the thought that thou
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy,
Oft through the storm hath cheer’d him.
_Raim._ Dost thou deem
That still he lives? Oh! if it be in chains,
In woe, in poverty’s obscurest cell,
Say but he lives--and I will track his steps
E’en to earth’s verge!
_Pro._ It may be that he lives,
Though long his name hath ceased to be a word
Familiar in man’s dwellings. But its sound
May yet be heard! Raimond di Procida,
Rememberest thou thy father?
_Raim._ From my mind
His form hath faded long, for years have pass’d
Since he went forth to exile: but a vague,
Yet powerful image of deep majesty,
Still dimly gathering round each thought of him,
Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love
For his inspiring name hath long become
Part of my being.
_Pro._ Raimond! doth no voice
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms
That would enfold thee now? My son! my son!
_Raim._ Father! Oh God!--my father! Now I know
Why my heart woke before thee!
_Pro._ Oh! this hour
Makes hope reality; for thou art all
My dreams had pictured thee!
_Raim._ Yet why so long
E’en as a stranger hast thou cross’d my paths,
One nameless and unknown?--and yet I felt
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice.
_Pro._ Because I would not link thy fate with I mine,
Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope
Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth!
_Thou_ hast told _me_ of a subdued and scorn’d
And trampled land, whose very soul is bow’d
And fashion’d to her chains:--but _I_ tell _thee_
Of a most generous and devoted land,
A land of kindling energies; a land
Of glorious recollections!--proudly true
To the high memory of her ancient kings,
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast
Her alien bondage off!
_Raim._ And where is this?
_Pro._ Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily!
Her spirit is awake, and moving on,
In its deep silence mightier, to regain
Her place amongst the nations; and the hour
Of that tremendous effort is at hand.
_Raim._ Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour’st new life
Through all my burning veins! I am as one
Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep
To the full glorious day.
_Pro._ Thou shalt hear more!
Thou shalt hear things which would--which _will_, arouse
The proud free spirits of our ancestors
E’en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well!
Be secret!--for along my destined path
I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me,
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts
There lies a nation’s strength.
_Raim._ My noble father!
Thy words have given me all for which I pined--
An aim, a hope, a purpose! And the blood
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins,
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds
By the quick sun-stroke freed.
_Pro._ Ay, this is well!
Such natures burst men’s chains!--Now follow me.
[_Exeunt._
ACT II.
Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._
Eribert, Constance.
_Con._ Will you not hear me? Oh! that they who need
Hourly forgiveness--they who do but live
While mercy’s voice, beyond th’ eternal stars,
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of pageant power,
Hard and relentless! Gentle brother! yet
’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven,
Whose noblest joy is pardon.
_Eri._ ’Tis too late.
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads
With eloquent melody--but they must die.
_Con._ What!--die!--for words?--for breath which leaves no trace
To sully the pure air wherewith it blends,
And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough
For such a venial fault to be deprived
One little day of man’s free heritage,
Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem
That evil harbours in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stem justice wake.
_Eri._ I am not one
Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been
Where power sits crown’d and arm’d. And, mark me, sister!
To a distrustful nature it might seem
Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead
For these Sicilian rebels. O’er _my_ being
Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note--
I have said, and they must die.
_Con._ Have you no fear?
_Eri._ Of what?--that heaven should fall?
_Con._ No!--But that earth
Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e’en midst festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance,
My heart hath died within me.
_Eri._ Am I then
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl,
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?
_Con._ Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul,
Which may not speak in words, can find no way
But theirs to liberty! Have not these men
Brave sons or noble brothers?
_Eri._ Yes! whose name
It rests with me to make a word of fear--
A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.
_Con._ But not forgotten! Ah! beware, beware!
--Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one
Of that devoted band, who yet will need
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek
The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope
Just dawning in her breast: and I--I dared
To foster its faint spark. You smile!--Oh! then
He will be saved!
_Eri._ Nay, I but smiled to think
What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, ’tis strange!
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mock’d the boy’s sad mother: I have said--
You should not thus have _mock’d_ her!--Now, farewell!
[_Exit_ Eribert.
_Con._ O brother! hard of heart!--for deeds like these
There must be fearful chastening, if on high
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son
Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale
May slay _her_ too--for heaven is merciful.
--’Twill be a bitter task!
[_Exit_ Constance.
Scene II.--_A ruined Tower surrounded by woods._
Procida, Vittoria.
_Pro._ Thy vassals are prepared, then?
_Vit._ Yes; they wait
Thy summons to their task.
_Pro._ Keep the flame bright,
But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady,
To join our councils at the night’s mid watch,
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross?
_Vit._ What should I shrink from?
_Pro._ Oh! the forest-paths
Are dim and wild, e’en when the sunshine streams
Through their high arches; but when powerful night
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds
Of her mysterious winds; their aspect _then_
Is of another and more fearful world--
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms,
Waking strange thoughts almost too much for this--
Our frail terrestrial nature.
_Vit._ Well I know
All this, and more. Such scenes have been th’ abodes
Where through the silence of my soul have pass’d
Voices and visions from the sphere of those
That have to die no more! Nay, doubt it not!
If such unearthly intercourse hath e’er
Been granted to our nature, ’tis to hearts
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone,
Unmadden’d could sustain the fearful joy
And glory of its trances! At the hour
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth
And air with infinite viewless multitudes,
I will be with thee, Procida.
_Pro._ Thy presence
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse
That which may strengthen our majestic cause
With yet a deeper power. Know’st thou the spot?
_Vit._ Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone,
In these dim woods, but I have visited
Its tangled shades.
_Pro._ At midnight, then, we meet.
[_Exit_ Procida.
_Vit._ Why should I fear? Thou wilt be with me--thou,
Th’ immortal dream and shadow of my soul,
Spirit of him I love! that meet’st me still
In loneliness and silence; in the noon
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths,
Known but to me; for whom thou giv’st the winds
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice,
Till my heart faints with that o’erthrilling joy!
--Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame
That thou art unavenged!
[_Exit_ Vittoria.
Scene III.--_A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a
sword._--_Moonlight._
Procida, Raimond, Montalba.
_Mon._ And know you not my story?
_Pro._ In the lands
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs
Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear.
I would fain hear it now.
_Mon._ Hark! while you spoke,
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze,
Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon,
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves,
And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth,
Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years
Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d
My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams
Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles,
But all of joy! And there were bounding steps,
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck
When his plumed helm is doff’d.--Hence, feeble thoughts!
--I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine!
_Raim._ And were they realised?
_Mon._ Youth! ask me not,
But listen! I drew near my own fair home--
There was no light along its walls, no sound
Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height
At my approach, although my trampling steed
Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown
All open. Then my heart misgave me first,
And on the threshold of my silent hall
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced
My soul e’en now! I call’d--my struggling voice
Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names.
They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength,
And wildly rush’d within.--And they were there.
_Raim._ And was all well?
_Mon._ Ay, well!--for death is well:
And they were all at rest! I see them yet,
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d
To stay the assassin’s arm!
_Raim._ Oh, righteous Heaven!
Who had done this?
_Mon._ Who!
_Pro._ Canst thou question, _who?_
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds,
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime,
But those whose yoke is on us?
_Raim._ Man of woe!
What words hath pity for despair like thine?
_Mon._ Pity!--fond youth!--My soul disdains the grief
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies
To ask a vain companionship of tears,
And so to be relieved!
_Pro._ For woes like these
There is no sympathy but vengeance.
_Mon._ None!
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts
Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round!
We are in th’ awful presence of the dead;
Within yon tomb _they_ sleep whose gentle blood
Weighs down the murderer’s soul. _They_ sleep!--but I
Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword,
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone,
As on an altar; and the eternal stars,
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow,
No more to wield it save in one great cause--
The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour
Of that atonement comes!
[_He takes the sword from the tomb._
_Raim._ My spirit burns!
And my full heart almost to bursting swells.
--Oh, for the day of battle!
_Pro._ Raimond, they
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die,
--But not in battle.
_Raim._ How, my father?
_Pro._ No!
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach
Another lesson. But the appointed hour
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band,
Noble Montalba?
_Mon._ Leave me for a time,
That I may calm my soul by intercourse
With the still dead, before I mix with men
And with their passions. I have nursed for years,
In silence and in solitude, the flame
Which doth consume me; and it is not used
Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida!
I would be tranquil--or appear so--ere
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart
There struck a pang--but it will soon have pass’d.
_Pro._ Remember!--in the cavern by the cross.
Now follow me, my son.
[_Exeunt_ Procida _and_ Raimond.
_Mon._ (_after a pause, leaning on the tomb._)
Said he, “_My son_?” Now, why should this man’s life
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son,
And I be desolate? How strange a sound
Was that--“_my son_!” I had a boy, who might
Have worn as free a soul upon his brow
As doth this youth. Why should the thought of _him_
Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways
Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour
By fathers with their children, and I must
Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now
A gloomy consolation to behold
All men bereft as I am! But away,
Vain thoughts!--One task is left for blighted hearts,
And it shall be fulfill’d.
_Exit_ Montalba.
Scene IV.--_Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by rocks and forests._ _A
rude Cross seen among the rocks._
Procida, Raimond.
_Pro._ And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies
Of midnight, and in solitary caves,
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair--
Is’t thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold
The councils of their country?
_Raim._ Why, such scenes
In their primeval majesty, beheld
Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire
Far deeper thoughts than pillar’d halls, wherein
Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not
O’ershadow’d by that Etna, which of old
With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay
Through tyrants’ hearts, and bade them seek a home
In other climes? Hark! from its depths, e’en now,
What hollow moans are sent!
_Enter_ Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.
_Pro._ Welcome, my brave associates! We can share
The wolf’s wild freedom here! Th’ oppressor’s haunt
Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met?
_Sicilians._ All, all!
_Pro._ The torchlight, sway’d by every gust,
But dimly shows your features.--Where is he
Who from his battles had return’d to breathe
Once more without a corslet, and to meet
The voices and the footsteps and the smiles
Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale
The rest is known to vengeance! Art thou here,
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair,
Childless Montalba?
_Mon._ (_advancing._) He is at thy side.
Call on that desolate father in the hour
When his revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ Thou, too, come forth,
From thine own halls an exile! Dost thou make
The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still,
While hostile banners o’er thy rampart walls
Wave their proud blazonry?
_1st Sicilian._ Even so. I stood
Last night before my own ancestral towers
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat
On my bare head. What reck’d it? There was joy
Within, and revelry; the festive lamps
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs
I’ th’ stranger’s tongue, made mirth. They little deem’d
Who heard their melodies! But there are thoughts
Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows
Known to the mountain echoes. Procida!
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ I knew a young Sicilian--one whose heart
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day
When, with our martyr’d Conradin, the flower
Of the land’s knighthood perish’d; he of whom
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid,
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms,
Calling upon his father, whose last look
Turn’d full on him its parting agony.
The father’s blood gush’d o’er him! and the boy
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye,
And a proud flush on his young cheek, look’d up
To the bright heaven.--Doth he remember still
That bitter hour?
_2d Sicilian._ He bears a sheathless sword!
--Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ Our band shows gallantly--but there are men
Who should be with us now, had they not dared
In some wild moment of festivity
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish
For freedom!--and some traitor--it might be
A breeze perchance--bore the forbidden sound
To Eribert: so they must die--unless
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select
Some other victim first! But have they not
Brothers or sons among us?
_Gui._ Look on me!
I have a brother--a young high-soul’d boy,
And beautiful as a sculptor’s dream, with brow
That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is
A glorious creature! But his doom is seal’d
With theirs of whom ye spoke; and I have knelt--
Ay, scorn me not! ’twas for his life--I knelt
E’en at the viceroy’s feet, and he put on
That heartless laugh of cold malignity
We know so well, and spurn’d me. But the stain
Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off,
And _thus_ it shall be cancell’d! Call on me,
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh.
_Pro._ I call upon thee _now_! The land’s high soul
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues
To deeper life before it. In his chains,
The peasant dreams of freedom!--Ay, ’tis thus
Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame
With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers
For what she blindly works! When slavery’s cup
O’erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant
To dull our senses, through each burning vein
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength
To burst man’s fetters. And they _shall_ be burst!
I have hoped, when hope seem’d frenzy; but a power
Abides in human will, when bent with strong
Unswerving energy on one great aim,
To make and rule its fortunes! I have been
A wanderer in the fulness of my years,
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas,
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands,
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near:
But we must give the signal. Now, before
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye
Is on our hearts--whose righteous arm befriends
The arm that strikes for freedom--speak! decree
The fate of our oppressors.
_Mon._ Let them fall
When dreaming least of peril!--when the heart,
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword
With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines
Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there,
And bid them welcome to the feast of death.
_Pro._ Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words
Scarce meet our ears.
_Mon._ Why, then, I must repeat
Their import. Let th’ avenging sword burst forth
In some free festal hour--and woe to him
Who first shall spare!
_Raim._ Must innocence and guilt
Perish alike?
_Mon._ Who talks of innocence?
When hath _their_ hand been stay’d for innocence?
Let them all perish!--Heaven will choose its own.
Why should _their_ children live? The earthquake whelms
Its undistinguish’d thousands, making graves
Of peopled cities in its path--and this
Is heaven’s dread justice--ay, and it is well!
Why then should we be tender, when the skies
Deal thus with man? What if the infant bleed?
Is there not power to hush the mother’s pangs?
What if the youthful bride perchance should fall
In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause?
As if death were not mercy to the pangs
Which make our lives the records of our woes?
Let them all perish! And if one be found
Amidst our band to stay th’ avenging steel
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love,
Then be his doom as theirs! [_A pause._
Why gaze ye thus?
Brethren, what means your silence!
_Sicilians._ Be it so!
If one among us stay th’ avenging steel
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs!
Pledge we our faith to this!
_Raim._ (_rushing forward indignantly._) Our faith to _this_!
No! I but _dreamt_ I heard it! Can it be?
My countrymen, my father!--is it thus
That freedom should be won? Awake!--awake
To loftier thoughts! Lift up exultingly,
On the crown’d heights and to the sweeping winds,
Your glorious banner! Let your trumpet’s blast
Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud,
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear
The stranger’s yoke no longer! What is he
Who carries on his practised lip a smile,
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings?
That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from,
And our blood curdle at--ay, yours and mine--
A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours
Go down to after days? O friends! a cause
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names
Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men--
Sounds full of might and immortality!
And shall not ours be such?
_Mon._ Fond dreamer, peace!
Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave!
At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth
Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst,
Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught:
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left
No other joy unblighted.
_Pro._ O my son!
The time is past for such high dreams as thine.
Thou know’st not whom we deal with: knightly faith
And chivalrous honour are but things whereon
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge.
And, for our names--whate’er the deeds by which
We burst our bondage--is it not enough
That in the chronicle of days to come,
We, through a bright “For Ever,” shall be call’d
The men who saved their country?
_Raim._ Many a land
Hath bow’d beneath the yoke, and then arisen
As a strong lion rending silken bonds,
And on the open field, before high heaven,
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made
Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own
It is enough of glory to be call’d
The children of the mighty, who redeem’d
Their native soil--but not by means like these.
_Mon._ I have no children. Of Montalba’s blood
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins
Of aught that breathes? Why, what have _I_ to do
With far futurity? My spirit lives
But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree
Which the warm sun revives not, _then_ return,
Strong in thy desolation: but till then,
Thou art not for our purpose; we have need
Of more unshrinking hearts.
_Raim._ Montalba! know
I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice
Might yet have power among you, I would say,
Associates, leaders, _be_ avenged! but yet
As knights, as warriors!
_Mon._ Peace! have we not borne
Th’ indelible taint of contumely and chains?
We _are not_ knights and warriors. Our bright crests
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth.
Boy! we are slaves--and our revenge shall be
Deep as a slave’s disgrace.
_Raim._ Why, then, farewell:
I leave you to your counsels. He that still
Would hold his lofty nature undebased,
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here.
_Pro._ And is it thus indeed?--dost _thou_ forsake
Our cause, my son!
_Raim._ O father! what proud hopes
This hour hath blighted! Yet, whate’er betide,
It is a noble privilege to look up
Fearless in heaven’s bright face--and this is mine,
And shall be still. [_Exit_ Raimond.
_Pro._ He’s gone! Why, let it be!
I trust our Sicily hath many a son
Valiant as mine. Associates! ’tis decreed
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name
The hour, the scene, the signal.
_Mon._ It should be
In the full city, when some festival
Hath gather’d throngs, and lull’d infatuate hearts
To brief security. Hark! is there not
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze?
We are betray’d.--Who art thou?
Vittoria _enters_.
_Pro._ _One_ alone
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil
That shades thy noble brow.
[_She raises her veil--the Sicilians draw back with respect._
_Sicilians._ Th’ affianced bride
Of our lost king!
_Pro._ And more, Montalba; know
Within this form there dwells a soul as high
As warriors in their battles e’er have proved,
Or patriots on the scaffold.
_Vit._ Valiant men!
I come to ask your aid. You see me, one
Whose widow’d youth hath all been consecrate
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held
In token and memorial of the dead.
Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth,
But to behold one great atonement made,
And keep one name from fading in men’s hearts,
A tyrant’s will should force me to profane
Heaven’s altar with unhallow’d vows--and live
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn
Of my own bosom, live--another’s bride?
_Sicilians._ Never! oh, never! Fear not, noble lady!
Worthy of Conradin!
_Vit._ Yet hear me still--
_His_ bride, that Eribert’s, who notes our tears
With his insulting eye of cold derision,
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works,
Would number e’en our agonies as crimes.
--Say, is this meet?
_Gui._ We deem’d these nuptials, lady,
Thy willing choice; but ’tis a joy to find
Thou’rt noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs,
This shall not be.
_Pro._ Vittoria, thou art come
To ask our aid--but we have need of thine.
Know, the completion of our high designs
Requires--a festival; and it must be
Thy bridal!
_Vit._ Procida!
_Pro._ Nay, start not thus.
’Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair
With festal garlands, and to bid the song
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No--nor yet
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine,
Where death, not love, awaits him!
_Vit._ Can my soul
Dissemble thus?
_Pro._ We have no other means
Of winning our great birthright back from those
Who have usurp’d it, than so lulling them
Into vain confidence, that they may deem
All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done
By what I ask of thee.
_Mon._ Then we will mix
With the flush’d revellers, making their gay feast
The harvest of the grave.
_Vit._ A bridal day!
--Must it be so? Then, chiefs of Sicily,
I bid you to my nuptials! but be there
With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone
_My_ guests should be adorn’d.
_Pro._ And let thy banquet
Be soon announced; for there are noble men
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase
Reprieve with other blood.
_Vit._ Be it then the day
Preceding that appointed for their doom.
_Gui._ My brother! thou shalt live! Oppression boasts
No gift of prophecy!--It but remains
To name our signal, chiefs!
_Mon._ The Vesper-bell!
_Pro._ Even so--the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal
Is heard o’er land and wave. Part of our band,
Wearing the guise of antic revelry,
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant,
The halls of Eribert; and at the hour
Devoted to the sword’s tremendous task,
I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell!
That sound shall wake th’ avenger; for ’tis come,
The time when power is in a voice, a breath,
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night
Is waning, with her stars, which one by one
Warn us to part. Friends to your homes!--your _homes_?
_That_ name is yet to win. Away! prepare
For our next meeting in Palermo’s walls.
The Vesper-bell! Remember!
_Sicilians._ Fear us not
The Vesper-bell!
[_Exeunt omnes._
ACT III.
Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._
Eribert, Vittoria.
_Vit._ Speak not of love--it is a word with deep
Strange magic in its melancholy sound,
To summon up the dead; and they should rest,
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things
We must throw from us, when the heart would gather
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes;
Therefore, no more of love! But if to robe
This form in bridal ornaments--to smile
(I _can_ smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand
At th’ altar by thy side;--if this be deem’d
Enough, it shall be done.
_Eri._ My fortune’s star
Doth rule th’ ascendant still! (_Apart._)--If not of love,
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of _joy_,
And with exulting heart----
_Vit._ There _is_ no joy!
--Who shall look through the far futurity,
And, as the shadowy visions of events
Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng,
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say,
“This will bring happiness?” Who shall do this?
Who, thou and I, and all! There’s One, who sits
In His own bright tranquillity enthroned,
High o’er all storms, and looking far beyond
Their thickest clouds! but we, from whose dull eyes
A grain of dust hides the great sun--e’en we
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers,
Of future joy and grief!
_Eri._ Thy words are strange.
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace
To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria!
Oh! if my cares----
_Vit._ I know a day shall come
Of peace to all. Ev’n from my darken’d spirit
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised,
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down
Serenely to repose. Of this no more.
I have a boon to ask.
_Eri._ Command my power,
And deem it thus most honour’d.
_Vit._ Have I then
Soar’d such an eagle pitch, as to command
The mighty Eribert?--And yet ’tis meet;
For I bethink me now, I should have worn
A _crown_ upon this forehead. Generous lord!
Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound
Whose tones, o’er earth and ocean sweetly bearing
A sense of deep repose, have lull’d me oft
To peace--which is forgetfulness; I mean
The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be
The summons to our bridal. Hear you not?
To our fair bridal!
_Eri._ Lady, let your will
Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless’d,
Proving my homage thus.
_Vit._ Why, then, ’tis mine
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day,
And I may be content. Yet much remains
For thought to brood on, and I would be left
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert!
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now
Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when
I’m at thy side once more, but I shall stand
There--to the last!
_Eri._ Your smiles are troubled, lady--
May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem
Slow till the Vesper-bell.
_Vit._ ’Tis lovers’ phrase
To say--Time lags; and therefore meet for you;
But with an equal pace the hours move on,
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing,
Pleasure or--fate.
_Eri._ Be not so full of thought
On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile
Unshadow’d by a cloud.
_Vit._ ’Tis very meet
That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile
In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord,
Forgive me if I say farewell until
Th’ appointed hour.
_Eri._ Lady, a brief farewell.
[_Exeunt separately._
Scene II.--_The Sea-shore._
Procida, Raimond.
_Pro._ And dost thou still refuse to share the glory
Of this, our daring enterprise?
_Raim._ O father!
I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice,
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds
Whereby ’twas won--the high exploits, whose tale
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast
Than such as thou requirest.
_Pro._ Every deed
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim
The freedom of our country; and the sword
Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand,
Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave
Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom
Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch,
At dead of night.
_Raim._ (_turning away._) There is no path but one
For noble natures.
_Pro._ Wouldst thou ask the man
Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains,
Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what _means_
The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim!
Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path,
To that most bright and sovereign destiny,
Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d
A stem necessity, but not a crime!
_Raim._ Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d,
Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances
Of other days are stirring in the heart
Where _thou_ didst plant them; and they speak of men
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild
Acts that would bear heaven’s light--and such be mine!
O father! is it yet too late to draw
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts
On our most righteous cause?
_Pro._ What wouldst thou do?
_Raim._ I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land
To generous combat. Why should freedom strike
Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength
Ev’n in the waving of her single arm
Than hosts can wield against her? _I_ would rouse
That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on
To its proud sphere--the stormy field of fight!
_Pro._ Ay! and give time and warning to the foe
To gather all his might! It _is_ too late.
There is a work to be this eve begun
When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before
To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven
His throne of burning glory, every sound
Of the Provençal tongue within our walls,
As by one thunderstroke--(you are pale, my son)--
Shall be for ever silenced!
_Raim._ What! such sounds
As falter on the lip of infancy,
In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed
By the fond mother as she lulls her babe?
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air
Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike
Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart
There is no crime in _this_?
_Pro._ Since thou dost feel
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power
Are means that might avert it.
_Raim._ Speak! oh speak!
_Pro._ How would those rescued thousands bless thy name
Shouldst thou betray us!
_Raim._ Father! I can bear--
Ay, proudly woo--the keenest questioning
Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems
To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty,
--The power that searches thought.
_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Thou hast a brow
Clear as the day--and yet I doubt thee, Raimond!
Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust
From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart;
Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus
My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be--
I doubt thee! See thou waver not--take heed.
Time lifts the veil from all things! [_Exit_ Procida.
_Raim._ And ’tis thus
Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith
We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day!
When, at the crushing of our glorious world,
We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so!
Is not my soul still powerful in _itself_
To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well
Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away!
_Thou_ shalt be saved, sweet Constance!--Love is yet
Mightier than vengeance.
[_Exit_ Raimond.
Scene III.----_Gardens of a Palace._
Constance _alone_.
_Con._ There was a time when my thoughts wander’d not
Beyond these fairy scenes!--when but to catch
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest,
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade
Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough
Of happiness. How have these calm delights
Fled from before one passion, as the dews,
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled
By the great sun! [Raimond _enters_.
Raimond! oh! now thou’rt come--
I read it in thy look--to say farewell
For the last time--the last!
_Raim._ No, best beloved!
I come to tell thee there is now no power
To part us but in death.
_Con._ I have dreamt of joy,
But never aught like this. Speak yet again!
Say we shall part no more!
_Raim._ No more--if love
Can strive with darker spirits; and he is strong
In his immortal nature! All is changed
Since last we met. My father--keep the tale
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance,
From Eribert--my father is return’d:
I leave thee not.
_Con._ Thy father! blessèd sound!
Good angels be his guard! Oh! if he knew
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate
Even a Provençal maid! Thy father!--now
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see
The sunny happiness of earlier days
Look from thy brow once more! But how is this?
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine;
And in thy look is that which ill befits
A tale of joy.
_Raim._ A dream is on my soul.
I see a slumberer, crown’d with flowers, and smiling
As in delighted visions, on the brink
Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy
Hath cast so deep a shadow o’er my thoughts,
I cannot but be sad.
_Con._ Why, let me sing
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well,
And this will banish it.
_Raim._ It may not be.
O gentle Constance! go not forth to-day:
Such dreams are ominous.
_Con._ Have you then forgot
My brother’s nuptial feast? I must be one
Of the gay train attending to the shrine
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy
Will print earth lightly now. What fear’st thou, love?
Look all around! the blue transparent skies,
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase
All thought of evil. Why, the very air
Breathes of delight! Through all its glowing realms
Doth music blend with fragrance; and e’en here
The city’s voice of jubilee is heard,
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds
Of human joy!
_Raim._ There lie far deeper things--
Things that may darken thought for life, beneath
That city’s festive semblance. I have pass’d
Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark’d
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes,
Which deem’d their flash unnoticed, and a quick,
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe
Its mien with carelessness; and now and then,
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out
Amidst the reckless throng. O’er all is spread
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide
Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs
Have been prophetic oft.
_Con._ I tremble!--Raimond!
What may these things portend?
_Raim._ It was a day
Of festival like this; the city sent
Up through her sunny firmament a voice
Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths
The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene
Became one chaos of all fearful things,
Till the brain whirl’d, partaking the sick motion
Of rocking palaces.
_Con._ And then didst thou,
My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms,
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment’s work, had given
One burial unto thousands, rush to save
Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless
Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven
Wafts gladness to her soul!
_Raim._ Heaven!--heaven is just!
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one! still.
Trust none beside. Oh! the omnipotent skies
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious _man_
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares,
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad,
Mask’d as a reveller. Constance! oh, by all
Our tried affection, all the vows which bind
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers,
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell
Doth sound for vesper prayer!
_Con._ And know’st thou not
’Twill be the bridal hour?
_Raim._ It will not, love!
That hour will bring no bridal! Naught of this
To human ear; but speed thou hither--fly,
When evening brings that signal. Dost thou heed?
This is no meeting by a lover sought
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves
And stars attest his vows; deem thou not so,
Therefore denying it! I tell thee, Constance!
If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair
As falls on man, beholding all he loves
Perish before him, while his strength can but
Strive with his agony--thou’lt meet me then.
Look on me, love!--I am not oft so moved--
Thou’lt meet me?
_Con._ Oh! what mean thy words? If then
My steps are free,--I will. Be thou but calm.
_Raim._ Be calm!--there is a cold and sullen calm,
And, were my wild fears made realities,
It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense--
This conflict of all terrible fantasies,
There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love!
I will watch o’er thee still. And now, farewell
Until that hour!
_Con._ My Raimond, fare thee well.
[_Exeunt._
Scene IV.--_Room in the Citadel of Palermo._
Alberti, De Couci.
_De Cou._ Saidst thou this night?
_Alb._ This very night--and lo!
E’en now the sun declines.
_De Cou._ What! are they arm’d?
_Alb._ All arm’d, and strong in vengeance and despair.
_De Cou._
Doubtful and strange the tale! Why was not this reveal’d before?
_Alb._ Mistrust me not, my lord!
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept
O’er all my steps (as though he did suspect
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought
To read in mine) a watch so vigilant
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this
Alone I mingled with his bands--to learn
Their projects and their strength. Thou know’st my faith
To Anjou’s house full well.
_De Cou._ How may we now
Avert the gathering storm? The viceroy holds
His bridal feast, and all is revelry.
’Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart
Which kept me from these nuptials.
_Alb._ Thou thyself
May’st yet escape, and haply of thy bands
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance
Upon these rebels. ’Tis too late to dream
Of saving Eribert. E’en shouldst thou rush
Before him with the tidings, in his pride
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh
Thy tale to scorn.
_De Cou._ He must not die unwarn’d,
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti,
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well,
And shalt not pass unguerdon’d, should I live
Through the deep horrors of th’ approaching night.
_Alb._ Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti’s.
[_Exit_ Alberti.
_De Cou._ The grovelling slave!--And yet he spoke too true!
For Eribert, in blind elated joy,
Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes fast,
And through the city, recklessly dispersed,
Unarm’d and unprepared, my soldiers revel,
E’en on the brink of fate. I must away.
[_Exit_ De Couci.
Scene V.--_A Banqueting Hall.--Provençal Nobles assembled._
_1st Noble._ Joy be to this fair meeting! Who hath seen
The viceroy’s bride?
_2d Noble._ I saw her as she pass’d
The gazing throngs assembled in the city.
’Tis said she hath not left for years, till now,
Her castle’s wood-girt solitude. ’Twill gall
These proud Sicilians that her wide domains
Should be the conqueror’s guerdon.
_3d Noble._ ’Twas their boast
With what fond faith she worshipp’d still the name
Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves
Brook this new triumph of their lords?
_2d Noble._ In sooth,
It stings them to the quick. In the full streets
They mix with our Provençals, and assume
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them.
’Twere worth a thousand festivals to see
With what a bitter and unnatural effort
They strive to smile!
_1st Noble._ Is this Vittoria fair?
_2d Noble._ Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye,
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power,
From which thou’lt shrink as I did.
_1st Noble._ Hush! they come.
_Enter_ Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, _and others_.
_Eri._ Welcome, my noble friends!--there must not lower
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily!
--Behold my bride!
_Nobles._ Receive our homage, lady!
_Vit._ I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer
Prove worthy of such guests!
_Eri._ Look on her, friends!
And say if that majestic brow is not
Meet for a diadem?
_Vit._ ’Tis well, my lord!
When memory’s pictures fade--’tis kindly done
To brighten their dimm’d hues!
_1st Noble_ (_apart._) Mark’d you her glance?
_2d Noble_ (_apart_.) What eloquent scorn was there?
Yet he, th’ elate
Of heart, perceives it not.
_Eri._ Now to the feast!
Constance, you look not joyous. I have said
That all should smile to-day.
_Con._ Forgive me, brother;
The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp
At times oppresses it.
_Eri._ Why, how is this?
_Con._ Voices of woe, and prayers of agony,
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay,
Since ’tis your wish. In truth, I should have been
A village maid.
_Eri._ But being as you are,
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect
The aspect of the time.
_Vit._ And know, fair maid!
That, if in this unskill’d, you stand alone
Amidst our court of pleasure.
_Eri._ To the feast!
Now let the red wine foam!--There should be mirth
When conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle!
Your good swords’ heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge
The present and the future! for they both
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride?
_Vit._ Yes, Eribert!--thy prophecies of joy
Have taught e’en _me_ to smile.
_Eri._ ’Tis well. To-day
I have won a fair and almost _royal_ bride;
To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course,
To waft me happiness!--my proudest foes
Must die; and then my slumber shall be laid
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar
The luxury of its visions!--Fair Vittoria,
Your looks are troubled!
_Vit._ It is strange--but oft,
Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul
Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke
Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night
E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long,
How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust,
There is at least no bondage! But should _we_,
From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys
Contend for mastery, and the very sense
Of life is rapture--should _we_ pass, I say,
At once from such excitements to the void
And silent gloom of that which doth await us--
Were it not dreadful?
_Eri._ Banish such dark thoughts!
They ill beseem the hour.
_Vit._ There is no hour
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe,
But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight
Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs
Being from death! And who can tell how near
Its misty brink he stands?
_1st Noble_ (_aside._) What mean her words?
_2d Noble._ There’s some dark mystery here.
_Eri._ No more of this!
Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines
Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice
Dispel these ominous dreams!--Wake, harp and song!
Swell out your triumph!
_A Messenger enters, bearing a letter._
_Mes._ Pardon, my good lord!
But this demands----
_Eri._ What means thy breathless haste,
And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks
Befit not hours like these.
_Mes._ The Lord De Couci
Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings
Of life and death.
_Vit._ (_hurriedly._) Is this a time for aught
But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene!
_Eri._ (_to the Messenger._)
Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk
Of life and death to-morrow. [_Exit Messenger._
Let there be
Around me none but joyous looks to-day,
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth!
_A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music,
disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c._
_Eri._ What forms are these? What means this antic triumph?
_Vit._ ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not
Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody,
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily!
_One of the Masquers sings._
The festal eve, o’er earth and sky,
In her sunset robe looks bright,
And the purple hills of Sicily
With their vineyards laugh in light;
From the marble cities of her plains,
Glad voices mingling swell;
--But with yet more loud and lofty strains,
They shall hail the Vesper-bell!
Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze
Their cadence wafts afar,
To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas,
As they gleam to the first pale star!
The shepherd greets them on his height,
The hermit in his cell;
--But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night,
In the sound of the Vesper-bell!
[_The bell rings._
_Eri._ It is the hour! Hark, hark!--my bride, our summons!
The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers,
That wait----
_Vit._ The victim!
[_A tumult heard without._
Procida _and_ Montalba _enter, with others, armed_.
_Pro._ Strike! the hour is come!
_Vit._ Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong!
(_The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush
with their swords drawn upon the Provençals._ Eribert _is
wounded, and falls_.)
_Pro._ Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career,
Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies!
(_The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians._)
_Con._ (_supporting_ Eribert.) My brother! oh,
my brother!
_Eri._ Have I stood
A leader in the battle-fields of kings,
To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs,
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep,
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins,
This should be--death! In sooth, a dull exchange
For the gay bridal feast!
_Voices_ (_without._) Remember Conradin!--spare none!--spare none!
_Vit._ (_throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments._)
This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast,
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling
To earth for ever! And it is such joy,
As if a captive from his dull cold cell
Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range
The realms of starr’d infinity! Away!
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour
For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain
Is come; and I may give my bursting heart
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert!
Believe in retribution! What! proud man!
Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept?
“Or that the unseen, immortal ministers,
Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime
In burning characters, had laid aside
Their everlasting attributes for _thee_?”
O blind security! He in whose dread hand
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d
His pyramid height of power; that so his fall
May with more fearful oracles make pale
Man’s crown’d oppressors!
_Con._ Oh! reproach him not!
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink
Of that dim world where passion may not enter.
Leave him in peace.
_Voices_ (_without._) Anjou! Anjou!--De Couci, to the rescue!
_Eri._ (_half raising himself._)
My brave Provençals! do ye combat still?
And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel
That death indeed is bitter!
_Vit._ Fare thee well!
Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile
Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this,
Be perfect how to die!
_Exit_ Vittoria.
Raimond _enters_.
_Raim._ Away, my Constance!
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands
Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while
And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man
Anselmo?--he whose hermitage is rear’d
Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm,
’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm
Have spent its fury. Haste!
_Con._ I will not fly!
While in his heart there is one throb of life,
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave
The brother of my youth to perish thus,
Without one kindly bosom to sustain
His dying head.
_Eri._ The clouds are darkening round.
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear
That summon me--to what? But I have been
Used to command!--Away! I will not die,
But on the field----
[_He dies_.
_Con._ (_kneeling by him._) O Heaven! be merciful
As thou art just!--for he is now where naught
But mercy can avail him.--It is past!
Guido _enters with his sword drawn._
_Gui._ (_to_ Raimond.)
I’ve sought thee long--why art thou lingering here?
Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name
Joins that word--_Traitor!_
_Raim._ Traitor!--Guido?
_Gui._ Yes!
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms,
After vain conflict with a people’s wrath,
De Couci hath escaped? And there are those
Who murmur that from _thee_ the warning came
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet,
In the red current of Provençal blood,
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword,
And follow me!
_Raim._ And _thou_ couldst doubt me, Guido!
’Tis come to this!--Away! mistrust me still.
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine.
Thou knowst me not!
_Gui._ Raimond di Procida!--
If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble--
Call me thy friend no more! [_Exit_ Guido.
_Raim._ (_after a pause._) Rise, dearest, rise!
Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d,
E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er,
And this is now no place where nature’s tears
In quiet sanctity may freely flow.
--Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar
Of fast-advancing billows; and for _thee_
I shame not thus to tremble.--Speed! oh, speed!
_Exeunt._
ACT IV.
Scene I.--_A Street in Palermo._
Procida _enters_.
_Pro._ How strange and deep a stillness loads the air,
As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death
Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush
Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things,
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky,
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds,
Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit,
Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be?
Is not our task achieved--the mighty work
Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous:
But this our feeble nature, with its quick
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down
Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings
That treachery lurks amongst us.--Raimond! Raimond!
Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb!
It cannot be!
Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians enter_.
_Pro._ Welcome! we meet in joy!
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming
The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare,
After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil,
To weave us chains again? Ye have done well.
_Mon._ We _have_ done well. There needs no choral song,
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth
Our stern exploits. The _silence_ of our foes
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest,
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task
Is still but half achieved, since with his bands
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required
To make the mighty sacrifice complete.--
Where is thy son?
_Pro._ I know not. Once last night
He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored
My own, which in that deadly strife had been
Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him
To my exulting bosom, he drew back,
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile,
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask?
_Mon._ It matters not. We have deep things to speak of.
Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils?
_Pro._ I know some voice in secret must have warn’d
De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er
So soon been marshall’d, and in close array
Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught
That may develop this?
_Mon._ The guards we set
To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn,
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step,
Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him--
The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge!
_Pro._ Where is this messenger?
_Mon._ Where _should_ he be?--
They slew him in their wrath.
_Pro._ Unwisely done!
Give me the scrolls. [_He reads._
Now, if there be such things
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay
The pang which gives release; if there be power
In execration, to call down the fires
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts
But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d
Upon the traitor’s head!--Scorn make his name
Her mark for ever!
_Mon._ In our passionate blindness,
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil
Oft on ourselves.
_Pro._ Whate’er fate hath of ruin
Fall on his house! What! to resign again
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now
Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he
That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll
Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it
With an immortal infamy, whose brand
Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile?
Alberti?--In his eye is that which ever
Shrinks from encountering mine!--But no! his race
Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame
That high descent! Urbino?--Conti?--No!
They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more!
--I cannot utter it! Now shall I read
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot
From man’s high mien its native royalty,
And seal his noble forehead with the impress
Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts,
Montalba! Guido!--Who should this man be?
_Mon._ Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night
His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge
Against his country’s chiefs?--He that did _this_,
May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe.
_Pro._ And who is he?
_Mon._ Nay, ask thy son.
_Pro._ My son!
What should _he_ know of such a recreant heart?
Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend!
_Gui._ I would not wear
The brand of such a name!
_Pro._ How? what means this?
A flash of light breaks in upon my soul!
Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before,
And been flung from them. Silence!--Speak not yet!
I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst
With a strong heart. [_A pause._
Now, what have I to hear?
Your tidings?
_Gui._ Briefly, ’twas your son did thus!
He hath disgraced your name.
_Pro._ My son did thus!
Are thy words oracles, that I should search
Their hidden meaning out? _What_ did my son?
I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick!
_Gui._ ’Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites
Of retribution; while we bathed the earth
In red libations, which will consecrate
The soil they mingled with to freedom’s step
Through the long march of ages: ’twas his task
To shield from danger a Provençal maid,
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung
Our hearts to madness.
_Mon._ What! should she be spared
To keep that name from perishing on earth?
--I cross’d them in their path, and raised my sword
To smite her in her champion’s arms. We fought
The boy disarm’d me! And I live to tell
My shame, and wreak my vengeance!
_Gui._ Who but he
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt
These scrolls reveal? Hath not the traitor still
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence,
To win us from our purpose? All things seem
Leagued to unmask him.
_Mon._ Know you not there came,
E’en in the banquet’s hour, from this De Couci,
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings
Of all our purposed deeds? And have we not
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves
The sister of that tyrant?
_Pro._ There was one
Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now
Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join
The revelry!
_Mon._ (_apart._) You shall be childless too!
_Pro._ Was’t you, Montalba!--Now rejoice, I say!
There is no name so near you that its stains
Should call the fever’d and indignant blood
To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth
The weight that presses on my heart, and then
Be glad as thou art.
_Mon._ What means this, my lord?
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien?
_Pro._ Why, should not all be glad who have no _sons_
To tarnish their bright name?
_Mon._ I am not used
To bear with mockery.
_Pro._ Friend! By yon high heaven,
I mock thee not! ’Tis a proud fate to live
Alone and unallied. Why, what’s _alone_?
A word whose sense is--_free!_--Ay, free from all
The venom’d stings implanted in the heart
By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think
O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls,
When the word comes--“A son is born!”--A _son_!
They should say thus--“He that shall knit your brow
To furrows, not of years--and bid your eye
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame,
Is born, and so rejoice!” _Then_ might we feast,
And know the cause! Were it not excellent?
_Mon._ This is all idle. There are deeds to do:
Arouse thee, Procida!
_Pro._ Why, am I not
Calm as immortal justice! She can strike,
And yet be passionless--and thus will I.
I know thy meaning. Deeds to do!--’tis well.
They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth:
There is a youth who calls himself my son.
His name is Raimond--in his eye is light
That shows like truth--but be not ye deceived!
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see
The strength which girds our nature. Will not this
Be glorious, brave Montalba? Linger not,
Ye tardy messengers! for there are things
Which ask the speed of storms.
[_Exeunt_ Guido _and others_.
Is not this well?
_Mon._ ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height--
(_Aside._) And then be desolate like me! My woes
Will at the thought grow light.
_Pro._ What now remains
To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp
To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts
Require a drapery to conceal their throbs
From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not
Explore what lies beneath.
[_Exit_ Procida.
_Mon._ Now this is well!
--I hate this Procida; for he hath won
In all our councils that ascendency
And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been
Mine by a thousand claims. Had _he_ the strength
Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name--his country--
_He_ strikes; _my_ vengeance hath a deeper fount:
But there’s dark joy in this!--And fate hath barr’d
My soul from every other.
[_Exit_ Montalba.
Scene II.--_A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple._
Constance, Anselmo.
_Con._ ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still
And sultry hour of noon? He should have been
Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice?
--“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports
Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again!
No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring
Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb
The stillness of thy holy solitude:
My heart is full of care.
_Ans._ There is no place
So hallow’d as to be unvisited
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes
Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts
Will speak to them in whispers? I have known
Affliction too, my daughter.
_Con._ Hark! his step!
I know it well--he comes--my Raimond, welcome!
Vittoria _enters_, Constance _shrinks back on perceiving her_.
Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale.
_Vit._ (_not observing her._) There is a cloud of horror on my soul;
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait,
Even as an echo, following the sweet close
Of some divine and solemn harmony:
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart
Sink, like a storm rebuked.
_Ans._ What recent grief
Darkens thy spirit thus?
_Vit._ I said not grief.
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not
That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe
Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown,
Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now
Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice!
There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free--
Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs
A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom
Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too,
There is a cause.
_Ans._ How say’st thou, we are free?--
There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls,
Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know
They call the stranger lord.
_Vit._ Who calls the _dead_
Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud,
The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again,
I tell thee we are free!
_Ans._ Thine eye hath look’d
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang
O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say,
How hath this work been wrought?
_Vit._ Peace! ask me not!
Why shouldst _thou_ hear a tale to send thy blood
Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now!
The storm is in my soul, but _they_ are all
At rest!--Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men,
Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before,
Making their shield their pillow, may repose
Well, now their toils are done.--Is’t not enough?
_Con._ Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet
There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky!
--I am an outcast now.
_Ans._ O Thou whose ways
Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath,
How much is _man_ the fiercest! Others know
Their limits--yes! the earthquakes, and the storms,
And the volcanoes!--he alone o’erleaps
The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze,
Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye,
On such dread scenes unmoved?
_Vit._ Was it for _me_
To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced
My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks
Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not
Bid them be hush’d? Oh!--look not on me thus!
_Ans._ Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks
Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? _all?_
Was there no mercy!
_Vit._ Mercy! it hath been
A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names
Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid
The victims!--but in vain. Of him no more!
He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death
Will be his meed.
_Con._ (_coming forward._) Oh, heaven!--his name, his name!
Is it--it cannot be!
_Vit._ (_starting._) _Thou_ here, pale girl!
I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped
The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race!
Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now,
Raimond di Procida?
_Con._ It is enough:
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink.
Must he too die?
_Vit._ Is it e’en so? Why then,
Live on--thou hast the arrow at thy heart!
“Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes--”
I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live!
Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms!
_He_ visits but the happy. Didst thou ask
If Raimond too must die? It is as sure
As that his blood is on _thy_ head, for thou
Didst win him to this treason.
_Con._ When did men
Call mercy _treason_? Take my life, but save
My noble Raimond!
_Vit._ Maiden! he must die.
E’en now the youth before his judges stands;
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer,
Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh
Of summer-waves!--ay, though a father sit
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me.
What wouldst thou?
_Con._ Mercy!--Oh! wert thou to plead
But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved!
If thou hast ever loved----
_Vit._ If I have loved?
It is _that_ love forbids me to relent.
I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul
Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep
I then might pity--but it will not be.
_Con._ Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart
Was form’d to suffer and to melt.
_Vit._ Away!
Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove
What I have known before--and yet I live!
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne--
The sick impatient yearning of the heart
For that which is not; and the weary sense
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been
Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne!
All, save remorse. But I will _not_ bow down
My spirit to that dark power; there _was_ no guilt!--
Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt?
_Ans._ Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought,
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze,
Keen lightning to a look.
_Vit._ Leave me in peace!
Is’t not enough that I should have a sense
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark,
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me
With dread suggestions, but that _thy_ cold words,
Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire
Against me?----O thou beautiful spirit! wont
To shine upon my dreams with looks of love,
Where art _thou_ vanish’d? Was it not the thought
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task,
And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance,
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths;
--Here I but meet despair!
[_Exit_ Vittoria.
_Ans._ (_to_ Constance.) Despair not _thou_,
My daughter! He that purifies the heart
With grief will lend it strength.
_Con._ (_endeavouring to rouse herself._) Did she not say
That some one was to die?
_Ans._ I tell thee not
Thy pangs are vain--for nature will have way.
Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine,
Faith may not yield its place.
_Con._ Have I not heard
Some fearful tale?--Who said that there should rest
Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore
Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes:
Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!--High heaven!
It bursts upon me now! And he must die!
For my sake--e’en for mine!
_Ans._ Her words were strange,
And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought;
--Perchance this may not be.
_Con._ It _must_ not be.
Why do I linger here? [_She rises to depart._
_Ans._ Where wouldst thou go?
_Con._ To give their stern and unrelenting hearts
A victim in his stead.
_Ans._ Stay! wouldst thou rush
On certain death?
_Con._ I may not falter now.
--Is not the life of woman all bound up
In her affections? What hath _she_ to do
In this bleak world alone? It may be well
For _man_ on his triumphal course to move,
Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born
For love and grief.
_Ans._ Thou fair and gentle thing,
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak
Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst _thou_
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men,
Or face the King of Terrors?
_Con._ There is strength
Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent
Before her gems are found?--Oh! now I feel
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d
To look on death for me! My heart hath given
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith
As high in its devotion.
[_Exit_ Constance.
_Ans._ She is gone!
Is it to perish?--God of mercy! lend
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save
This pure and lofty creature! I will follow--
But her young footstep and heroic heart
Will bear her to destruction, faster far
Than I can track her path.
[_Exit_ Anselmo.
Scene III.--_Hall of a Public Building._
Procida, Montalba, Guido, _and others, seated as on a Tribunal_.
_Pro._ The morn lower’d darkly; but the sun hath now,
With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold
This our high triumph.--Lead the prisoner in.
Raimond _is brought in, fettered and guarded_.
Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here!
--Is this man guilty?--Look on him, Montalba!
_Mon._ Be firm. Should justice falter at a look?
_Pro._ No, thou say’st well. Her eyes are filleted,
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself--
But no! I will not breathe a traitor’s name--
Speak! thou art arraign’d of treason.
_Raim._ I arraign
_You_, before whom I stand, of darker guilt,
In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks
Have ta’en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink,
With a perturb’d and haggard wildness, back
From the too-searching light. Why, what hath wrought
This change on noble brows? There is a voice
With a deep answer, rising from the blood
Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins,
All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness,
And sensitive feeling of a _murderer’s_ presence.
--Away! come down from your tribunal seat,
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien
Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at,
More than the pestilence. That I should live
To see my father shrink!
_Pro._ Montalba, speak!
There’s something chokes my voice--but fear me not.
_Mon._ If we must plead to vindicate our acts,
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear,
Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make
To this our charge of treason?
_Raim._ I will plead
_That_ cause before a mightier judgment-throne,
Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel
Too buoyantly the glory and the joy
Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now
The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem
Before me glaring out. Why, I saw _thee_,
Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast,
Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings.
And thou, _thy_ sword--O valiant chief!--is yet
Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once
A mother and the babe, whose little life
Was from her bosom drawn!--Immortal deeds
For bards to hymn!
_Gui._ (_aside._) I look upon his mien,
And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart
Deem’d him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts!
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were _mine_,
From his proud glance?
_Pro._ O thou dissembler! thou,
So skill’d to clothe with virtue’s generous flush
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy,
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce
Believe thee guilty!--look on me, and say
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes,
And forge new fetters for th’ indignant land?
Whose was _this_ treachery? [_Shows him papers._
Who hath promised here
(Belike to appease the manès of the dead)
At midnight to unfold Palermo’s gates,
And welcome in the foe? Who hath done this,
But thou--a tyrant’s friend?
_Raim._ Who hath done this?
Father!--if I may call thee by that name--
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles
Were masks that hid their daggers. _There_, perchance,
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me,
I know but this--there needs no deep research
To prove the truth that murderers may be traitors,
Even to each other.
_Pro._ (_to_ Montalba.) His unaltering cheek
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue,
And his eye quails not! Is this innocence?
_Mon._ No! ’tis th’ unshrinking hardihood of crime.
--Thou bear’st a gallant mien. But where is she
Whom thou hast barter’d fame and life to save,
The fair Provençal maid? What! know’st thou not
That this alone were guilt, to death allied?
Was’t not our law that he who spared a foe
(And is she not of that detested race?)
Should thenceforth be amongst us _as_ a foe?
--Where hast thou borne her? speak!
_Raim._ That Heaven, whose eye
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance,
Is with her: she is safe.
_Pro._ And by that word
Thy doom is seal’d. Oh, God! that I had died
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength
And glory of my heart!
Constance _enters, and rushes to_ Raimond.
_Con._ Oh! art thou found?
--But yet, to find thee thus! Chains, chains for _thee_!
My brave, my noble love! Off with these bonds;
Let him be free as air: for I am come
To be your victim now.
_Raim._ Death has no pang
More keen than this. Oh! wherefore art thou here
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee
Saved, and at peace.
_Con._ At peace!--And thou hast thought
Thus poorly of my love! But woman’s breast
Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits
On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he?
_Raim._ My father! who hath lull’d thy gentle heart
With that false hope? Beloved! gaze around--
See if thine eye can trace a father’s soul
In the dark looks bent on us.
[Constance, _after earnestly examining the countenances of the
Judges, falls at the feet of_ Procida.
_Con._ Thou art he!
Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist
Pass o’er thy troubled eye; and then I knew
Thou wert his father! Spare him! take _my_ life!
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his,
But yet mine all. Oh! _he_ hath still to run
A long bright race of glory.
_Raim._ Constance, peace!
I look upon thee, and my failing heart
Is as a broken reed.
_Con._ (_still addressing_ Procida.) Oh, yet relent!
If ’twas his crime to rescue _me_--behold
I come to be the atonement! Let him live
To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart
There’s a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads
With an o’ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield!
--Thou _art_ his father!
_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Maiden, thou’rt deceived!
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature
Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son?
--_My_ son! Ay! thus his mother proudly smiled--
But she was noble! Traitors stand alone,
Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus?
--Bear her away!
_Raim._ (_starting forward._) And whither?
_Mon._ Unto death.
Why should she live, when all her race have perish’d?
_Con._ (_sinking into the arms of_ Raimond.)
Raimond, farewell! Oh! when thy star hath risen
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved!
I died for thee.
_Raim._ High Heaven! thou see’st these things,
And yet endurest them! Shalt thou die for me,
Purest and loveliest being?--but our fate
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold--
Her deep blue eyes are closed: should this be death
--If thus, there yet were mercy! Father, father!
Is thy heart human?
_Pro._ Bear her hence, I say!
Why must my soul be torn?
Anselmo _enters holding a Crucifix_.
_Ans._ Now, by this sign
Of heaven’s prevailing love! ye shall not harm
One ringlet of her head. How! is there not
Enough of blood upon your burthen’d souls?
Will not the visions of your midnight couch
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap
Crime upon crime? Be ye content: your dreams,
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep,
E’en though this maid be spared! Constance, look up!
Thou shalt not die.
_Raim._ Oh! death e’en now hath veil’d
The light of her soft beauty. Wake my love!
Wake at my voice!
_Pro._ Anselmo, lead her hence,
And let her live, but never meet my sight.
--Begone! my heart will burst.
_Raim._ One last embrace!
--Again life’s rose is opening on her cheek;
Yet must we part. So love is crush’d on earth!
But there are brighter worlds!--Farewell, farewell!
[_He gives her to the care of_ Anselmo.
_Con._ (_slowly recovering._)
There was a voice which call’d me. Am I not
A spirit freed from earth? Have I not pass’d
The bitterness of death?
_Ans._ Oh, haste away!
_Con._ Yes! Raimond calls me. He too is released
From his cold bondage. We are free at last,
And all is well. Away!
[_She is led out by_ Anselmo.
_Raim._ The pang is o’er,
And I have but to die.
_Mon._ Now, Procida,
Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid
All thy deep soul’s commanding energies;
For thou--a chief among us--must pronounce
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee.
_Pro._ Ha! ha! Men’s hearts should be of softer mould
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom
Their children _then_ with an unfaltering voice,
And we must tremble thus! Is it not said
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now
So full of days?
_Mon._ Rouse up thy mighty heart.
_Pro._ Ay, thou say’st right. There yet are souls which tower
As landmarks to mankind. Well, what’s the task?
--There is a man to be condemn’d, you say?
Is he then guilty?
_All._ Thus we deem of him,
With one accord.
_Pro._ And hath he naught to plead?
_Raim._ Naught but a soul unstain’d.
_Pro._ Why, that is little.
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them,
And conscience may be sear’d. But for this sentence!
--Was’t not the penalty imposed on man,
E’en from creation’s dawn, that he must die?
--It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice
Unto eternal justice; and we but
Obey heaven’s mandate when we cast dark souls
To th’ elements from among us. Be it so!
Such be _his_ doom! I have said. Ay, now my heart
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press
Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom!
--Mountains are on my breast! [_He sinks back._
_Mon._ Guards, bear the prisoner
Back to his dungeon.
_Raim._ Father! oh, look up;
Thou art my father still!
_Gui._ (_leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the
neck of_ Raimond.) Oh! Raimond, Raimond!
If it should be that I have wrong’d thee, say
Thou dost forgive me.
_Raim._ Friend of my young days,
So may all-pitying heaven!
[Raimond _is led out._
_Pro._ Whose voice was that?
Where is he?--gone? Now I may breathe once more
In the free air of heaven. Let us away.
[_Exeunt omnes._
ACT V.
Scene I.--_A Prison dimly lighted._
Raimond _sleeping_. Procida _enters_.
_Pro._ (_gazing upon him earnestly._) Can he
Then sleep? Th’ overshadowing night hath wrapt
Earth at her stated hours; the stars have set
Their burning watch; and all things hold their course
Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep
Sat on mine eyelids since--but this avails not!
And thus _he_ slumbers! “Why, this mien doth seem
As if its soul were but one lofty thought
Of an immortal destiny!”--his brow
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond! wake!
Thy rest is deep.
_Raim._ (_starting up._) My father! Wherefore here?
I am prepared to die, yet would I not
Fall by _thy_ hand.
_Pro._ ’Twas not for _this_ I came.
_Raim._ Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty brow
Why burns the troubled flush?
_Pro._ Perchance ’tis shame.
Yes, it may well be shame!--for I have striven
With nature’s feebleness, and been o’erpower’d.
--Howe’er it be, ’tis not for _thee_ to gaze,
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains.
Arise, and follow me; but let thy step
Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared
The means for thy escape.
_Raim._ What! _thou!_ the austere,
The inflexible Procida! hast _thou_ done this,
Deeming me guilty still!
_Pro._ Upbraid me not!
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds
By Roman fathers done,--but I am weak.
Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste,
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be
To realms beyond the deep; so let us part
In silence, and for ever.
_Raim._ Let _him_ fly
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men;
--I can sleep calmly here.
_Pro._ Art thou in love
With death and infamy, that so thy choice
Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp?
_Raim._ Father! to set th’ irrevocable seal
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me,
There needs but flight. What should I bear from this,
My native land?--A blighted name, to rise
And part me, with its dark remembrances,
For ever from the sunshine! O’er my soul
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny
Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here
On earth, my hopes are closed.
_Pro._ _Thy_ hopes are closed!
And what were they to mine?--Thou wilt not fly!
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn
How proudly guilt can talk! Let fathers rear
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds
Foster their young: when these can mount alone,
Dissolving nature’s bonds, why should it not
Be so with us?
_Raim._ O father! now I feel
What high prerogatives belong to Death.
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence,
To which I leave my cause. “His solemn veil
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues,
And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever
Give shelter to our faults.” When I am gone,
The mists of passion which have dimm’d my name
Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then
Will be--not what it should have been--for I
Must pass without my fame--but yet unstain’d
As a clear morning dewdrop. Oh! the grave
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary’s,
And they should be my own!
_Pro._ Now, by just Heaven,
I will not thus be tortured!--Were my heart
But of thy guilt or innocence assured,
I could be calm again. “But in this wild
Suspense--this conflict and vicissitude
Of opposite feelings and convictions----What!
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend
All spirits to my purpose? have I raised
With a severe and passionless energy,
From the dread mingling of their elements,
Storms which have rock’d the earth?--and shall I now
Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn
And plaything of the winds?” Look on me, boy!
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep
Its heart’s dark secret close.--O pitying Heaven!
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle,
And tell me which is truth.
_Raim._ I will not plead.
I will not call th’ Omnipotent to attest
My innocence. No, father! in thy heart
I know my birthright shall be soon restored;
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed
The great absolver.
_Pro._ O my son! my son!
We will not part in wrath! The sternest hearts,
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses,
Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me!
The all which taught me that my soul was cast
In nature’s mould. And I must now hold on
My desolate course alone! Why, be it thus!
He that doth guide a nation’s star, should dwell
High o’er the clouds, in regal solitude,
Sufficient to himself.
_Raim._ Yet, on the summit,
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee,
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath,
Yet might have soar’d as high!
_Pro._ No, fear thou not!
Thou’lt be remember’d long. The canker-worm
O’ th’ heart is ne’er forgotten.
_Raim._ “Oh! not thus--
I would not _thus_ be thought of.”
_Pro._ Let me deem
Again that thou art base!--for thy bright looks,
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth,
Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers
Follow’d the parricide. Farewell, farewell!
I have no tears. Oh! thus thy mother look’d,
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile,
All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed
She gave thee to my arms.
_Raim._ Now death has lost
His sting, since thou believ’st me innocent!
_Pro._ (_wildly._) _Thou_ innocent!--Am I thy murderer, then?
Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name
A scorn to men! No! I will _not_ forgive thee;
A traitor! What! the blood of Procida
Filling a traitor’s veins? Let the earth drink it.
_Thou_ wouldst receive our foes!--but they shall meet
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul!
_Raim._ Father! yet hear me!
_Pro._ No! thou’rt skill’d to make
E’en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus?
[_Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment._
If there be aught--if aught--for which thou need’st
Forgiveness--not of me, but that dread Power
From whom no heart is veil’d--delay thou not
Thy prayer,--time hurries on.
_Raim._ I am prepared.
_Pro._ ’Tis well.
[_Exit_ Procida.
_Raim._ Men talk of torture!--Can they wreak
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame,
Half the mind bears--and lives? My spirit feels
Bewilder’d; on its powers this twilight gloom
Hangs like a weight of earth.--It should be morn;
Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven’s bright sun
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon,
Telling of hope and mercy!
[_Exit into an inner cell._
Scene II.--_A Street of Palermo._
_Many Citizens assembled._
_1st Cit._ The morning breaks; his time is almost come:
Will he be led this way?
_2d Cit._ Ay, so ’tis said
To die before that gate through which he purposed
The foe should enter in!
_3d Cit._ ’Twas a vile plot!
And yet I would my hands were pure as his
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds
I’ the air last night!
_2d Cit._ Since the great work of slaughter,
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours
Which should be silent?
_3d Cit._ Oh! the fearful mingling,
The terrible mimicry of human voices,
In every sound, which to the heart doth speak
Of woe and death.
_2d Cit._ Ay, there was woman’s shrill
And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail
Of dying infants; and the half-suppress’d
Deep groan of man in his last agonies!
And, now and then, there swell’d upon the breeze
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far
Than all the rest.
_1st Cit._ Of our own fate, perchance,
These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d
An ominous prophecy. Should France regain
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have
Stern reckoners to account with.--Hark!
[_The sound of trumpets heard at a distance._
_2d Cit._ ’Twas but
A rushing of the breeze.
_3d Cit._ E’en now, ’tis said,
The hostile bands approach.
[_The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer._
_2d Cit._ Again! that sound
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells--
They come, they come!
Procida _enters_.
_Pro._ The foe is at your gates;
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset.
Why are ye loitering here?
_Cit._ My lord, we came--
_Pro._ Think ye I know not wherefore?--’twas to see
A fellow-being die! Ay, ’tis a sight
Man loves to look on; and the tenderest hearts
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene.
For _this_ ye came. What! is our nature fierce,
Or is there that in mortal agony
From which the soul, exulting in its strength,
Doth learn immortal lessons? Hence, and arm!
Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen
Enough of death--for this must be a day
Of battle! ’Tis the hour which troubled souls
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings
Which bear them up! Arm! arm! ’tis for your homes,
And all that lends them loveliness--Away!
[_Exeunt._
Scene III.--_Prison of_ Raimond.
Raimond, Anselmo.
_Raim._ And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father!
Good angels bear such comfort.
_Ans._ I have found
A safe asylum for thine honour’d love,
Where she may dwell until serener days,
With Saint Rosalia’s gentlest daughters--those
Whose hallow’d office is to tend the bed
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul
With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call’d
“Sisters of Mercy.”
_Raim._ Oh! that name, my Constance!
Befits thee well. E’en in our happiest days,
There was a depth of tender pensiveness
Far in thine eyes’ dark azure, speaking ever
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace?
_Ans._ Alas! what should I say?
_Raim._ Why did I ask,
Knowing the deep and full devotedness
Of her young heart’s affections? Oh! the thought
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams,
Which should have been so tranquil!--and her soul,
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love,
Even unto death will sicken.
_Ans._ All that faith
Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes;
And still, whate’er betide, the light of heaven
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit master’d, and prepared
For nature’s fearful and mysterious change?
_Raim._ Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die! And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crown’d with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is--glory! Oh! my soul, from boyhood’s morn,
Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring--Awake!--Arise! But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seem’d enough of shame
To sleep _forgotten_ in the dust; but now--
Oh, God!--the undying record of my grave
Will be--Here sleeps a traitor!--One, whose crime,
Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer’s dagger!
_Ans._ Oh! my son,
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o’er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain’d soul
Doth conjure from the dead!
_Raim._ Thou’rt right. I would not.
Yet ’tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude,
Which is but learn’d from suffering. Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!
_Ans._ It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard
--But no--the rush, the trampling, and the stir
Of this great city, arming in her haste,
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath reach’d
Our gates, and all Palermo’s youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshall’d, and gone forth,
In that high hope which makes realities,
To the red field. Thy father leads them on.
_Raim._ (_starting up._)
They are gone forth! my father leads them on!
All--all Palermo’s youth! No! _one_ is left,
Shut out from glory’s race! They are gone forth!
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad--
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle’s roaring billows! On my sight
The vision bursts--it maddens! ’tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun! The very steed
With his majestic rider glorying shares
The hour’s stern joy, and waves his floating mane
As a triumphant banner! Such things are
Even now--and I am here!
_Ans._ Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press,--thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.
_Raim._ Ay! _Thou_ canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart; for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say’st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same:
_Their_ graves who fall in this day’s fight will be
As altars to their country, visited
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths,
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?
Vittoria _rushes in wildly, as if pursued_.
_Vit._ Anselmo! art thou found!
Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice,
Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross,
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives,
Or shame them back to die.
_Ans._ The fugitives!
What words are these? The sons of Sicily
Fly not before the foe?
_Vit._ That I should say
It is too true!
_Ans._ And thou--thou bleedest, lady!
_Vit._ Peace! heed not me when Sicily is lost!
I stood upon the walls, and watch’d our bands,
As, with their ancient royal banner spread,
Onward they march’d. The combat was begun,
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men
Had seal’d their freedom with their blood--when, lo!
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals
To join th’ invader’s host.
_Raim._ His country’s curse
Rest on the slave for ever!
_Vit._ Then distrust,
E’en of their noble leaders, and dismay,
That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands
Came like a deadly blight. They fled!--Oh shame!
E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams
Pursued their wingèd steps!
_Raim._ Thou hast not named
Their chief--Di Procida--he doth not fly?
_Vit._ No! like a kingly lion in the toils,
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives:
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.
_Raim._ And I am _here_! Shall there be power, O God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair,
To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains?
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt
To set the strong man free!
_Vit._ (_after gazing upon him earnestly._)
Why, ’twere a deed
Worthy the fane and blessing of all time,
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida!
Thou art no traitor!--from thy kindled brow
Looks out thy lofty soul! Arise! go forth!
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste;
Unbind him! Let my spirit still prevail,
Ere I depart--for the strong hand of death
Is on me now. [_She sinks back against a pillar._
_Ans._ Oh, heaven! the life-blood streams
Fast from thy heart--thy troubled eyes grow dim.
Who hath done this?
_Vit._ Before the gates I stood,
And in the name of him, the loved and lost,
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe,
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home,
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me.
_Ans._ Yet, oh yet,
It may not be too late. Help, help!
_Vit._ (_to Raimond._) Away!
Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty!
_Attendants enter._
Haste, be those fetters riven! Unbar the gates,
And set the captive free!
(_The Attendants seem to hesitate._) Know ye not _her_
Who should have worn your country’s diadem?
_Att._ O lady! we obey.
[_They take off_ Raimond’s _chains. He springs up exultingly._
_Raim._ Is this no dream?
Mount, eagle! thou art free! Shall I then die
Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds,
But on the field of banners, where the brave
Are striving for an immortality?
It is e’en so! Now for bright arms of proof,
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e’en yet
My father may be saved!
_Vit._ Away, be strong!
And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm,
Be--_Conradin_.
[_He rushes out._
Oh! for one hour of life,
To hear that name blent with th’ exulting shout
Of victory! It will not be! A mightier power
Doth summon me away.
_Ans._ To purer worlds
Raise thy last thoughts in hope.
_Vit._ Yes! _he_ is there,
All glorious in his beauty!--Conradin!
Death parted us, and death shall reunite!
He will not stay--it is all darkness now!
Night gathers o’er my spirit.
[_She dies._
_Ans._ She is gone!
It is an awful hour which stills the heart
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven!
[_He kneels beside her._
Scene IV.--_Before the Gates of Palermo._
_Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates._
_Voices_, (_without._) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou!
Provençals, on!
_Sicilians._ Fly, fly, or all is lost!
Raimond _appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner_.
_Raim._ Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily!
All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts
Against the rush of thousands, and sustain’d,
And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man,
Still to be call’d so, hath achieved such deeds
As heaven and earth have marvell’d at; and souls,
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come,
Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus
Freedom from race to race! Back! or prepare
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines,
To bleed and die in vain! Turn!--follow me!
“Conradin, Conradin!”--for Sicily
His spirit fights! Remember “Conradin!”
[_They begin to rally round him._
Ay, this is well!--Now, follow me, and charge!
[_The Provençals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilians.
_--_Exeunt._
Scene V.--_Part of the Field of Battle._
Montalba _enters wounded, and supported by_ Raimond, _whose face is
concealed by his helmet_.
_Raim._ Here rest thee, warrior.
_Mon._ Rest! ay, death is rest,
And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to _thee_,
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian!
These lips are all unused to soothing words,
Or I should bless the valour which hath won,
For my last hour, the proud free solitude
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name?
_Raim._ ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba.
Gaze--read it thus!
[_He lifts the visor of his helmet._
_Mon._ Raimond di Procida!
_Raim._ Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate:
But fare thee well! Heaven’s peace be with thy soul!
I must away. One glorious effort more,
And this proud field is won. [_Exit_ Raimond.
_Mon._ Am I thus humbled?
How my heart sinks within me! But ’tis Death
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued
My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome!
That youth--’twas in his pride he rescued me!
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved
His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail
To melt me into womanish feebleness.
_There_ I still baffle him--the grave shall seal
My lips for ever--mortal shall not hear
Montalba say--“_forgive!_”
[_He dies._
Scene VI.--_Another part of the Field._
Procida, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.
_Pro._ The day is ours; but he, the brave unknown,
Who turn’d the tide of battle--he whose path
Was victory--who hath seen him?
Alberti _is brought in wounded and fettered_.
_Alb._ Procida!
_Pro._ Be silent, traitor! Bear him from my sight,
Unto your deepest dungeons.
_Alb._ In the grave
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word
Ere my voice fail--thy son----
_Pro._ Speak, speak!
_Alb._ Thy son
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait’rous plot
Was mine alone. [_He is led away._
_Pro._ Attest it, earth and heaven!
My son is guiltless! Hear it, Sicily!
The blood of Procida is noble still!
My son! He lives, he lives! His voice shall speak
Forgiveness to his sire! His name shall cast
Its brightness o’er my soul!
_Gui._ O day of joy!
The brother of my heart is worthy still
The lofty name he bears!
Anselmo _enters_.
_Pro._ Anselmo, welcome!
In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son
Is guiltless.
_Ans._ And victorious! By his arm
All hath been rescued.
_Pro._ How!--the unknown----
_Ans._ Was he!
Thy noble Raimond!--by Vittoria’s hand
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour
When all was flight and terror.
_Pro._ Now my cup
Of joy too brightly mantles! Let me press
My warrior to a father’s heart--and die;
For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not?
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy!
_Ans._ Temper this proud delight.
_Pro._ What means that look?
He hath not fallen?
_Ans._ He lives.
_Pro._ Away, away!
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour
Atone for all his wrongs! [_Exeunt._
Scene VII.--_Garden of a Convent._
Raimond _is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants_.
_Raim._ Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die
In the bright face of nature! Lift my helm,
That I may look on heaven.
_1st Att._ (_to 2d Attendant._) Lay him to rest
On this green sunny bank, and I will call
Some holy sister to his aid; but thou
Return unto the field, for high-born men
There need the peasant’s aid.
[_Exit 2d Attendant._
(_To Raim._) Here gentle hands
Shall tend thee, warrior; for, in these retreats,
_They_ dwell, whose vows devote them to the care
Of all that suffer. May’st thou live to bless them!
[_Exit 1st Attendant._
_Raim._ Thus have I wish’d to die! ’Twas a proud strife!
My father bless’d th’ unknown who rescued him,
(Bless’d him, alas, because unknown!) and Guido,
Beside him bravely struggling, call’d aloud,
“Noble Sicilian, on!” Oh! had they deem’d
’Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn’d
Mine aid, though ’twas deliverance; and their looks
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one,
Whose eye ne’er turn’d on mine but its blue light
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist
Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, might the soul,
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish!
--Is’t not her voice?
Constance _enters speaking to a Nun, who turns into another path_.
_Con._ Oh, happy they, kind sister!
Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall
With brave men side by side, when the roused heart
Beats proudly to the last! There are high souls
Whose hope was such a death, and ’tis denied!
[_She approaches_ Raimond.
Young warrior, is there aught----_Thou_ here, my Raimond!
_Thou_ here--and thus! Oh! is this joy or woe?
_Raim._ Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love!
E’en on the grave’s dim verge. Yes! it _is_ joy!
My Constance! victors have been crown’d ere now,
With the green shining laurel, when their brows
Wore death’s own impress--and it may be thus
E’en yet, with me! They freed me, when the foe
Had half prevail’d, and I have proudly earn’d,
With my heart’s dearest blood, the meed to die
Within thine arms.
_Con._ Oh! speak not thus--to die!
These wounds may yet be closed.
[_She attempts to bind his wounds._
Look on me, love!
Why, there is _more_ than life in thy glad mien--
’Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye
Breaks e’en unwonted light, whose ardent ray
Seems born to be immortal!
_Raim._ ’Tis e’en so!
The parting soul doth gather all her fires
Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams,
And burning aspirations, to illume
The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path
Which lies before her; and encircled thus,
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares
Are vain, and yet I bless them.
_Con._ Say not vain;
The dying look not thus. We shall not part!
_Raim._ I have seen death ere now, and known him wear
Full many a changeful aspect.
_Con._ Oh! but none
Radiant as thine, my warrior! Thou wilt live!
Look round thee! all is sunshine. Is not this
A smiling world?
_Raim._ Ay, gentlest love! a world
Of joyous beauty and magnificence,
Almost too fair to leave! Yet must we tame
Our ardent hearts to this! Oh, weep thou not!
There is no home for liberty, or love,
Beneath these festal skies! Be not deceived;
My way lies far beyond! I shall be soon
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust,
Forgets not how to love!
_Con._ And must this be?
Heaven, thou art merciful!--Oh! bid our souls
Depart together!
_Raim._ Constance! there is strength
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved
Nobly, for me: arouse it once again!
Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet
That which approaches, as a brave man yields
With proud submission to a mightier foe.
--It is upon me now!
_Con._ I will be calm.
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond,
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs,
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is
A world (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there
I shall be with thee soon!
Procida _and_ Anselmo _enter_. Procida, _on seeing_ Raimond,
_starts back_.
_Ans._ Lift up thy head,
Brave youth, excitingly! for lo! thine hour
Of glory comes! Oh! doth it come too late?
E’en now the false Alberti hath confess’d
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom’d
To be th’ atonement.
_Raim._ ’Tis enough! Rejoice,
Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name
O’er which thou may’st weep proudly!
[_He sinks back._
To thy breast
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart
Hath touch’d my veins.
_Con._ And must thou leave me, Raimond?
Alas! thine eye grows dim--its wandering glance
Is full of dreams.
_Raim._ Haste, haste, and tell my father
I was no traitor!
_Pro._ (_rushing forward._) To thy father’s heart
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs--return!
Speak to me, Raimond!--thou wert ever kind,
And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past
Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee
My lips e’er ask’d.--Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope! And it is with thee thus?
Look on me yet!--Oh! must this woe be borne?
_Raim._ Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet
For a crown’d conqueror!--Hark! the trumpet’s voice!
[_A sound of triumphant music is
heard gradually approaching._
Is’t not a thrilling call? What drowsy spell
Benumbs me thus?--Hence! I am free again!
Now swell your festal strains--the field is won!
Sing to me glorious dreams. [_He dies._
_Ans._ The strife is past;
There fled a noble spirit!
_Con._ Hush! he sleeps--
Disturb him not!
_Ans._ Alas! this is no sleep
From which the eye doth radiantly unclose:
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o’er!
[_The music continues approaching._
Guido _enters with Citizens and Soldiers_.
_Gui._ The shrines are deck’d, the festive torches blaze--
Where is our brave deliverer? We are come
To crown Palermo’s victor!
_Ans._ Ye come too late.
The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits. [_The music ceases._
_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Is this dust
I look on--Raimond? ’Tis but a sleep!--a smile
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!
_Con._ (_starting._) Art _thou_ his father!
I know thee now.--Hence! with thy dark stern eye
And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now!
Away! he will not answer but to me--
For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!
Ye shall not rend him from me.
_Pro._ Oh! he _knew_
Thy love, poor maid! Shrink from me now no more!
He knew _thy_ heart--but who shall tell him now
The depth, th’ intenseness, and the agony,
Of my suppress’d affection? I have learn’d
All his high worth in time to deck his grave.
Is there not power in the strong spirit’s woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed? Raimond!--speak!--forgive!
Raimond! my victor, my deliverer! hear!
--Why, what a world is this! Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns
Th’ unconscious dead. There comes an hour to break
The mightiest hearts!--My son! my son! is this
A day of triumph! Ay, for thee alone!
[_He throws himself upon the body of_ Raimond.
_Curtain falls._
ANNOTATIONS ON THE “VESPERS OF PALERMO.”
“_The Vespers of Palermo_ was the earliest of the dramatic productions
of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently
known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action.
The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others
of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and
for virtue: and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his
love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests
the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its
best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of
pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to
those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy.
“It may not be so generally remembered, that the same historical event
was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that
the English one was written, and by a poet now of great popularity
in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans,
for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and
adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of
finished elegance.”--Professor Norton _in North American Review_, 1827.
* * * * *
It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, that Mrs Hemans
composed _The Vespers of Palermo_, and that the MS. was handed over to
the Managing Committee of Covent Garden. Two years elapsed before her
doubts regarding its fate were removed, and the result was as follows.
In giving it here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are
carried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the pale of
our literary chronology:--
“After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties,” writes her
sister, “the fate of the tragedy, so long in abeyance, was now drawing
to a crisis. Every thing connected with its approaching representation
was calculated to raise the highest hopes of success. ‘All is going
on,’ writes Mrs Hemans on the 27th November, ‘as well as I could
possibly desire. Only a short time will yet elapse before the ordeal
is over. I received a message yesterday from Mr Kemble, informing me
of the unanimous opinion of the green room conclave in favour of the
piece, and exhorting me to “be of good courage.” Murray has given me
two hundred guineas for the copyright of the “tragedy, drama, poem,
composition, or book,” as it is called in the articles which I signed
yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of _Procida_--why
or wherefore I know not; and out of several others which I proposed to
them, _The Vespers of Palermo_ has been finally chosen.’
“Under these apparently favourable auspices, the piece was produced
at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 1823, the principal
characters being taken by Mr Young, Mr C. Kemble, Mr Yates, Mrs
Bartley, and Miss F. H. Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news
of its reception could reach St Asaph. Not only Mrs Hemans’s own
family, but all her more immediate friends and neighbours, were wrought
up to a pitch of intense expectation. Various newspapers were ordered
expressly for the occasion, and the post-office was besieged at twelve
o’clock at night, by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager
to be the first heralds of the triumph so undoubtingly anticipated.
The boys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable state of
excitement, and were all lying awake ‘to hear about mamma’s play;’ and
perhaps her bitterest moment of mortification was, when she went up to
their bedsides, which she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to
announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the ground, and
that the performance had ended in all but a failure. The reports in
the newspapers were strangely contradictory, and, in some instances,
exceedingly illiberal: but all which were written in anything like
an unbiassed tone, concurred entirely with the private accounts, not
merely of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers,
in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency of the
actress who personated Constance, and who absolutely seemed to be under
the influence of some infatuating spell, calling down hisses, and even
laughter, on scenes the most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all,
_dying gratuitously_ at the close of the piece. The acting of Young
and Kemble in the two Procidi, was universally pronounced to have been
beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions showed a determination
to do all possible justice to the author. It was admitted that, at the
fall of the curtain, applause decidedly predominated: still the marks
of disapprobation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers,
who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till another
actress should have fitted herself to undertake the part of Constance,
when they fully resolved to reproduce it. Mrs Hemans herself was
very far from wishing that this fresh experiment should be made. ‘Mr
Kemble,’ writes she to a friend, ‘will not hear of _The Vespers_ being
driven off the stage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who
is now unwell, shall be sufficiently recovered to learn her part; but
I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fiery ordeal through which I
have passed, from such another trial. Mr Kemble attributes the failure,
without the slightest hesitation, to what he delicately calls “a
singularity of intonation in one of the actresses.” I have also heard
from Mr Milman, Mr J. T. Coleridge, and several others, with whom there
is but one opinion as to the cause of the disaster.’
“Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse with feelings
so completely untinged with bitterness, or with greater readiness to
turn for consolation to the kindness and sympathy which poured in upon
her from every side. It would be doing her injustice to withhold her
letter to Mr Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment.
‘Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823.
“‘My dear Sir,--It is difficult to part with the hopes of three years,
without some painful feelings; but your kind letter has been of more
service to me than I can attempt to describe. I will not say that it
revives my hopes of success, because I think it better that I should
fix my mind to prevent those hopes from gaining any ascendency; but it
sets in so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointment
has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends from whom
I have heard on this occasion, express but one opinion. As to Miss
Kelly’s acting, and its fatal effect on the fortunes of the piece,
I cannot help thinking that it will be impossible to counteract the
unfavourable impression which this must have produced, and I almost
wish, as far as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt
may not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on the
subject. I have not heard from Mr Kemble; but I have written both to
him and to Mr Young, to express my grateful sense of their splendid
exertions in support of the piece. As a female, I cannot help feeling
rather depressed by the extreme severity with which I have been
treated in the morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am
sure I should not have attached the slightest value to their praise;
but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement for my temerity--for a
female who shrinks from such things has certainly no business to write
tragedies.
“‘For your support and assistance, as well as that of my other
friends, I cannot be too grateful; nor can I ever consider any
transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given me the privilege
of calling you a friend, and afforded me the recollection of so much
long-tried kindness.--Ever believe me, my dear sir, most faithfully,
your obliged
“‘F. Hemans.’
“Notwithstanding the determination of the managers again to bring
forward _The Vespers_, a sort of fatality seemed to attend upon it, and
some fresh obstacle was continually arising to prevent the luckless
Constance from obtaining an efficient representative on the London
stage. Under these circumstances, Mr Kemble at length confessed that
he could not recommend the reproduction of the piece; and Mrs Hemans
acquiesced in the decision, with feelings which partook rather of
relief than of disappointment. She never ceased to speak in the warmest
terms of Mr Kemble’s liberal and gentlemanly conduct, both before and
after the appearance of the piece, and of his surpassing exertions at
the time of its representation.
“It was with no small degree of surprise that, in the course of the
following February, she learned, through the medium of a letter from
Mrs Joanna Baillie,[192] that the tragedy was shortly to be represented
at the Edinburgh theatre--Mrs Henry Siddons undertaking the part of
Constance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and the
following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one of the
zealous friends who had been instrumental in this arrangement, will
prove how well their kindly intentions were fulfilled:
“‘The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our most sanguine
expectations, and was announced for repetition on Wednesday, amidst
thunders of applause. The actors seem to have done wonders, and every
one appeared to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own
exertions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger Procida.
The first recognition between father and son, was acted by them to such
perfection, that one of the most hearty and unanimous plaudits followed
that ever was heard.
“‘Every reappearance of the gentle Constance won the spectators more
and more. The scene in the judgment-hall carried off the audience into
perfect illusion, and handkerchiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs
Siddons’s searching the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild
manner, as if to find Raimond’s father was to save him, was perfect.
She flew round the circle--went, as if distracted, close up to judge
after judge--paused before Procida, and fell prostrate at his feet.
The effect was magical, and was manifested by three repeated bursts of
applause.’
“A neatly turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though not declared, to
be the production of Sir Walter Scott, was recited by Mrs H. Siddons.
When deference to a _female_ was there laid claim to, loud bursts of
applause ensued; but when generosity to a _stranger_ was bespoken, the
house absolutely rang with huzzas.”
“‘I knew how much you would rejoice,’ wrote Mrs Hemans to a
warm-hearted friend, ‘in the issue of my Edinburgh trial; it has,
indeed, been most gratifying, and I think, amongst the pleasantest of
its results I may reckon a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it
has put me in possession. I had written to thank him for the kindness
he had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an answer;
but it came, and you would be delighted with its frank and unaffected
kindliness. He acknowledges the epilogue, “stuffed,” as he says it
was, “with parish jokes, and bad puns;” and courteously says, that his
country folks have done more credit to themselves than to me, by their
reception of _The Vespers_.’
“To another uncompromising champion she wrote:--‘I must beg you will
“bear our faculties meekly:” you really seem to be rather in an
intoxicated state; and if we indulge ourselves in this way, I am afraid
we shall have something to sober us. I dare say I must expect some
sharp criticism from Edinburgh ere all this is over; but any thing
which deserves the name of _criticism_ I can bear. I believe I could
point out more faults in _The Vespers_ myself than any one has done
yet.’”--_Memoir_, pp. 69-76.
[192] Though Mrs Hemans had never the advantage of being personally
known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional interchange
of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up between them,
was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges she possessed. It
was always delightful to her when she could love the character, as
well as admire the talents, of a celebrated author; and never, surely,
was there an example better fitted to call forth the willing tribute
of veneration, both towards the woman and the poetess. In one of her
letters to Mrs Baillie, Mrs Hemans thus apologised for indulging in
a strain of egotism, which the nature of their acquaintance might
scarcely seem to justify,--“The kindly warmth of heart which seems to
breathe over all your writings, and the power of early association over
my mind, make me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to
a friend.”
It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how
graciously that “kindly warmth of heart” would be extended to those
of her children, who are more fortunate than herself, in enjoying the
personal intercourse she would have prized so highly.
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD.
“Among many nations was there no King like him.”--Nehemiah.
“Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in
Israel?”--Samuel.
Another warning sound! The funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melancholy swell,
Strikes on th’ awaken’d heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod;
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return’d to God!
Yet may not England o’er her father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.
Vain voice of Reason, hush!--they yet must flow,
The unrestrain’d, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanish’d years.
Tell us no more ’tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of heaven’s relief,
Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day:
We feel, we know, ’tis thus--yet nature will have way.
What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
Sadd’ning the scene where once it nobly reign’d,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
Stamp’d with its fiery record, he remain’d;
Around that shatter’d tree still fondly clung
Th’ undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung
Luxuriant thence, to Glory’s ruin true;
While England hung her trophies on the stem,
That desolately stood, unconscious e’en of them.
Of _them_ unconscious! Oh, mysterious doom!
Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
The realm’s high soul to loftiest energies!
His was the spirit o’er the isles which threw
The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought
In every bosom, powerful to renew
Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast,[193]
The seaman’s torch of Hope, midst perils deepening fast.
Then from th’ unslumbering influence of his worth,
Strength, as of inspiration, fill’d the land;
A young but quenchless flame went brightly forth,
Kindled by him--who saw it not expand!
Such was the will of heaven. The gifted seer,
Who with his God had communed, face to face,
And from the house of bondage and of fear,
In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race;
He through the desert and the waste their guide,
Saw dimly from afar the promised land--and died.
O full of days and virtues! on thy head
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;
Fathers have sorrow’d o’er their beauteous dead,
Eyes, quench’d in night, the sunbeam have forgot;
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;
But Pain for thee had fill’d a cup of tears,
Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from th’ Eternal’s hand.
Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to _thee_ the splendour of its beams?
The ice-rock glows not midst the summer’s pride!
Nations leap’d up to joy--as streams that burst,
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o’er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed,
Roll in exulting melody again;
And bright o’er earth the long majestic line
Of England’s triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts--but thine.
Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil
That o’er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains throng’d with palms to hail
The crowning isle, th’ anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
Met to rejoice--rich pageants glitter’d by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reach’d not thee--amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.
Yet there was mercy still! If joy no more
Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass o’er
The silent limits of its solitude!
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
Our hearts’ full echoes, as it swell’d on high;
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke
On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!
If the land’s rose unheeded wore its bloom,
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.
And she who, tried through all the stormy past--
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour--
Watch’d o’er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustain’d, inspired, by strong affection’s power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore--
If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang, that would have thrill’d
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still’d.
Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood’s prime,
Youth with its glory--in its fulness, age--
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish’d flowers,
The grave’s imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,
The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.
And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o’er that wave the stars of heaven might shine
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once familiar sound,
Came as a stranger’s o’er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrill’d to hear:
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.
Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known
Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain’d by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o’er the future’s course:
For thee no cloud, from memory’s dread abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant’s eye;
And, closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to “despair and die!”
No! e’en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue’s ruin’d home is redolent of peace.
They might be with thee still--the loved, the tried,
The fair, the lost--they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill.
Long after earth received them, and the note
Of the last requiem o’er their dust was pour’d,
As passing sunbeams o’er thy soul might float
Those forms, from us withdrawn--to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal’d,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal’d.
Came they with tidings from the worlds above,
Those viewless regions where the weary rest?
Sever’d from earth, estranged from mortal love,
Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?
Or shone their visionary presence bright
With human beauty?--did their smiles renew
Those days of sacred and serene delight,
When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne’er forsakes.
These may be fantasies--and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved heaven’s lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall,
Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief’s tribute to the dead.
But if th’ ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne on the wings of morning to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
On scenes once hallow’d by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! All that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal’d--
The might, the majesty, the proud array
Of England’s march o’er many a noble field--
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land view’d from an Alpine height.
Away, presumptuous thought! Departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun’s reflected rays,
E’en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze
On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat!
And thou may’st view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.
And yet we mourn thee! Yes, thy place is void
Within our hearts! there veil’d thine image dwelt,
But cherish’d still; and o’er that tie destroy’d,
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose;
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray,
Wore youth’s bright tresses when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill’d our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.
Earthquakes have rock’d the nations: things revered,
Th’ ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear’d
His lonely pyramid of dread renown.
But when the fires that long had slumber’d, pent
Deep in men’s bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,
And swept each holy barrier from their course,
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood,
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.
Be they eternal!--be thy children found
Still to their country’s altars true like thee!
And while “the name of Briton” is a sound
Of rallying music to the brave and free,
With the high feelings at the word which swell,
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom’s flame,
Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so well,
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror’s dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.
All else shall pass away!--the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their _tombs_ depart;
But number not with perishable things
The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heir-looms from race to race! And oh! in days
When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn “as household words” thy praise,
Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest!
And many a name of that imperial line,
Father and patriot! blend, in England’s songs, with thine!
[193] The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a
ship during tempests; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered by the
sailors as an omen of good weather.--See Dampier’s _Voyages_.
[“The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty: unlike courtly
themes in general, this is one of the deepest and most lasting
interest. Buried as the King had long been in mental and visual
darkness, and dead to the common joys of the world, his death,
perhaps, did not occasion the shock, or the piercing sorrow which
we have felt on some other public losses; but the heart must be
cold indeed that could, on reflection, regard the whole fortune and
fate of that venerable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man,
without a more than common sympathy. There was something in his
character so truly national--his very errors were of so amiable
a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his nature was so
genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his splendid court, amidst
his large and fine family, so true a husband, so good a father, so
safe an example--he so thoroughly understood the feelings, and so
duly appreciated the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his
subjects--and, with all this, the sorrows from heaven rained down upon
his head in so ‘pitiless and pelting a storm:’ all these--his high
qualities and unparalleled sufferings--form such a subject for poetry,
as nothing, we should imagine, but its difficulty and the expectation
attending it, would prevent from being seized upon by the greatest
poets of the day. We will not say that Mrs Hemans has filled the whole
canvass as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is
beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the subject; it
is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads us up through all
the dismal colourings of the foreground to that bright and consoling
prospect which should close every Christian’s reflections on such a
matter. An analysis of so short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we
have already transgressed our limits; we will, therefore, give but one
extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our readers:--
‘Yet was there mercy still! If joy no more,’ etc.
“It is time to close this article.[194] Our readers will have seen,
and we do not deny, that we have been much interested by our subject.
Who or what Mrs Hemans is, we know not: we have been told that, like a
poet of antiquity--
----‘Tristia vitæ
Solatur cantu,’----
If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly nor
unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she seems, from the tenor of
her writings, to bear about her a higher and a surer balsam than the
praises of men, or even the ‘sacred muse’ herself can impart. Still
there is a pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even to a
wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned; and such fame as may wait upon
our decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow. In our opinion,
all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later
poems are of higher promise, they are vigorous, picturesque, and
pathetic.”--_Quarterly Review_, vol. xxiv.]
[194] This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished
Editor, William Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on “The
Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,”--“Tales and Historic Scenes
in Verse,”--“Translations from Camoens,” etc.,--“The Sceptic,” and
“Stanzas to the Memory of the late King.”
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
SECOND SERIES.
[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is
pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second series, although
her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the
publication of another volume under the same title. But, as the
compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author’s
literary progress, we have ventured not only so to class, but so to
christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, “for uniformity’s
sake.”
THE MAREMMA.
[“Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna,
named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and
excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by
false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the
desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether
the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband
brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district
destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason
of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter
complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence,
without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances.
He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the
health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles,
indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It
is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual
silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample
and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He
meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting
on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second,
a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the
third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had
spoken, turned towards him with these words:--
Recorditi di me; che son la Pia,
Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma,
Salsi colui che inanellata pria
Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’”
Purgatorio, cant. v.
--_Edinburgh Review_, No. lvii.]
There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies,
Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse,
Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise,
And nature lavishes her warmest hues;
But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath--
Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death!
He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling,
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws;
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling,
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose;
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh
But woo thee still to slumber and to die.
Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there,
Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom,
But stealing o’er thee in the scented air,
And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb;
How may we deem, amidst their deep array,
That heaven and earth but flatter to betray?
Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be
That these but charm us with destructive wiles?
Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in _thee_
Danger is mask’d in beauty--death in smiles?
Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore,
Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore!
There, year by year, that secret peril spreads,
Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign,
And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds,
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain;
O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate.
And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades
Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone,
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades,
Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone;
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves,
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves.
And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming,
Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise.
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming
Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities.
Wild visions!--there no sylvan powers convene:
Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene.
Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear
Traces of mightier beings on your brow,
O’er you that subtle spirit of the air
Extends the desert of his empire now;
Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome,
And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home.
Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power.
His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot
Hath fond affection wept--each blighted flower
In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot.
But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe,
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow.
A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls,
Is floating joyous on the summer air;
And there are banquets in her stately halls,
And graceful revels of the gay and fair,
And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d,
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid.
To that young bride each grace hath Nature given
Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven--
Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye;
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195]
But is she blest?--for sometimes o’er her smile
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast;
And in her liquid glance there seems awhile
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past;
Yet soon it flies--a cloud that leaves no trace,
On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place.
Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise
Remembrance of some early love or woe,
Faded, yet scarce forgotten--in her eyes
Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow,
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth,
Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth.
The world before her smiles--its changeful gaze
She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise
Is still the joyous herald of her way;
And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw
O’er every scene its own resplendent glow.
Such is the young Bianca--graced with all
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give;
Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall
Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive;
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught
With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought.
And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith
Is brave and noble--child of high descent,
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death,
Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument;
And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s[196] way
Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array.
And his the chivalrous commanding mien,
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace;
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen,
Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face,
And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye--
But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.
And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing,
As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse;
And veil the workings of each darker feeling,
Deep in his soul concentrating its force;
But yet he loves--Oh! who hath loved, nor known
Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?
The days roll on--and still Bianca’s lot
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot
To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream;
And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear,
It sheds but grace more intellectual there.
A few short years, and all is changed; her fate
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast.
Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate,
The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d?
Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.
Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene,
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth,
And view that bright intelligence of mien
Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth,
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign?
--How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again?
In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze.
Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild,
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys,
Then turns away, and fixes on her child
So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind
With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined.
There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore,
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er,
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood,
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.
Fair is that house of solitude--and fair
The green Maremma, far around it spread,
A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air
Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed,
No human footstep tracks the lone domain,
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.
And silent are the marble halls that rise
’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves:
All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies,
And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves;
Yet every trace of man reveals alone,
That there life once hath flourish’d--and is gone.
There, till around them slowly, softly stealing,
The summer air, deceit in every sigh,
Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing,
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by;
And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.
And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear
Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear,
While his dark spirit seals their doom--to die;
And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.
It is the summer’s glorious prime--and blending
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep,
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending,
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep,
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright,
That lovely shore of solitude and light.
Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing,
Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows,
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows,
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! ’tis _thy_ tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale;
And fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.
But sink not yet; for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading--
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot:
’Tis agony--but soon to be forgot!
What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!
Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend
O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head;
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye
Fix’d upon thee--on thee!--who couldst no aid supply!
There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow,
Came like some spirit whispering--“He must die!”
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast,
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.
’Tis past--that fearful trial!--he is gone!
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep;
The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet--and death shall be
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.
But ask not--hope not--one relenting thought
From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away,
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught,
Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay;
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace
The gradual withering of each youthful grace.
And yet the day of vain remorse shall come,
When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise
As an accusing angel--and thy tomb,
A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes!
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring,
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.
Lift thy meek eyes to heaven--for all on earth,
Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone:
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth,
Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own!
It is our task to suffer--and our fate
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.
The season’s glory fades--the vintage lay
Through joyous Italy resounds no more;
But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away,
Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store.
Beauty and youth are gone--behold them such
As death hath made them with his blighting touch!
The summer’s breath came o’er them--and they died!
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth,
Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride,
But bore to them their summons from the earth!
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze,
And wake to life and light all flowers--but these.
No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling,
O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave;
But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling
The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave--
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom,
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!
[195] An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of his wife Mona Lisa,
supposed to be the most perfect imitation of nature ever exhibited in
painting.
[196] A sort of consecrated war-chariot.
A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
[The Secret Tribunal,[197] which attained such formidable power
towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history
as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its
members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and
were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends
and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence
cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to
relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and,
in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever
he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried
on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual
to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet
persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without
any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any
one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands
set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the
life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to
execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even
should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent
of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into
the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of
the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his
council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong
enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight
of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the
purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to
lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was
usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the
first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a
poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not
been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions
of the _Sages_ or _Seers_ (as they called themselves) were enveloped
in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed
themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive
and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary
to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at
length successful.
The following account of this extraordinary association is given by
Madame de Staël:--“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre,
toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans
le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient
dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils
prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres
de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que
par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même,
il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes,
les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette
conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment
cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où
chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être
forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel
avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans
les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui
pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible
terreur.”--_L’Allemagne_, vol. ii.]
[197] See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer.
Night veil’d the mountains of the vine,
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine,
And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar,
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore,
While glen and cavern, to their moans
Gave answer with a thousand tones:
Then, as the voice of storms appall’d
The peasant of the Odenwald,[198]
Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high,
’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by,
Riding the blast with phantom speed,
With cry of hound and tramp of steed,
While his fierce train, as on they flew,
Their horns in savage chorus blew,
Till rock, and tower, and convent round,
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound.
Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced
The forest paths, in secret haste;
Far other sounds were on the night,
Though lost amidst the tempest’s might,
That fill’d the echoing earth and sky
With its own awful harmony.
There stood a lone and ruin’d fane,
Far in the Odenwald’s domain,
Midst wood and rock, a deep recess
Of still and shadowy loneliness.
Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown,
The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone,
The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile,
As it swept along the roofless aisle,
For the forest boughs and the stormy sky
Were all that minster’s canopy.
Many a broken image lay
In the mossy mantle of decay,
And partial light the moonbeams darted
O’er trophies of the long-departed;
For there the chiefs of other days,
The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise:
’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven
A tribute to their bier had given,
Long since a sound but the moaning blast
Above their voiceless home had pass’d.
--So slept the proud, and with them all
The records of their fame and fall;
Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest,
Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest,
And emblems of the Holy Land
Were carved by some forgotten hand.
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced,
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced;
And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine
Half hid the palm of Palestine.
So slept the glorious--lowly laid,
As the peasant in his native shade;
Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme,
All that high deeds could win from time!
What footsteps move, with measured tread,
Amid those chambers of the dead?
What silent, shadowy beings glide
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside,
Peopling the wild and solemn scene
With forms well suited to its mien?
Wanderer, away! let none intrude
On their mysterious solitude!
Lo! these are they, that awful band,
The secret Watchers of the land,
They that, unknown and uncontroll’d,
Their dark and dread tribunal hold.
They meet not in the monarch’s dome,
They meet not in the chieftain’s home;
But where, unbounded o’er their heads,
All heaven magnificently spreads,
And from its depths of cloudless blue
The eternal stars their deeds may view!
Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod
By roving foot are seldom trod;
Where’er the pathless forest waves,
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves;
Where’er wild legends mark a spot,
By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot,
There, circled by the shades of night,
They judge of crimes that shrink from light;
And guilt, that deems its secret known
To the One unslumbering eye alone,
Yet hears their name with a sudden start,
As an icy touch had chill’d its heart,
For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand
Rests dark and heavy on the land.
There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom,
And woke the echoes of the tomb,
As if the noble hearts beneath
Sent forth deep answers to its breath.
“When the midnight stars are burning,
And the dead to earth returning;
When the spirits of the blest
Rise upon the good man’s rest;
When each whisper of the gale
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale;
In the shadow of the hour
That o’er the soul hath deepest power,
Why thus meet we, but to call
For judgment on the criminal?
Why, but the doom of guilt to seal,
And point th’ avenger’s holy steel?
A fearful oath has bound our souls,
A fearful power our arm controls!
There is an ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die;
There is an eye whose beam pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades:
That ear hath heard our awful vow,
That searching eye is on us now!
Let him whose heart is unprofaned,
Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d--
Let him, whose thoughts no record keep
Of crimes in silence buried deep,
Here, in the face of heaven, accuse
The guilty whom its wrath pursues!”
’Twas hush’d--that voice of thrilling sound!
And a dead silence reign’d around.
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form
Tower’d like a phantom in the storm;
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud,
With its dark folds his face to shroud,
Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d,
With stately step, and paused at last,
Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone,
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone;
Then on the fearful stillness broke
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:
“Before that eye whose glance pervades
All depths, all deserts, and all shades;
Heard by that ear awake on high
E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die--
With all a mortal’s awe I stand,
Yet with pure heart and stainless hand.
To heaven I lift that hand, and call
For judgment on the criminal;
The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues--
It cries for vengeance. I accuse!”
“Name thou the guilty! say for whom
Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom!
“Albert of Lindheim--to the skies
The voice of blood against him cries;
A brother’s blood--his hand is dyed
With the deep stain of fratricide.
One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d
What years in darkness had conceal’d,
But all in vain--the gulf of time
Refused to close upon his crime;
And guilt that slept on flowers shall know
The earthquake was but hush’d below!
--Here, where amidst the noble dead,
Awed by their fame, he dare not tread;
Where, left by him to dark decay,
Their trophies moulder fast away,
Around us and beneath us lie
The relics of his ancestry--
The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race,
Each in his last low dwelling-place.
But one is absent--o’er _his_ grave
The palmy shades of Syria wave;
Far distant from his native Rhine,
He died unmourn’d, in Palestine!
The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land,
To perish by a brother’s hand!
Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed
No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed,
Though all he loved his name forget,
_They_ live who shall avenge him yet!”
“Accuser! how to thee alone
Became the fearful secret known?”
“There is an hour when vain remorse
First wakes in her eternal force;
When pardon may not be retrieved,
When conscience will not be deceived.
He that beheld the victim bleed,
Beheld, and aided in the deed--
When earthly fears had lost their power
Reveal’d the tale in such an hour,
Unfolding, with his latest breath,
All that gave keener pangs to death.”
“By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen,
Who is for ever, and hath been,
And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored,
And by th’ avenger’s holy sword,
By truth eternal and divine,
Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?”
--“The cross upon my heart is prest,
I hold the dagger to my breast;
If false the tale whose truth I swear,
Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!”
Then sternly rose the dread reply--
“His days are number’d--he must die!
There is no shadow of the night
So deep as to conceal his flight;
Earth doth not hold so lone a waste
But there his footsteps shall be traced;
Devotion hath no shrine so blest
That there in safety he may rest.
Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there
Around him spread her secret snare!
In the busy haunts of men,
In the still and shadowy glen,
When the social board is crown’d,
When the wine-cup sparkles round;
When his couch of sleep is prest,
And a dream his spirit’s guest;
When his bosom knows no fear,
Let the dagger still be near,
Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart,
Silent and swift it reach his heart!
One warning voice, one fearful word,
Ere morn beneath his towers be heard,
Then vainly may the guilty fly,
Unseen, unaided,--he must die!
Let those he loves prepare his tomb,
Let friendship lure him to his doom!
Perish his deeds, his name, his race,
Without a record or a trace!
Away! be watchful, swift, and free,
To wreak th’ invisible’s decree.
’Tis pass’d--th’ avenger claims his prey:
On to the chase of death--away!”
And all was still. The sweeping blast
Caught not a whisper as it pass’d;
The shadowy forms were seen no more,
The tombs deserted as before;
And the wide forest waved immense
In dark and lone magnificence.
In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed
The song was hush’d, the bard reposed;
Sleep settled on the weary guest,
And the castle’s lord retired to rest.
To rest! The captive doom’d to die
May slumber, when his hour is nigh;
The seaman, when the billows foam,
Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home;
The warrior, on the battle’s eve,
May win from care a short reprieve:
But earth and heaven alike deny
Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye;
And night, that brings to grief a calm,
To toil a pause, to pain a balm,
Hath spells terrific in her course,
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse--
Voices, that long from earth had fled,
And steps and echoes from the dead;
And many a dream whose forms arise
Like a darker world’s realities!
Call them not vain illusions--born,
But for the wise and brave to scorn!
Heaven, that the penal doom defers,
Hath yet its thousand ministers,
To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown,
In shade, in silence, and alone,
Concentrating in one brief hour
Ages of retribution’s power!
--If thou wouldst know the lot of those,
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes,
Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng
Are listening to the voice of song;
Seek them not where the banquet glows,
And the red vineyard’s nectar flows:
There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek,
The eye of feverish joy may speak,
And smiles, the ready mask of pride,
The canker-worm within may hide.
Heed not those signs! they but delude;
Follow, and mark their solitude!
The song is hush’d, the feast is done,
And Lindheim’s lord remains alone--
Alone in silence and unrest,
With the dread secret of his breast;
Alone with anguish and with fear,
--There needs not an avenger here!
Behold him!--Why that sudden start?
Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart!
Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh,
Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry!
No sound but these may near thee be;
Sleep! all things earthly sleep--but thee.
No! there are murmurs on the air,
And a voice is heard that cries--“Despair!”
And he who trembles fain would deem
’Twas the whisper of a waking dream.
Was it but this? Again, ’tis there:
Again is heard--“Despair! Despair!”
’Tis past--its tones have slowly died
In echoes on the mountain side;
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell.
He knew their fearful meaning well,
And shrinking from the midnight gloom,
As from the shadow of the tomb,
Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay,
When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray,
And sought, amidst the forest wild,
Some shade where sunbeam never smiled.
Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn
Wakes in a heaven of splendour born!
The storms that shook the mountain crest
Have sought their viewless world of rest.
High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze,
Soars the young eagle in the blaze,
Exulting, as he wings his way,
To revel in the fount of day;
And brightly past his banks of vine,
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine;
And joyous peals the vintage song
His wild luxuriant shores along,
As peasant bands, from rock and dell,
Their strains of choral transport swell;
And cliffs of bold fantastic forms,
Aspiring to the realm of storms,
And woods around, and waves below,
Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow,
That lends each tower, and convent spire,
A tinge of its ethereal fire.
Swell high the song of festal hours!
Deck ye the shrine with living flowers!
Let music o’er the waters breathe!
Let beauty twine the bridal wreath!
While she, whose blue eye laughs in light,
Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright,
The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall,
Wakes to her nuptial festival.
Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar
To worlds the soul would fain explore,
When, for her own blest country pining,
Its beauty o’er her thought is shining,
Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye
Was all one beam of ecstasy!
Whose glorious brow no traces wore
Of guilt, or sorrow known before!
Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth,
A sunbeam of immortal birth,
Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying,
Where love and joy are both undying!
E’en thus--a vision of delight,
A beam to gladden mortal sight,
A flower whose head no storm had bow’d,
Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,--
Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried,
Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride;
A being all too soft and fair
One breath of earthly woe to bear!
Yet lives there many a lofty mind,
In light and fragile form enshrined;
And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye
Hide strength to suffer and to die!
Judge not of woman’s heart in hours
That strew her path with summer flowers,
When joy’s full cup is mantling high,
When flattery’s blandishments are nigh;
Judge her not then! within her breast
Are energies unseen, that rest!
They wait their call--and grief alone
May make the soul’s deep secrets known.
Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train,
Leading the reckless and the vain!
Firm on the scaffold she hath stood,
Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood;
Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d,
Her spirit glow’d on battle-field;
Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom
The captive brooding o’er his doom;
Her faith the fallen monarch saved,
Her love the tyrant’s fury braved;
No scene of danger or despair,
But she hath won her triumph there!
Away! nor cloud the festal morn
With thoughts of boding sadness born!
Far other, lovelier dreams are thine,
Fair daughter of a noble line!
Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height
Hath caught the flush of Eastern light,
Watching, while soft the morning air
Parts on thy brow the sunny hair,
Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide
Bears thy loved warrior to his bride--
Him, whose high deeds romantic praise
Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays.
He came--that youthful chief,--he came
That favour’d lord of love and fame!
His step was hurried--as if one
Who seeks a voice within to shun;
His cheek was varying, and express’d
The conflict of a troubled breast;
His eye was anxious--doubt, and dread,
And a stem grief, might there be read:
Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien
Seem’d struggling to be still unseen.
--With shrinking heart, with nameless fear,
Young Ella met the brow austere,
And the wild look, which seem’d to fly
The timid welcome of her eye.
Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d
The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d?
A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught
With all the heaviest gloom of thought?
She trembled--ne’er to grief inured,
By its dread lessons ne’er matured,
Unused to meet a glance of less
Than all a parent’s tenderness,
Shuddering she felt, through every sense,
The deathlike faintness of suspense.
High o’er the windings of the flood,
On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood,
Whence the free sight afar might stray
O’er that imperial river’s way,
Which, rushing from its Alpine source,
Makes one long triumph of its course,
Rolling in tranquil grandeur by,
Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry.
But they, o’er that majestic scene,
With clouded brow and anxious mien,
In silence gazed!--for Ella’s heart
Fear’d its own terrors to impart;
And he, who vainly strove to hide
His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride,
Seem’d gathering courage to unfold
Some fearful tale, that must be told.
At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d
A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d,
As thus he spoke--“Yes! gaze a while
On the bright scenes that round thee smile;
For, if thy love be firm and true,
Soon must thou bid their charms adieu!
A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree
Must bear me far from them or thee;
Our path is one of snares and fear,
I lose thee, if I linger here!
Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise
As fair, beneath far-distant skies;
As fondly tenderness and truth
Shall cherish there thy rose of youth.
But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine
Hath heard the vows which make thee mine,
Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more
To tread thine own loved mountain shore,
But share and soothe, repining not,
The bitterness of exile’s lot?”
“Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved
The scenes where first my childhood roved;
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme
Above our own majestic stream,
The halls where first my heart beat high
To the proud songs of chivalry.
All, all are dear--yet _these_ are ties
Affection well may sacrifice;
Loved though they be, where’er thou art,
_There_ is the country of my heart!
Yet is there one, who, reft of me,
Were lonely as a blasted tree;
One, who still hoped my hand should close
His eyes, in Nature’s last repose;
Eve gathers round him--on his brow
Already rests the wintry snow;
His form is bent, his features wear
The deepening lines of age and care;
His faded eye hath lost its fire;--
Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire?
Yet tell me all--thy woes impart,
My Ulric! to a faithful heart,
Which sooner far--oh! doubt not this--
Would share _thy_ pangs, than others’ bliss!”
“Ella, what wouldst thou?--’tis a tale
Will make that cheek as marble pale!
Yet what avails it to conceal
All thou too soon must know and feel?
It must, it must be told--prepare,
And nerve that gentle heart to bear.
But I--oh, was it then for _me_
The herald of thy woes to be!
Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy,
And wake thee first from dreams of joy?
Forgive!--I would not ruder tone
Should make the fearful tidings known,
I would not that unpitying eyes
Should coldly watch thine agonies!
Better ’twere mine--that task severe,
To cloud thy breast with grief and fear.
“Hast thou not heard, in legends old,
Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold,
Of those who meet in cave or glen,
Far from the busy walks of men;
Those who mysterious vigils keep,
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep,
To judge of crimes, like Him on high,
In stillness and in secrecy?
Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree
’Tis fruitless to resist or flee?
Whose name hath cast a spell of power
O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower?
Thy sire--oh, Ella! hope is fled!
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead!
Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom,
And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb!
Yes, weep!--relieve thy heart oppress’d,
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast!
Thy cheek is cold--thy tearless eye
Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy.
Oh, gaze not thus!--thy silence break:
Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!”
She spoke at length, in accents low,
Of wild and half-indignant woe:
--“_He_ doom’d to perish! _he_ decreed
By their avenging arm to bleed!
_He_, the renown’d in holy fight,
The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might!
Ulric! what mean’st thou?--not a thought
Of that high mind with guilt is fraught!
Say, for which glorious trophy won,
Which deed of martial prowess done,
Which battle-field, in days gone by,
Gain’d by his valour, must he die?
Away! ’tis not _his_ lofty name
Their sentence hath consign’d to shame--
’Tis not his life they seek. Recall
Thy words, or say he shall not fall!”
Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief
Gave pleading softness to her grief:
“And wilt thou not, by all the ties
Of our affianced love,” she cries,
“By all my soul hath fix’d on thee,
Of cherish’d hope for years to be,
Wilt _thou_ not aid him? wilt not thou
Shield his gray head from danger now?
And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn,
That saw our young affection born,
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee,
Sharing his parent smile with me?
Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved!
Now be thy faith in danger proved!
Though snares and terrors round him wait,
_Thou_ wilt not leave him to his fate!
Turn not away in cold disdain!
--Shall thine own Ella plead in vain?
How art thou changed! and must I bear
That frown, that stern, averted air?
What mean they?”
“Maiden, need’st thou ask?
These features wear no specious mask.
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye
With characters of mystery?
This--_this_ is anguish! Can it be!
And plead’st thou for my sire to _me_?
Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give,
He must not meet my sight--and live!
Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band
Who watch in secret o’er the land,
Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun,
Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering--I am one!
_My_ arm defend him! What were _then_
Each vow that binds the souls of men,
Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d
By rites that may not be reveal’d?
--A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone,
A passing sound, forgot when gone!
Nay, shrink not from me--I would fly,
That he by other hands may die!
What! think’st thou I would live to trace
Abhorrence in that angel face?
Beside thee should the lover stand,
The father’s life-blood on his brand?
No! I have bade my home adieu,
For other scenes mine eyes must view.
Look on me, love! Now all is known,
O Ella! must I fly alone?”
But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath;
She stood like one prepared for death,
And wept no more; then, casting down
From her fair brows the nuptial crown,
As joy’s last vision from her heart,
Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part!
’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail
They may not brook one stormy gale,
Survive--too dear as still thou art--
Each hope they imaged;--we must part!
One struggle yet--and all is o’er:
We love--and may we meet no more!
Oh! little know’st thou of the power
Affection lends in danger’s hour,
To deem that fate should thus divide
My footsteps from a father’s side!
Speed thou to other shores--I go
To share his wanderings and his woe.
Where’er his path of thorns may lead,
Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed,
If there be guardian powers above
To nerve the heart of filial love,
If courage may be won by prayer,
Or strength by duty--I can bear!
Farewell!--though in that sound be years
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears,
Though the soul vibrate to its knell
Of joys departed--yet, farewell!
Was _this_ the maid who seem’d, erewhile,
Born but to meet life’s vernal smile?
A being, almost on the wing,
As an embodied breeze of spring?
A child of beauty and of bliss,
Sent from some purer sphere to this--
Not, in her exile, to sustain
The trial of one earthly pain;
But, as a sunbeam, on to move,
Wakening all hearts to joy and love?
That airy form, with footsteps free,
And radiant glance--could this be she?
From her fair cheek the rose was gone,
Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown;
Of all its vivid glow bereft,
Each playful charm her lip had left.
But what were these? on that young face,
Far nobler beauty fill’d their place!
’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend,
Though all the bolts of heaven descend;
Not the fierce grandeur of despair,
That half exults its fate to dare;
Nor that wild energy which leads
Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds:
_Her_ mien, by sorrow unsubdued,
Was fix’d in silent fortitude;
Not in its haughty strength elate,
But calmly, mournfully sedate.
’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold
That spirit in so fair a mould,
As if a rose-tree’s tender form,
Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.
One look she cast, where firmness strove
With the deep pangs of parting love;
One tear a moment in her eye
Dimm’d the pure light of constancy;
And pressing, as to still her heart,
She turn’d in silence to depart.
But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought,
Then started from his trance of thought:
“Stay thee! oh, stay!--It must not be--
All, all were well resign’d for thee!
Stay! till my soul each vow disown,
But those which make me thine alone!
If there be guilt--there is no shrine
More holy than that heart of thine:
_There_ be my crime absolved--I take
The cup of shame for thy dear sake.
Of _shame_!--oh no! to virtue true,
Where _thou_ art, there is glory too!
Go now! and to thy sire impart,
He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart,
And thou a home! Remain, or flee,
In life, in death--I follow thee!”
“There shall not rest one cloud of shame,
O Ulric! on thy lofty name;
There shall not one accusing word
Against thy spotless faith be heard!
Thy path is where the brave rush on,
Thy course must be where palms are won:
Where banners wave, and falchions glare,
Son of the mighty! be thou there!
Think on the glorious names that shine
Along thy sire’s majestic line;
Oh, last of that illustrious race!
Thou wert not born to meet disgrace!
Well, well I know each grief, each pain,
Thy spirit nobly could sustain;
E’en I unshrinking see them near,
And what hast thou to do with fear?
But when have warriors calmly borne
The cold and bitter smile of scorn?
’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force
To cope with all things--but remorse;
And this my brightest thought shall be,
Thou hast not braved its pangs for me.
Go! break thou not one solemn vow;
Closed be the fearful conflict now;
Go! but forget not how my heart
Still at thy name will proudly start,
When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell,
Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!”
--And thus they parted. Why recall
The scene of anguish known to all?
The burst of tears, the blush of pride,
That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide;
The lingering look, the last embrace,
Oh! what avails it to retrace?
They parted--in that bitter word
A thousand tones of grief are heard,
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest
In the fair cells of every breast.
Who hath not known, who shall not know,
That keen yet most familiar woe?
Where’er affection’s home is found,
It meets her on the holy ground;
The cloud of every summer hour,
The canker-worm of every flower.
“Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove,
That mortal agony of love?
The autumn moon slept bright and still
On fading wood and purple hill;
The vintager had hush’d his lay,
The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day,
And silence, o’er each green recess,
Brooded in misty sultriness.
But soon a low and measured sound
Broke on the deep repose around;
From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar
Bade the stream ripple to the shore.
Sweet was that sound of waves which parted
The fond, the true, the noble-hearted;
And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide,
And brightly flow’d the reckless tide,
Though, mingling with its current, fell
The last warm tears of love’s farewell.
[198] The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoining the
territories of Darmstadt.
PART II.
Sweet is the gloom of forest shades,
Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades,
With all the thousand flowers that blow,
A waste of loveliness, below.
To him whose soul the world would fly,
For nature’s lonely majesty:
To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes,
To lover, lost in fairy dreams,
To hermit, whose prophetic thought
By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught,
And, in the visions of his rest,
Held bright communion with the blest:
’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike
Silence and sound with awe can strike.
The deep Eolian murmur made
By sighing breeze and rustling shade,
And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh,
And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby:
Or the dead stillness of the bowers,
When dark the summer-tempest lowers;
When silent nature seems to wait
The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare--
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.
But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste--
Young Ella--linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.
The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play,
The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay--
These charm not now; her sire she sought,
With trembling frame, with anxious thought,
And, starting if a forest deer
But moved the rustling branches near,
First felt that innocence may fear.
She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell,
Where the free sunbeam never fell;
’Twas twilight there at summer noon,
Deep night beneath the harvest moon,
And scarce might one bright star be seen
Gleaming the tangled boughs between;
For many a giant rock around
Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d,
And the ancient oaks, that waved on high,
Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky.
There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave,
Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave,
And the wild flower, on its brink that grew,
Caught not from day one glowing hue.
’Twas said, some fearful deed untold
Had stain’d that scene in days of old;
Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown
A shade yet deeper than its own;
And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom,
Perchance above some victim’s tomb,
O’ergrown with ivy and with moss,
There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross,
Which, haply, silent record bore
Of guilt and penitence of yore.
Who by that holy sign was kneeling,
With brow unutter’d pangs revealing,
Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer,
And lifted eyes and streaming hair,
And cheek, all pale as marble mould,
Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold?
Was it some image of despair
Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear?
--Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought
To speak such agonies of thought!
Those deathlike features gave to view
A mortal’s pangs too deep and true!
Starting he rose, with frenzied eye,
As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh;
He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild,
Trembling he stood--before his child!
On, with a burst of tears, she sprung,
And to her father’s bosom clung.
“Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried,
“Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride?
Hence, leave me--leave me to await,
In solitude, the storm of Fate;
Thou know’st not what my doom may be,
Ere evening comes in peace to thee.”
“My father! shall the joyous throng
Swell high for me the bridal song?
Shall the gay nuptial board be spread,
The festal garland bind my head,
And thou in grief, in peril, roam,
And make the wilderness thy home?
No! I am here with thee to share
All suffering mortal strength may bear;
And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree,
In life, in death, in chains, or free--
Well, well I feel, in thee secure;
Thy heart and hand alike are pure!”
Then was there meaning in his look,
Which deep that trusting spirit shook;
So wildly did each glance express
The strife of shame and bitterness,--
As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence!
Is this the mien of Innocence?
This furrow’d brow, this restless eye--
Read thou this fearful tale, and fly!
Is it enough? or must I seek
For _words_, the tale of guilt to speak?
Then be it so--I will not doom
Thy youth to wither in its bloom;
I will not see thy tender frame
Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame.
No! though I teach thee to abhor
The sire so fondly loved before;
Though the dread effort rend my breast,
Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest!
Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn
Away in horror and in scorn;
Thy looks, that still through all the past
Affection’s gentlest beams have cast,
As lightning on my heart will fall,
And I must mark and bear it all!
Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved,
Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived!
“I linger--let me speed the tale
Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail.
Why should I falter thus to tell
What heaven so long hath known too well?
Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d,
_There_ hath a brother’s blood appeal’d!
He died--’twas not where banners wave,
And war-steeds trample on the brave;
He died--it was in Holy Land--
Yet fell he not by Paynim hand;
He sleeps not with his sires at rest,
With trophied shield and knightly crest;
Unknown his grave to kindred eyes,
--But I can tell thee where he lies!
It was a wild and savage spot,
But once beheld--and ne’er forgot!
I see it now--that haunted scene
My spirit’s dwelling still hath been;
And he is there--I see him laid
Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade.
The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh
Bears witness with its crimson dye!
I see th’ accusing glance he raised,
Ere that dim eye by death was glazed;
--Ne’er will that parting look forgive!
I still behold it--and I live!
I live! from hope, from mercy driven,
A mark for all the shafts of heaven!
“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won
My birth-right; and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom’d to penury and scorn,
An alien midst his fathers’ halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this? The rankling thought,
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought;
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile,
Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile,
And when his accents lisp’d my name,
They woke my inmost heart to flame!
I struggled--are there evil powers
That claim their own ascendant hours?
--Oh! what should thine unspotted soul
Or know or fear of _their_ control?
Why on the fearful conflict dwell?
Vainly I struggled, and I fell--
Cast down from every hope of bliss--
Too well thou know’st to what abyss!
“’Twas done!--that moment hurried by
To darken all eternity.
Years roll’d away, long evil years,
Of woes, of fetters, and of fears;
Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d
By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d.
For, long a captive in the lands
Where Arabs tread their burning sands,
The haunted midnight of the mind
Was round me while in chains I pined,
By all forgotten, save by one
Dread presence--which I could not shun.
--How oft, when o’er the silent waste
Nor path nor landmark might be traced,
When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray,
The Wanderers of the Desert lay,
And stars, as o’er an ocean shone,
Vigil I kept--but not alone!
That form, that image, from the dead,
Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread!
I’ve seen it in the fiery blast,
I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d;
Beside the Desert’s fount it stood,
Tinging the clear cold wave with blood;
And e’en when viewless, by the fear
Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near!
--_Was_ near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill,
Its power is on my spirit still!
A mystic influence, undefined,
The spell, the shadow of my mind!
“Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on;
One last farewell, and then begone!
Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow,
And let me read thine aspect _now_!
No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed
Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed.
Slow came the day that broke my chain,
But I at length was free again;
And freedom brings a burst of joy,
E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy.
I thought upon my own fair towers,
My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers,
And in a father’s visions, press’d
Thee and thy brother to my breast.
--’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet
Recall the moment when we met?
Thy step to greet me lightly sprung,
Thy arms around me fondly clung;
Scarce aught than infant seraph less
Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness.
But he was gone--that son for whom
I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom;
He for whose sake alone were given
My peace on earth, my hope in heaven--
He met me not. A ruthless band,
Whose name with terror fill’d the land,
Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild
Had reft the father of his child.
Foes to my race, the hate they nursed,
Full on that cherish’d scion burst.
Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh,
My boy! my first-born! didst thou die?
Or did they spare thee for a life
Of shame, of rapine, and of strife?
Livest thou, unfriended, unallied,
A wanderer lost, without a guide?
Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom
Blest were the darkness of the tomb!
“Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart
Before thee all unveil’d--depart!
Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly
From one so stain’d, so lost as I;
Yet peace to thine untainted breast,
E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest!
Farewell! thou shalt not linger here--
E’en now th’ avenger may be near:
Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare,
The dagger, may be ambush’d there;
One hour--and haply all is o’er,
And we must meet on earth no more.
No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise;
Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot,
Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not!
Speak once! to soothe this broken heart,
Speak to me once! and then depart!”
But still--as if each pulse were dead,
Mute--as the power of speech were fled,
Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm
The marble beauty of her form;
On the dark rock she lean’d her head,
That seem’d as there ’twere riveted,
And dropt the hands, till then which press’d
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast.
There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye,
And from her lip there breathed no sigh,
And on her brow no trace there dwelt
That told she suffer’d or she felt.
All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d,
Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d;
And long her sire, in wild dismay,
Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away.
But life return’d. O’er that cold frame
One deep convulsive shudder came;
And a faint light her eye relumed,
And sad resolve her mien assumed.
But there was horror in the gaze,
Which yet to his she dared not raise;
And her sad accents, wild and low,
As rising from a depth of woe,
At first with hurried trembling broke,
But gather’d firmness as she spoke.
--“I leave thee not--whate’er betide,
My footsteps shall not quit thy side;
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill,
But yet thou art my father still!
And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed,
For some kind spirit, tenfold need,
To speak of heaven’s absolving love,
And waft desponding thought above.
Is there not power in mercy’s wave
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave?
Is there not balm to heal despair,
In tears, in penitence, in prayer?
My father! kneel at His pure shrine
Who died to expiate guilt like thine,
Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend,
Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend,
And, as our mingling sorrows rise,
Heaven will relent, though earth despise!”
“My child, my child! these bursting tears,
The first mine eyes have shed for years,
Though deepest conflicts they express,
Yet flow not all in bitterness!
Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart
From desolation’s slumber start;
Thy voice of pity and of love
Seems o’er its icy depths to move
E’en as a breeze of health, which brings
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings.
And there is mercy yet! I feel
Its influence o’er my spirit steal;
How welcome were each pang below,
If guilt might be atoned by woe!
Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven?
Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven?
Oh! if it yet avail to plead,
If judgment be not yet decreed,
Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry,
Till pardon shall be seal’d on high!
Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed
Her dews upon this fallen head?
--Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free
Descend forgiveness, won by thee!”
They knelt--before the Cross, that sign
Of love eternal and divine;
That symbol, which so long hath stood
A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood,
Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved
By the warm tears of nations saved.
In one deep prayer their spirits blent,
The guilty and the innocent;
Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth,
Age, soil’d with every stain of earth,
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry,
One sacrifice of agony.
--Oh! blest, though bitter be their source--
Though dark the fountain of remorse,
Blest are the tears which pour from thence,
Th’ atoning stream of penitence!
And let not pity check the tide
By which the heart is purified;
Let not vain comfort turn its course,
Or timid love repress its force!
Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand,
To bear luxuriance o’er the land;
Forbid the life-restoring rains
To fall on Afric’s burning plains;
Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer
The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode;
But check thou not one holy tear
Which Penitence devotes to God!
Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er
Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there--
So rude, that scarce might human eye
Sustain their dread sublimity--
So awful, that the timid swain,
Nurtured amidst their dark domain,
Had peopled with unearthly forms
Their mists, their forests, and their storms,--
She, whose blue eye of laughing light
Once made each festal scene more bright;
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest,
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest,
By torrent wave and mountain brow,
Is wandering as an outcast now,
To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief
His shame, his terror, and his grief.
Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower,
That blooms in solitary grace,
And, faithful to its mouldering tower,
Waves in the banner’s place?
From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d,
Time wins his heritage at last;
The day of glory hath gone by,
With all its pomp and minstrelsy:
Yet still the flower of golden hues
There loves its fragrance to diffuse,
To fallen and forsaken things
With constancy unalter’d clings,
And, smiling o’er the wreck of state,
With beauty clothes the desolate.
--E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid,
In all her light of youth array’d,
Forsaking every joy below
To soothe a guilty parent’s woe,
And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime,
To the dark ruin made by crime.
Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes
Smile on a purer sacrifice;
Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine,
More nobly brighter hopes resign!
O’er her own pangs she brooded not,
Nor sank beneath her bitter lot;
No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth
Still rose more buoyantly from earth,
And drew from an eternal source
Its gentle, yet triumphant force:
Roused by affliction’s chastening might
To energies more calmly bright,
Like the wild harp of airy sigh,
Woke by the storm to harmony!
He that in mountain-holds hath sought
A refuge for unconquer’d thought,
A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child
Might rear her altars in the wild,
And fix her quenchless torch on high,
A beacon for Eternity;
Or they, whose martyr spirits wage
Proud war with Persecution’s rage,
And to the deserts bear the faith
That bids them smile on chains and death;
Well may _they_ draw, from all around,
Of grandeur clothed in form and sound,
From the deep power of earth and sky,
Wild nature’s might of majesty,
Strong energies, immortal fires,
High hopes, magnificent desires!
But dark, terrific, and austere,
To _him_ doth nature’s mien appear,
Who midst her wilds would seek repose
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes!
For him the wind hath music dread,
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead;
The forest’s whisper breathes a tone
Appalling, as from worlds unknown;
The mystic gloom of wood and cave
Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave;
In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart
A blaze that seems to search his heart;
The pure, eternal stars of night
Upbraid him with their silent light;
And the dread spirit, which pervades
And hallows earth’s most lonely shades,
In every scene, in every hour,
Surrounds him with chastising power--
With nameless fear his soul to thrill,
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still!
’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day,
And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way;
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound,
Foretold the tempest gathering round;
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread
With a tinge of wild and stormy red,
That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers
Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers.
But they, who far from cities fled,
And shrunk from the print of human tread,
Had reach’d a desert scene unknown,
So strangely wild, so deeply lone,
That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d
And undefined, their souls oppress’d.
Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d,
Lay like the ruins of a world,
Left by an earthquake’s final throes
In deep and desolate repose--
Things of eternity whose forms
Bore record of ten thousand storms!
While, rearing its colossal crest
In sullen grandeur o’er the rest,
One, like a pillar, vast and rude,
Stood monarch of the solitude.
Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand
Th’ enduring monument was plann’d;
Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by,
Had shaped its rough immensity,
To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood,
A temple meet for rites of blood.
But they were gone, who might have told
That secret of the times of old;
And there, in silent scorn it frown’d,
O’er all its vast coevals round.
Darkly those giant masses lower’d,
Countless and motionless they tower’d;
No wild-flower o’er their summits hung,
No fountain from their caverns sprung;
Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear
Murmur’d a sound of waters near,
With music deep of lulling falls,
And louder gush, at intervals.
Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream
Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam,
But ceaseless, from its hidden caves,
Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199]
Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene,
One chosen spot of gentler mien
Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye
Of shelter from the tempest nigh.
Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore,
The sculptured saint that crown’d its door:
Less welcome now were monarch’s dome,
Than that low cell, some hermit’s home.
Thither the outcasts bent their way,
By the last lingering gleam of day;
When from a cavern’d rock, which cast
Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d,
A form, a warrior form of might,
As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight.
His port was lofty--yet the heart
Shrunk from him with recoiling start;
His mien was youthful--yet his face
Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace;
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought
Its traces on his brow had wrought
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye,
But calm and cold severity,
A spirit haughtily austere,
Stranger to pity as to fear.
It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil
O’er that dark brow and visage pale,
Leaving the searcher nought to guess,
All was so fix’d and passionless.
He spoke--and they who heard the tone
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown.
“I’ve sought thee far in forest bowers,
I’ve sought thee long in peopled towers,
I’ve borne th’ dagger of th’ Unknown
Through scenes explored by me alone;
My search is closed--nor toils nor fears
Repel the servant of the Seers;
We meet--’tis vain to strive or fly:
Albert of Lindheim, thou must die!”
Then with clasp’d hands the fair-hair’d maid
Sank at his feet, and wildly pray’d:--
“Stay, stay thee! sheath that lifted steel!
Oh! thou art human, and canst feel!
Hear me! if e’er ’twas thine to prove
The blessing of a parent’s love;
By thine own father’s hoary hair,
By her who gave thee being, spare!
Did they not, o’er thy infant years,
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears!
Young warrior! thou wilt heed my prayers,
As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs!”
But cold th’ Avenger’s look remain’d,
His brow its rigid calm maintain’d:
“Maiden! ’tis vain--my bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
The nurture of my infant years
Froze in my soul the source of tears;
’Tis not for me to pause or melt,
Or feel as happier hearts have felt.
Away! the hour of fate goes by:
Thy prayers are fruitless--he must die!”
“Rise, Ella! rise!” with steadfast brow
The father spoke--unshrinking now,
As if from heaven a martyr’s strength
Had settled on his soul at length:
“Kneel thou no more, my noble child,
Thou by no taint of guilt defiled;
Kneel not to man!--for mortal prayer,
Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare?
Since hope of earthly aid is flown,
Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone,
And know, to calm thy suffering heart,
My spirit is resign’d to part.
Trusting in Him who reads and knows
This guilty breast, with all its woes.
Rise! I would bless thee once again,
Be still, be firm--for all is vain!”
And she _was_ still. She heard him not--
Her prayers were hush’d, her pangs forgot;
All thought, all memory pass’d away,
Silent and motionless she lay,
In a brief death, a blest suspense
Alike of agony and sense.
She saw not when the dagger gleam’d
In the last red light from the west that stream’d;
She mark’d not when the life-blood’s flow
Came rushing to the mortal blow;
While, unresisting, sank her sire,
Yet gather’d firmness to expire,
Mingling a warrior’s courage high
With a penitent’s humility.
And o’er him there th’ Avenger stood,
And watch’d the victim’s ebbing blood,
Still calm, as if his faithful hand
Had but obey’d some just command,
Some power whose stern, yet righteous will
He deem’d it virtue to fulfil,
And triumph’d, when the palm was won,
For duty’s task austerely done.
But a feeling dread and undefined,
A mystic presage of the mind,
With strange and sudden impulse ran
Chill through the heart of the dying man;
And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom breath,
And it seem’d as fear suspended death,
And nature from her terrors drew
Fresh energy and vigour new.
“Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne’er
Was conscious of a parent’s care;
Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood’s years,
Froze in thy soul the source of tears:
The time will come, when thou, with me,
The judgment throne of God wilt see--
Oh! by thy hopes of mercy, then,
By His blest love who died for men,
By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow,
Avenger! I adjure thee now!
To him who bleeds beneath thy steel,
Thy lineage and thy name reveal.
And haste thee! for his closing ear
Hath little more on earth to hear--
Haste! for the spirit, almost flown,
Is lingering for thy words alone.”
Then first a shade, resembling fear,
Pass’d o’er th’ Avenger’s mien austere;
A nameless awe his features cross’d,
Soon in their haughty coldness lost.
“What wouldst thou? Ask the rock and wild,
And bid them tell thee of their child!
Ask the rude winds, and angry skies,
Whose tempests were his lullabies!
His chambers were the cave and wood,
His fosterers men of wrath and blood;
Outcasts alike of earth and heaven,
By wrongs to desperation driven!
Who, in their pupil, now could trace
The features of a nobler race?
Yet such was mine!--if one who cast
A look of anguish o’er the past,
Bore faithful record on the day
When penitent in death he lay.
But still deep shades my prospects veil;
He died--and told but half the tale.
With him it sleeps--I only know
Enough for stern and silent woe,
For vain ambition’s deep regret,
For hopes deceived, deceiving yet,
For dreams of pride, that vainly tell
How high a lot had suited well
The heir of some illustrious line,
Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!”
Then swift through Albert’s bosom pass’d
One pang, the keenest and the last,
Ere with his spirit fled the fears,
The sorrows, and the pangs of years;
And, while his gray hairs swept the dust,
Faltering he murmur’d, “Heaven is just!
For thee that deed of guilt was done,
By thee avenged, my son! my son!”
--The day was closed--the moonbeam shed
Light on the living and the dead,
And as through rolling clouds it broke,
Young Ella from her trance awoke--
Awoke to bear, to feel, to know
E’en more than all an orphan’s woe.
Oh! ne’er did moonbeam’s light serene
With beauty clothe a sadder scene!
There, cold in death, the father slept--
There, pale in woe, the daughter wept!
Yes! _she_ might weep--but one stood nigh,
With horror in his tearless eye,
That eye which ne’er again shall close
In the deep quiet of repose;
No more on earth beholding aught
Save one dread vision, stamp’d on thought.
But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid
_His_ deeper woe had scarce survey’d,
Till his wild voice reveal’d a tale
Which seem’d to bid the heavens turn pale!
He call’d her, “Sister!” and the word
In anguish breathed, in terror heard,
Reveal’d enough: all else were weak--
That sound a thousand pangs could speak.
He knelt beside that breathless clay,
Which, fix’d in utter stillness, lay--
Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace,
Each line of that unconscious face;
Knelt, till his eye could bear no more
Those marble features to explore;
Then, starting, turning, as to shun
The image thus by Memory won,
A wild farewell to her he bade,
Who by the dead in silence pray’d;
And, frenzied by his bitter doom,
Fled thence--to find all earth a tomb!
Days pass’d away--and Rhine’s fair shore
In the light of summer smiled once more;
The vines were purpling on the hill,
And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still.
There came a bark up the noble stream,
With pennons that shed a golden gleam,
With the flash of arms, and the voice of song,
Gliding triumphantly along;
For warrior-forms were glittering there,
Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air;
And as the tones of oar and wave
Their measured cadence mingling gave,
’Twas thus th’ exulting chorus rose,
While many an echo swell’d the close:--
“From the fields where dead and dying
On their battle-bier are lying,
Where the blood unstanch’d is gushing,
Where the steed uncheck’d is rushing,
Trampling o’er the noble-hearted,
Ere the spirit yet be parted;
Where each breath of heaven is swaying
Knightly plumes and banners playing,
And the clarion’s music swelling
Calls the vulture from his dwelling;
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!
To his own fair woods, enclosing
Vales in sunny peace reposing,
Where his native stream is laving
Banks, with golden harvests waving,
And the summer light is sleeping
On the grape, through tendrils peeping;
To the halls where harps are ringing,
Bards the praise of warriors singing,
Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly,
Joyous voices mingling sweetly;
Where the cheek of mirth is glowing,
And the wine-cup brightly flowing,
He comes, with trophies worthy of his line,
The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine!”
He came--he sought his Ella’s bowers,
He traversed Lindheim’s lonely towers;
But voice and footstep thence had fled,
As from the dwellings of the dead,
And the sounds of human joy and woe
Gave place to the moan of the wave below.
The banner still the rampart crown’d,
But the tall rank grass waved thick around
Still hung the arms of a race gone by
In the blazon’d halls of their ancestry,
But they caught no more, at fall of night,
The wavering flash of the torch’s light,
And they sent their echoes forth no more
To the Minnesinger’s[200] tuneful lore,
For the hands that touch’d the harp were gone,
And the hearts were cold that loved its tone;
And the soul of the chord lay mute and still,
Save when the wild wind bade it thrill,
And woke from its depths a dream-like moan,
For life, and power, and beauty gone.
The warrior turn’d from that silent scene,
Where a voice of woe had welcome been;
And his heart was heavy with boding thought,
As the forest-paths alone he sought.
He reach’d a convent’s fane, that stood
Deep bosom’d in luxuriant wood;
Still, solemn, fair--it seem’d a spot
Where earthly care might be all forgot,
And sounds and dreams of heaven alone
To musing spirit might be known.
And sweet e’en then were the sounds that rose
On the holy and profound repose.
Oh! they came o’er the warrior’s breast
Like a glorious anthem of the blest;
And fear and sorrow died away
Before the full majestic lay.
He enter’d the secluded fane,
Which sent forth that inspiring strain;
He gazed--the hallow’d pile’s array
Was that of some high festal day;
Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound,
Flowers of all scents were strew’d around;
The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh,
Blest on the altar to smile and die;
And a fragrant cloud from the censer’s breath
Half hid the sacred pomp beneath;
And still the peal of choral song
Swell’d the resounding aisles along;
Wakening, in its triumphant flow,
Deep echoes from the graves below.
Why, from its woodland birthplace torn,
Doth summer’s rose that scene adorn?
Why breathes the incense to the sky?
Why swells th’ exulting harmony?
--And see’st thou not yon form, so light
It seems half floating on the sight,
As if the whisper of a gale,
That did but wave its snowy veil,
Might bear it from the earth afar,
A lovely but receding star?
Know that devotion’s shrine e’en now
Receives that youthful vestal’s vow--
For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise,
A jubilee of sacrifice!
Mark yet a moment! from her brow
Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow,
Ere yet a darker mantle hide
The charms to heaven thus sanctified:
Stay thee! and catch their parting gleam,
That ne’er shall fade from memory’s dream.
A moment! oh! to Ulric’s soul,
Poised between hope and fear’s control,
What slow, unmeasured hours went by,
Ere yet suspense grew certainty.
It came at length. Once more that face
Reveal’d to man its mournful grace;
A sunbeam on its features fell,
As if to bear the world’s farewell;
And doubt was o’er. His heart grew chill:
’Twas she--though changed--’twas Ella still!
Though now her once-rejoicing mien
Was deeply, mournfully serene;
Though clouds her eye’s blue lustre shaded,
And the young cheek beneath had faded,
Well, well he knew the form, which cast
Light on his soul through all the past!
’Twas with him on the battle-plain,
’Twas with him on the stormy main:
’Twas in his visions, when the shield
Pillow’d his head on tented field;
’Twas a bright beam that led him on
Where’er a triumph might be won--
In danger as in glory nigh,
An angel-guide to victory!
She caught his pale bewilder’d gaze
Of grief half lost in fix’d amaze.
Was it some vain illusion, wrought
By frenzy of impassion’d thought?
Some phantom, such as Grief hath power
To summon in her wandering hour?
No! it was he! the lost, the mourn’d--
Too deeply loved, too late return’d!
--A fever’d blush, a sudden start,
Spoke the last weakness of her heart;
’Twas vanquish’d soon--the hectic red
A moment flush’d her check, and fled.
Once more serene--her steadfast eye
Look’d up as to Eternity;
Then gazed on Ulric with an air,
That said--the home of Love is _there_!
Yes! _there_ alone it smiled for him,
Whose eye before that look grew dim.
Not long ’twas his e’en _thus_ to view
The beauty of its calm adieu;
Soon o’er those features, brightly pale,
Was cast th’ impenetrable veil;
And, if one human sigh were given
By the pure bosom vow’d to heaven,
’Twas lost, as many a murmur’d sound
Of grief, “not loud, but deep,” is drown’d,
In hymns of joy, which proudly rise
To tell the calm untroubled skies
That earth hath banish’d care and woe,
And man holds festivals below!
[199] The original of the scene here described is presented by the
mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse:--“Des masses énormes
de rochers, entassées l’une sur l’autre depuis le sommet de la montagne
jusqu’à son pied, viennent y présenter un aspect superbe qu’ aucune
description ne saurait rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des géans, qui en
se livrant un combat du haut des montagnes, lancèrent les uns sur
les autres ces énormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beaucoup
de peine, jusqu’au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un sentier qui
passe à côté de cette chaine de rochers. On entend continuellement un
bruit sourd, qui parait venir d’un ruisseau au dessous des rochers;
mais on a beau descendre, on se glissant à travers les ouvertures
qui s’y trouvent, on ne découvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne,
dite Riesensäule, se trouve un peu plus haut qu’à la moitié de la
montagne; c’est un bloc de granit taillé, d’une longueur de 30 pieds
et d’un diamétre de 4 pieds. Il y a plus de probabilité de croire
que les anciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne pour
l’ériger en l’honneur de leur dieu Odin, que de prétendre, comme le
fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le dessein de la
transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un peu plus haut un autre
bloc d’une forme presque carrée, qu’ on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel
du géant,) qui, à en juger par sa grosseur et sa forme, était destiné
à servir de piédestal à la colonnade susdite.”--_Manuel pour les
Voyageurs sur le Rhin._
[200] Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the German
minstrels in the Middle Ages.
THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS.
Call it not loneliness to dwell
In woodland shade or hermit dell,
Or the deep forest to explore,
Or wander Alpine regions o’er;
For nature there all joyous reigns,
And fills with life her wild domains:--
A bird’s light wing may break the air,
A wave, a leaf, may murmur there;
A bee the mountain flowers may seek,
A chamois bound from peak to peak;
An eagle, rushing to the sky,
Wake the deep echoes with his cry;
And still some sound, thy heart to cheer,
Some voice though not of man is near.
But he, whose weary step hath traced
Mysterious Afric’s awful waste--
Whose eye Arabia’s wilds hath view’d,
Can tell thee what is solitude!
It is to traverse lifeless plains,
Where everlasting stillness reigns,
And billowy sands and dazzling sky
Seem boundless as infinity!
It is to sink, with speechless dread,
In scenes unmeet for mortal tread,
Sever’d from earthly being’s trace,
Alone amidst eternal space!
’Tis noon--and fearfully profound,
Silence is on the desert round;
Alone she reigns, above, beneath,
With all the attributes of death!
No bird the blazing heaven may dare,
No insect bide the scorching air;
The ostrich, though of sunborn race,
Seeks a more shelter’d dwelling-place;
The lion slumbers in his lair,
The serpent shuns the noontide glare.
But slowly wind the patient train
Of camels o’er the blasted plain,
Where they and man may brave alone
The terrors of the burning zone.
--Faint not, O pilgrims! though on high,
As a volcano, flame the sky;
Shrink not, though as a furnace glow
The dark-red seas of sand below;
Though not a shadow, save your own,
Across the dread expanse is thrown.
Mark! where your feverish lips to lave,
Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave!
Urge your tired camels on, and take
Your rest beside yon glistening lake;
Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring,
And fan your brows with lighter wing.
Lo! nearer now, its glassy tide,
Reflects the date-tree on its side--
Speed on! pure draughts and genial air,
And verdant shade, await you there.
Oh, glimpse of heaven! to him unknown
That hath not trod the burning zone!
Forward they press--they gaze dismay’d--
The waters of the desert fade!
Melting to vapours that elude
The eye, the lip, they vainly woo’d.[201]
What meteor comes? A purple haze
Hath half obscured the noontide rays:[202]
Onward it moves in swift career,
A blush upon the atmosphere.
Haste, haste! avert th’ impending doom,
Fall prostrate! ’tis the dread Simoom!
Bow down your faces--till the blast
On its red wing of flame hath pass’d,
Far bearing o’er the sandy wave
The viewless Angel of the Grave.
It came--’tis vanish’d--but hath left
The wanderers e’en of hope bereft;
The ardent heart, the vigorous frame,
Pride, courage, strength, its power could tame.
Faint with despondence, worn with toil,
They sink upon the burning soil,
Resign’d, amidst those realms of gloom,
To find their deathbed and their tomb.[203]
But onward still!--yon distant spot
Of verdure can deceive you not;
Yon palms, which tremulously seem’d
Reflected as the waters gleam’d,
Along th’ horizon’s verge display’d,
Still rear their slender colonnade--
A landmark, guiding o’er the plain
The Caravan’s exhausted train.
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss
The desert’s emerald oasis!
A rainbow on the torrent’s wave,
A gem embosom’d in the grave,
A sunbeam on a stormy day
Its beauty’s image might convey!
Beauty, in horror’s lap that sleeps,
While silence round her vigil keeps.
Rest, weary pilgrims! calmly laid
To slumber in th’ acacia shade:
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise
Their aromatic breath diffuse;
Where softer light the sunbeams pour
Through the tall palm and sycamore;
And the rich date luxuriant spreads
Its pendant clusters o’er your heads.
Nature once more, to seal your eyes,
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies;
Again each heart the music hails
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales:
And oh! to Afric’s child how dear
The voice of fountains gushing near!
Sweet be your slumbers! and your dreams
Of waving groves and rippling streams!
Far be the serpent’s venom’d coil
From the brief respite won by toil;
Far be the awful shades of those
Who deep beneath the sands repose--
The hosts, to whom the desert’s breath
Bore swift and stern the call of death.
Sleep! nor may scorching blast invade
The freshness of the acacia shade,
But gales of heaven your spirits bless,
With life’s best balm--Forgetfulness!
Till night from many an urn diffuse
The treasures of her world of dews.
The day hath closed--the moon on high
Walks in her cloudless majesty.
A thousand stars to Afric’s heaven
Serene magnificence have given--
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame
Shines forth eternally the same.
Blest be their beams, whose holy light
Shall guide the camel’s footsteps right,
And lead, as with a track divine,
The pilgrim to his prophet’s shrine!
--Rise! bid your Isle of Palms adieu!
Again your lonely march pursue,
While airs of night are freshly blowing,
And heavens with softer beauty glowing.
’Tis silence all: the solemn scene
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien;
For giant-rocks, at distance piled,
Cast their deep shadows o’er the wild.
Darkly they rise--what eye hath view’d
The caverns of their solitude?
Away! within those awful cells
The savage lord of Afric dwells!
Heard ye his voice?--the lion’s roar
Swells as when billows break on shore.
Well may the camel shake with fear,
And the steed pant--his foe is near.
Haste! light the torch, bid watchfires throw
Far o’er the waste, a ruddy glow;
Keep vigil--guard the bright array
Of flames that scare him from his prey;
Within their magic circle press,
O wanderers of the wilderness!
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze,
Tell the wild tales of elder days,--
Arabia’s wond’rous lore, that dwells
On warrior deeds and wizard spells;
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these,
Rising to vanish with the breeze;
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed
Their light where mortal may not tread;
And spirits, o’er whose pearly halls
Th’ eternal billow heaves and falls.
--With charms like these, of mystic power,
Watchers! beguile the midnight hour.
Slowly that hour hath roll’d away,
And star by star withdraws its ray.
Dark children of the sun! again
Your own rich orient hails his reign.
He comes, but veil’d--with sanguine glare
Tinging the mists that load the air;
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame,
Th’ approaching hurricane proclaim.
’Tis death’s red banner streams on high--
Fly to the rocks for shelter!--fly!
Lo! dark’ning o’er the fiery skies,
The pillars of the desert rise!
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling,
A giant-host, the heavens concealing,
They move, like mighty genii-forms,
Towering immense midst clouds and storms.
Who shall escape!--with awful force
The whirlwind bears them on their course;
They join, they rush resistless on--
The landmarks of the plain are gone;
The steps, the forms, from earth effaced,
Of those who trod the burning waste!
All whelm’d, all hush’d!--none left to bear
Sad record how they perish’d there!
No stone their tale of death shall tell--
The desert guards its mysteries well;
And o’er th’ unfathom’d sandy deep,
Where low their nameless relics sleep,
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread,
Nor know his steps are on the dead.
[201] The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of water.
[202] See the description of the Simoom in Bruce’s Travels.
[203] The extreme languor and despondence produced by the Simoom, even
when its effects are not fatal, have been described by many travellers.
MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.
[“Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in Africa, had
landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the Roman governor of
Africa, came and thus addressed him:--“Marius, I come from the Prætor
Sextilius, to tell you that he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If
you obey not, he will support the Senate’s decree, and treat you as a
public enemy.” Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief
and indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but regarded the
officer with a menacing aspect. At length the officer inquired what
answer he should carry to the governor. “Go and tell him,” said the
unfortunate man, with a sigh, “that thou hast seen the exiled Marius
sitting on the ruins of Carthage.”--Plutarch.]
’Twas noon, and Afric’s dazzling sun on high
With fierce resplendence fill’d th’ unclouded sky;
No zephyr waved the palm’s majestic head,
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread;
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light,
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night,
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes
Had strew’d their precious marble o’er the plains;
Dark weeds and grass the column had o’ergrown,
The lizard bask’d upon the altar stone;
Whelm’d by the ruins of their own abodes,
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods;
While near--dread offspring of the burning day!
Coil’d midst forsaken halls the serpent lay.
There came an exile, long by fate pursued,
To shelter in that awful solitude.
Well did that wanderer’s high yet faded mien
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene:--
Shadow’d, not veil’d, by locks of wintry snow,
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow’d brow;
Time had not quench’d the terrors of his eye,
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency;
While the deep meaning of his features told
Ages of thought had o’er his spirit roll’d,
Nor dimm’d the fire that might not be controll’d;
And still did power invest his stately form,
Shatter’d, but yet unconquer’d, by the storm.
--But slow his step--and where, not yet o’erthrown,
Still tower’d a pillar midst the waste alone,
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid,
To slumber in its solitary shade.
He slept--and darkly, on his brief repose,
Th’ indignant genius of the scene arose.
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head,
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain,
The kingly shadow seem’d to lift his chain,
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn,
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn!
“And sleep’st thou, Roman?” cried his voice austere;
“Shall son of Latium find a refuge _here_?
Awake! arise! to speed the hour of Fate,
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate!
Go! with her children’s flower, the free, the brave,
People the silent chambers of the grave:
So shall the course of ages yet to be,
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me!
“Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come,
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom;
I see the trophies of her pride decay,
And her long line of triumphs pass away,
Lost in the depths of time--while sinks the star
That led her march of heroes from afar!
Lo! from the frozen forests of the North,
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth!
Who shall awake the mighty?--will thy woe,
City of thrones! disturb the realms below?
Call on the dead to hear thee! let thy cries
Summon their shadowy legions to arise,
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls!
--Barbarians revel in their ancient halls,
And their lost children bend the subject knee,
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free.
Bird of the sun! dread eagle! born on high,
A creature of the empyreal--thou, whose eye
Was lightning to the earth--whose pinion waved
In haughty triumph o’er a world enslaved;
Sink from thy heavens! for glory’s noon is o’er,
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more!
Closed is thy regal course--thy crest is torn,
And thy plume banish’d from the realms of morn.
The shaft hath reach’d thee!--rest with chiefs and kings,
Who conquer’d in the shadow of thy wings;
Sleep! while thy foes exult around their prey,
And share thy glorious heritage of day!
But darker years shall mingle with the past,
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last.
O’er the seven hills I see destruction spread,
And Empire’s widow veils with dust her head.
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine,
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine:
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone,
Calling heroic shades from ages gone,
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate!
“Still sleep’st thou, Roman? Son of Victory, rise!
Wake to obey th’ avenging Destinies!
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country’s blood
Shall swell and darken Tiber’s yellow flood!
My children’s manès call--awake! prepare
The feast they claim!--exult in Rome’s despair!
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”
The vision flies--a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe--before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief
To seek on other shores a home for grief.
--Silent the wanderer sat--but on his cheek
The burning glow far more than words might speak;
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke
Language where all th’ indignant soul awoke,
Till his deep thought found voice: then, calmly stern,
And sovereign in despair, he cried, “Return!
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath been!”
A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.
A FRAGMENT.
The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,
The wild wind slumbers in its cave,
And heaven is cloudless--earth is still!
The pile that crowns yon savage height
With battlements of Gothic might,
Rises in softer pomp array’d,
Its massy towers half lost in shade,
Half touch’d with mellowing light!
The rays of night, the tints of time,
Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone,
O’er its rude strength and mien sublime,
A placid smile have thrown.
And far beyond, where wild and high,
Bounding the pale blue summer sky,
A mountain vista meets the eye,
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume
A pencil’d shade, a softer gloom:
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light,
Its torrents glitter through the night,
While every cave and deep recess
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness.
Scarce moving on the glassy deep
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep;
But darting from its side,
How swiftly does its boat design
A slender, silvery, waving line
Of radiance o’er the tide!
No sound is on the summer seas,
But the low dashing of the oar,
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze
Through woods that fringe the rocky shore.
That boat has reach’d the silent bay--
The dashing oar has ceased to play;
The breeze has murmur’d and has died
In forest shades, on ocean’s tide.
No step, no tone, no breath of sound
Disturbs the loneliness profound;
And midnight spreads o’er earth and main
A calm so holy and so deep,
That voice of mortal were profane
To break on nature’s sleep!
It is the hour for thought to soar
High o’er the cloud of earthly woes;
For rapt devotion to adore--
For passion to repose;
And virtue to forget her tears,
In visions of sublimer spheres!
For oh! those transient gleams of heaven,
To calmer, purer spirits given,
Children of hallow’d peace, are known
In solitude and shade alone!
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon,
To blow beneath the midnight moon,
The garish world they will not bless,
But only live in loneliness!
Hark! did some note of plaintive swell
Melt on the stillness of the air?
Or was it fancy’s powerful spell
That woke such sweetness there?
For wild and distant it arose,
Like sounds that bless the bard’s repose,
When in lone wood, or mossy cave,
He dreams beside some fountain wave,
And fairy worlds delight the eyes
Wearied with life’s realities.
Was it illusion? Yet again
Rises and falls th’ enchanted strain,
Mellow, and sweet, and faint--
As if some spirit’s touch had given
The soul of sound to harp of heaven
To soothe a dying saint!
Is it the mermaid’s distant shell,
Warbling beneath the moonlit wave?
--Such witching tones might lure full well
The seaman to his grave!
Sure from no mortal touch ye rise,
Wild, soft, aërial melodies!
--Is it the song of woodland-fay
From sparry grot, or haunted bower?
Hark! floating on, the magic lay
Draws near yon ivied tower!
Now nearer still, the listening ear
May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear;
And accents low, as if in fear,
Thus murmur, half suppress’d:--
“Awake! the moon is bright on high,
The sea is calm, the bark is nigh,
The world is hush’d to rest!”
Then sinks the voice--the strain is o’er,
Its last low cadence dies along the shore.
Fair Bertha hears th’ expected song,
Swift from her tower she glides along;
No echo to her tread awakes,
Her fairy step no slumber breaks;
And, in that hour of silence deep,
While all around the dews of sleep
O’erpower each sense, each eyelid steep,
Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear,
Her dark eye glistens with a tear.
Half-wavering now, the varying cheek
And sudden pause her doubts bespeak,
The lip now flush’d, now pale as death,
The trembling frame, the fluttering breath!
Oh! in that moment, o’er her soul
What struggling passions claim control!
Fear, duty, love, in conflict high,
By turns have won th’ ascendency;
And as, all tremulously bright,
Streams o’er her face the beam of night,
What thousand mix’d emotions play
O’er that fair face, and melt away.
Like forms whose quick succession gleams
O’er fancy’s rainbow-tinted dreams;
Like the swift glancing lights that rise
Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies,
And traverse ocean o’er;
So in that full, impassion’d eye
The changeful meanings rise and die,
Just seen--and then no more!
But oh! too short that pause. Again
Thrills to her heart that witching strain:--
“Awake! the midnight moon is bright:
Awake! the moments wing their flight;
Haste! or they speed in vain!”----
O call of Love! thy potent spell
O’er that weak heart prevails too well;
The “still small voice” is heard no more
That pleaded duty’s cause before,
And fear is hush’d, and doubt is gone,
And pride forgot, and reason flown!
Her cheek, whose colour came and fled,
Resumes its warmest, brightest red,
Her step its quick elastic tread,
Her eye its beaming smile!
Through lonely court and silent hall,
Flits her light shadow o’er the wall;
And still that low, harmonious call
Melts on her ear the while!
Though love’s quick ear alone could tell
The words its accents faintly swell:--
“Awake! while yet the lingering night
And stars and seas befriend our flight:
Oh! haste, while all is well!”----
The halls, the courts, the gates, are past,
She gains the moonlit beach at last.
Who waits to guide her trembling feet?
Who flies the fugitive to greet?
He, to her youthful heart endear’d
By all it e’er had hoped and fear’d,
Twined with each wish, with every thought
Each day-dream fancy e’er had wrought,
Whose tints portray with flattering skill
What brighter worlds alone fulfil!
--Alas! that aught so fair should fly
Thy blighting wand, Reality!
A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore,
A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore--
Disguise that vainly strove to hide
Bearing and glance of martial pride;
For he in many a battle-scene,
On many a rampart breach had been;
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,
Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly rear’d on hostile tower,
Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,
Britannia’s banner high!
And though some ancient feud had taught
His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name,
More noble warrior never fought
For glory’s prize or England’s fame.
And well his dark, commanding eye,
And form and step of stately grace,
Accorded with achievements high,
Soul of emprise and chivalry,
Bright name, and generous race!
His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun,
Tells a proud tale of glory won,
Of vigil, march, and combat rude,
Valour, and toil, and fortitude!
E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw
Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue,
His gallant soul, his stripling form,
Had braved the battle’s rudest storm;
When England’s conquering archers stood,
And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood,
When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield,
And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field,
And France around her king in vain
Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train--
In that dread strife his lightning eye
Had flash’d with transport keen and high,
And midst the battle’s wildest tide,
Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.
Alike that fearless heart could brave
Death on the war-field or the wave;
Alike in tournament or fight,
That ardent spirit found delight!
Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar,
Bright o’er his soul a vision came,
Rising like some benignant star,
On stormy seas or plains of war,
To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,
The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name!
And midst the wildest rage of fight,
And in the deepest calm of night,
To her his thoughts would wing their flight
With fond devotion warm;
Oft would those glowing thoughts portray
Some home, from tumults far away,
Graced with that angel form!
And now his spirit fondly deems
Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!
Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,
In minstrel garb attends the chief?
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow
Reveals a shade of grief.
Sorrow and time have touch’d his face
With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruin’d pile!
--It is the bard, whose song had power
To lure the maiden from her tower--
The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,
E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,
First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!
Those lays had banish’d from his eye
The bright soft tears of infancy,
Had soothed the boy to calm repose,
Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes;
And when the light of thought awoke,
When first young reason’s day-spring broke,
More powerful still, they bade arise
His spirit’s burning energies!
Then the bright dream of glory warm’d,
Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d,
The legends of each martial line,
The battle-tales of Palestine:
And oft, since then, _his_ deeds had proved
Themes of the lofty lays he loved!
Now, at triumphant love’s command,
Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory’s high career
For her than glory far more dear;
Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray
To distant regions point his way,
That there Affection’s hands may dress
A fairy bower for happiness;
That fond devoted bard, though now
Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow,
Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye,
And fled his spirit’s buoyancy,
And strength and enterprise are past,
Still follows constant to the last!
Though his sole wish was but to die
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by,
And all that hallows and endears
The memory of departed years--
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined
To those loved scenes his pensive mind;
Ah! what can tear the links apart
That bind his chieftain to his heart?
What smile but _his_ with joy can light
The eye obscured by age’s night?
Last of a loved and honour’d line,
Last tie to earth in life’s decline,
Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!
Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night.
They reach the boat--the rapid oar
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore:
The bark is gain’d! A gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;
The pennant, in the moonlight beam,
With soft suffusion glows;
From the white sail a silvery gleam
Falls on the wave’s repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o’er the bay;
But still so hush’d the summer air,
They tremble, midst that scene so fair,
Lest morn’s first beam behold them there.
--Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night!
From river wave, or mountain height,
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,
By haunted spring in forest bowers;
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,
And cavern’d gems their lustre throw
O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow?
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,
In solitary splendour blaze,
And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear,
Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere?
What grove of that mysterious world
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d?
Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove:
Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon
Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E’en now--but lo! the rustling sail
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on--their fears are o’er;
Recedes the bold romantic shore,
Its features mingling fast.
Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry
Of years for ever past!
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade
With bounding step thy childhood play’d,
Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float
On each low breeze, midst dells remote--
The ringdove’s deep melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh,
The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!
Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude
But thou hast loved its solitude!
No path so wild but thou hast known,
And traced its rugged course alone!
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there.
There in the day-spring of thy years,
Undimm’d by passions or by tears,
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye
Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky,
While the wild breeze that round thee blew,
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue.
Pure as the skies that o’er thy head
Their clear and cloudless azure spread,
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew
Its freshness from the mountain dew,
Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high,
A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy!
Such days were thine! ere love had drawn
A cloud o’er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning’s beam
With soft reflected colouring stream,
Catch every tint of eastern gem
To form the rose’s diadem,
But vanish when the noontide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower--
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!
There shall the lonely mountain rose,
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;
Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o’er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave,
The ash midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom
O’er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more
Each path, each dingle shall explore.
In vain may smile each green recess,
--Who now shall pierce its loneliness?
The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
--Who now shall trace its glistening way?
In solitude, in silence deep,
Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,
No lute’s wild swell again shall rise
To wake her mystic melodies.
All soft may blow the mountain air,
--It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
--It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view
That home of infancy!
Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,
But pause and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o’er the main;
For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne’er again!
There the dark tales and songs of yore
First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,
E’en while their fearful mystic lore
From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.
There, while thy father’s raptured ear
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear
Reveal’d his spirit’s trance;
How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song--
Tradition wild of other days,
Or troubadour’s heroic lays,
Or legend of romance!
Oh! many an hour has there been thine,
That memory’s pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow’d loveliness!
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,
Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!
On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still,
Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,
At evening’s last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last.
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest
Would steal in silence o’er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh
That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!
--Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given
Of joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!
Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
--Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,
That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life’s bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace--our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,
Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life’s saddest word--farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears more bitter far must flow,
That hour, whate’er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!
Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature’s fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray’d,
And love’s own eloquence essay’d,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands
Be join’d in consecrated bands.
And in some rich, romantic vale,
Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And midst the mulberry boughs on high
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry;
On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,
Where cedars wave in graceful pride,
Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,
A shelter’d bower of paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore
Her soul’s bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float in soft colouring o’er her sight.
----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power
Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour
Prevailing o’er regret!
As rears its head th’ elastic flower
Though the dark tempest’s recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!
Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;
Those silent years that steal away
The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E’en all its buoyant energies!
For him the April days are past,
When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!
And, as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land now lost to him,
Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands:
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.
Motion and life no sign bespeaks,
Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood,
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o’er the slumbering tide;
And, robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.
Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain
Blends with the murmur of the main.
THE BARD’S FAREWELL.
“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from thy gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o’er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee--
On thee! whose light so softly gleams
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.
“But midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail;
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour
To swell a foreign gale.
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone
The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.
“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown’d;
But ivy wreathe the silent gate,
And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.
“No banner from the stately tower
Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high;
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark’d, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!
“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome with convivial rays
Some pilgrim of the night.
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o’er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.
“And I--my joy of life is fled,
My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow;
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose
I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.
“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth!
A grave must yield me not.
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave
Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”
BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.
Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,
O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers;
And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.
But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand
Had shower’d around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore
--But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.
With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The lord of nations spoke,--and forth were brought
The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane.
Thrice-holy vessels!--pure from earthly stain,
And set apart, and sanctified to Him
Who deign’d within the oracle to reign,
Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.
They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song,
And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye;
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold
Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!
Peace!--is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall,
Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again
To search its cause? Along the illumined wall,
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,--a hand, a human hand,
O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!
There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!--the wine, in triumph pour’d,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth--and lo!
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth,
Trembles before a shadow! Say not so!
--The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!
“But haste ye!--bring Chaldea’s gifted seers,
The men of prescience! Haply to _their_ eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.”
They come--the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions--but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!--one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind;
Telling of inward mysteries--joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;
Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.
Yes!--what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d
Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might
Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light
Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th’ unutterably bright,
Was raised!--to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.
He spoke--the shadows of the things to come
Pass’d o’er his soul:--“O King, elate in pride!
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom--
The one, the living God, by thee defied!
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed
The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide,
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed!
Thy days are full: they come,--the Persian and the Mede!”
There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round--
A breathless pause!--the hush of hearts that beat,
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound,
A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
--’Twas but some echo in the crowded street,
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along--
Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!
Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field!
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying,
The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these,
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d
In their full mirth!--all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!
And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry;
And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death--bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train;
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane;
Empire is lost and won--Belshazzar with the slain.[204]
[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the _Collection
of Poems from Living Authors_, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs
Joanna Baillie.--_Memoir_, p. 68.
“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some
_jeux d’esprit_, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare
wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, _inter
alia_, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been
originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register
for 1810.”--Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_, vol. v. p. 287.
It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,”
and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of
Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]
[204] As originally written, the following additional stanzas
(afterwards omitted) concluded this poem:--
Fallen is the golden city! In the dust,
Spoil’d of her crown, dismantled of her state,
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate!
She that beheld the nations at her gate,
Thronging in homage, shall be call’d no more
Lady of kingdoms! Who shall mourn her fate?
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o’er--
What widow’d land shall now her widowhood deplore?
Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned
On many waters!--thou, whose augurs read
The language of the planets, and disown’d
The mighty Name it blazons!--veil thy head,
Daughter of Babylon! The sword is red
From thy destroyer’s harvest, and the yoke
Is on thee, O most proud!--for thou hast said,
“I am, and none beside!” Th’ Eternal spoke;
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!
But go thou forth, O Israel!--wake! rejoice!
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day!
Renew the sound of harps, th’ exulting voice,
The mirth of timbrels!--loose the chain, and say
God hath redeem’d his people!--from decay
The silent and the trampled shall arise!
Awake!--put on thy beautiful array,
O long-forsaken Zion!--to the skies
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!
And lift thy head!--Behold thy sons returning
Redeem’d from exile, ransom’d from the chain,
Light hath revisited the house of mourning:
She that on Judah’s mountains wept in vain,
Because her children were not, dwells again
Girt with the lovely! Through thy streets once more,
City of God! shall pass the bridal train,
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour,
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore.
THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
... “Thou strivest nobly,
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk;
And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears
...
... Fame I look not for;
But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station’d as I am, I will do all
That man may do.”
Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”
I.
The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died;
--Shout for the City of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!--great ocean’s bride,
Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.
II.
Long ages past!--they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls
Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold
Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.
III.
But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude;
’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling,
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d!
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude
Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows;
And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose;
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.
IV.
A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar
Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er
Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d,
But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.
V.
And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d
Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,
O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.
VI.
War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands
Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!--midst Araby’s lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands
Against the Golden City of the sea.[205]
--Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!
VII.
Hear yet again, ye mighty!--Where are they
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d,
Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round,
From the pine forests, and the mountain snows,
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!
--Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?
VIII.
They slumber with their swords!--the olive shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.
Yet must _thou_ wake, though all unarm’d and pale,
Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
--Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!
IX.
Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine,
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!
X.
All still, all voiceless!--and the billow’s roar
Alone replies! Alike _their_ soul is gone
Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore,
And _theirs_ that o’er the field of Ascalon
Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on
Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour
Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done
With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower
Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!
XI.
But linger not,--array thy men of might!
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes.
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright,
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,
Around thy walls the sons of battle close;
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!
XII.
Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade[206]
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high!
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade!
Snatch every brief delight,--since we must die!--
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by,
For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall;
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky,
And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call,
And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.
XIII.
The night--the glorious oriental night,
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven,
With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light,
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven,
To the still firmament’s expanse hath given
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.
XIV.
Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth
To faith and courage! From luxurious ease
A gallant few have started! O’er the seas,
From the Seven Towers,[207] their banner waves its sign;
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was _thine_;
_Thy_ soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.
XV.
Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from _her_
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye?
--That city of the throne and sepulchre
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die!
Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high,
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d
With its long march of spectred imagery,[208]
Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast?
Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!
XVI.
Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought
Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended
A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught,
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust,
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust)
In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.
XVII.
Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,
And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209]
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,
Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!
XVIII.
But then, around him as the javelins rush’d,
From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim;
And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d,
With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name
Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came,
And made the hour of that immortal deed
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed
Was to be Rome’s high star!--He died--and had his meed.
XIX.
But praise--and dearer, holier praise be theirs,
Who, in the stillness and the solitude
Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares,
Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food
Of restless energies, and only view’d
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,
Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued
And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown,
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.
XX.
Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined
Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong,
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind
With its rich pomp of festival and song,
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng;
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries
Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong
Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for _thence_ arise
All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.
XXI.
Well might _thy_ name, brave Constantine! awake
Such thought, such feeling!--But the scene again
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break
Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain,
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane,
With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace;
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main,
And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race--
The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.
XXII.
Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail!
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming,
Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail,
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale,
Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before!
--And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!
XXIII.
The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast,
All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war!
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host,
Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar
The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!--the Moslem line is rent!
XXIV.
On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower,
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way;
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour,
Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay.
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay,
Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light
Of festal halls; and there was joy!--the ray
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright--
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.
XXV.
For vain that feeble succour! Day by day
Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play,
Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep!
--Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep,
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled;
Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep
Flies far; and in _their_ mien, the walls who tread,
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!
XXVI.
It was a sad and solemn task, to hold
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall!
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d,
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall;
The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall,
The giant shadows of each tower and fane
Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.
XXVII.
For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,
The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;
Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,
The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.
Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along
The marble streets, all stillness--not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.
XXVIII.
But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen,
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,
And tells in silence how the night hath been
In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye;
And there is that in his collected mien,
To which the hearts of noble men reply
With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!
XXIX.
Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate
To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone;
High power was made their birthright, to create
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own!
A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone
Start into life, where’er their path may be,
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown
O’er Indian groves,[211] a wanderer wild and free,
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!
XXX.
And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast
On evil days, thou Cæsar!--yet the few,
That set their generous bosom to the blast
Which rocks thy throne--the fearless and the true,
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew
The free devotion of the years gone by,
When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew
Enduring strength! States vanish--ages fly--
But leave one task unchanged--to suffer and to die!
XXXI.
These are our nature’s heritage. But thou,
The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share
A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,
Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came
As a strong billow in their weight of care,
And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!
XXXII.
Her glance is on the triumph, on the field,
On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d
To deeds that seem as of immortal might,
Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where
In silence, and in secret, and in night,
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,
And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.
XXXIII.
Men have been firm in battle; they have stood
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains,
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood,
And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes,
That so their children, undefiled with chains,
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand
When not a beacon o’er the wave remains,
Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land,
Where Freedom dies with them--call _these_ a martyr-band!
XXXIV.
But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance,
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye,
It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance
Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony
Was made _his_ sport, who, knowing _one_ must die,
Reck’d not _which_ champion; but prepared the strain,
And bound the bloody wreath of victory,
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain,
The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.
XXXV.
The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught
With _this_ of Liberty, that now the need
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought,
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed,
With Hope’s fair-seeming drapery. We are freed
From tasks like these by misery: one alone
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed,
Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.
XXXVI.
The signs are full. They are not in the sky,
Nor in the many voices of the air,
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high
Toss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare,
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair;
And yet the signs are full: too truly seen
In the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despair
Which lends one language to a people’s mien,
And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!
XXXVII.
It is a night of beauty: such a night
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade,
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright,
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade
Their forest haunts; a night to rove alone
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d,
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;
XXXVIII.
A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers
The shades of elder bards; a night to hold
Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old;
A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould,
To strew sweet flowers--for revellers to fill
And wreathe the cup--for sorrows to be told
Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still!
It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!
XXXIX.
It _should_ come sweeping in the storm, and rending
The ancient summits in its dread career!
And with vast billows wrathfully contending,
And with dark clouds o’ershadowing every sphere!
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear,
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low,
Alike in His omnipotence is near,
When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow,
And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.
XL.
The heavens in still magnificence look down
On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream
Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown
Of far Olympus,[212] in the moonlight gleam,
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream
Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee;
--But that is past--and now the One Supreme
Fills not alone _those_ haunts, but earth, air, sea,
And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.
XLI.
Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones
And temples of a visionary might,
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones,
And mantling thence the realms beneath with night:
Ye have look’d down on battles--Fear and Flight,
And arm’d Revenge, all hurrying past below!--
But there is yet a more appalling sight
For earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow,
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!
XLII.
Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,
And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cry
Of savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ tramp
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry,
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky
A hue of menace and of wrath put on,
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high,
And countless as the flames in ages gone,
Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!
XLIII.
But all is stillness now. May this be sleep
Which wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchance
Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep,
Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance,
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed
Rich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance,
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.
XLIV.
May this be sleep, this hush?--A sleepless eye
Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race!
One that would scan th’ abyss of destiny
E’en now is gazing on the skies to trace,
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space,
Fate’s mystic pathway: they the while, serene,
Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed’s face
Kindles beneath their aspect,[213] and his mien,
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.
XLV.
Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream,
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind
O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind
It hath been ever thus! and they that weep
For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d
To human search, in daring pride would sweep,
As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.
XLVI.
But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night,
When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon;
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light
O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won;
And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done
In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast
Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!
_Still_ bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.
XLVII.
For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb,
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where,
Midst the wreck’d cities in the desert’s gloom,
All tameless creatures make their savage lair,
_Thence_ comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air,
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day,
And thrills the soul;--yet bids us not despair,
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay,
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!
XLVIII.
The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam
O’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall,
Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beam
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall,
And from its long arcades and pillars tall
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie
On the wave’s heaving bosom, and recall
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky,
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.
XLIX.
But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound!
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more,
Wafting an atmosphere of music round,
Tells the hush’d seaman, gliding past the shore,
How monarchs revel there! Its feasts are o’er--
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade?
--I see a train of guests in silence pour
Through its long avenues of terraced shade,
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!
L.
In silence, and in arms! With helm--with sword--
These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en now
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board,
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow
With an imperial diadem![214]--but thou,
O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee,
To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bow
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree,
And count it joy enough to perish--being free!
LI.
On through long vestibules, with solemn tread,
As men, that in some time of fear and woe,
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead,
O’er whom by day their sorrows may not flow,
The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow,
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls,
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go
In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,
Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!
LII.
And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright
With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom
Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight,
A shadow that anticipates the tomb!
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume
A purple canopy, a golden throne;
But it is empty!--hath the stroke of doom
Fallen there already? Where is He, the One,
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?
LIII.
Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth efface
Earth’s vain distinctions! When the storm beats loud,
When the strong towers are tottering to their base,
And the streets rock,--who mingle in the crowd?
--Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud,
Are in that throng! Yes, life hath many an hour
Which makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d,
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower,
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!
LIV.
Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high,
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak,
In the deep human heart more gloriously,
Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the weak,
They that seem’d form’d, as flower-stems, but to break
With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose name
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek,
And thrill the pulse!--Ay, strength no pangs could tame
Hath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!
LV.
And this is of such hours!--That throne is void,
And its lord comes uncrown’d. Behold him stand,
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy’d
The Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band,
The gather’d virtue of a sinking land--
Alas! how scanty! Now is cast aside
All form of princely state; each noble hand
Is press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!
LVI.
A moment’s hush--and then he speaks--he speaks!
But not of hope! _that_ dream hath long gone by:
His words are full of memory--as he seeks,
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty,
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye,
And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie
Deep with earth’s buried heroes; to recall
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!
LVII.
His words are full of faith!--and thoughts, more high
Than Rome e’er knew, now fill his glance with light;
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die,
Than e’er were drawn from Nature’s haughty might!
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright,
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame
The bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sight
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame,
--That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!
LVIII.
They weep--those champions of the Cross--they weep,
Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train,
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep
Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain,
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain
A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215]
The homes they never may behold again,
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!
LIX.
Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216]
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes?
--It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes
Which long and vainly shall explore the main
For their white sails’ return: the melodies
Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain--
Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!
LX.
Such moments come to thousands!--few may die
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave,
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye
Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave
Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave
Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall
From the deserted stem. They find a grave
Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall,
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!
LXI.
But life flows on, and bears us with its tide,
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell,
Though they were those once blooming at our side
In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell
Comes on the wind?--It is an empire’s knell,
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night!
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite,
With a funereal voice of solitary might.
LXII.
Again, and yet again! A startling power
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour
Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led
From their paternal homes; and when the glare
Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,
And when the silent house receives its guest--the dead.[217]
LXIII.
But to those tones what thrilling soul was given
On that last night of empire! As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,
The requiem of a faith’s departing sway,
A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.
LXIV.
Again, and yet again!--from yon high dome,
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they
Who never more, to rest in mortal home,
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day,
Th’ imperial band, in close and arm’d array,
As men that from the sword must part no more,
Take through the midnight streets their silent way,
Within their ancient temple to adore,
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.
LXV.
It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes
O’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed
In the beleaguer’d city. Stillness lies,
With moonlight, o’er the hills and waters spread.
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread,
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet
The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread
Of many steps is in the echoing street,
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.
LXVI.
Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence
With a dim terror in each restless eye?
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence,
In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by,
And rock’d their palaces, as if on high
The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board
Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die![218]
--No!--what are these?--for them a cup is pour’d
More dark with wrath,--_man_ comes--the spoiler and the sword.
LXVII.
Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws
On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer,
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
Betokening inward agonies, were there:
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!
LXVIII.
But high above that scene, in bright repose,
And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleams
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,
But all instinct with loftier being seems,
Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreams
Of yore!--Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes
Of mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught,
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!
LXIX.
Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome?
That Rome which witness’d, in her sceptred days,
So much of noble death? When shrine and dome,
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays,
As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blaze
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne,
O sovereign forms! concentring all the rays
Of the soul’s lightnings?--did ye not adorn
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?
LXX.
Hath it been thus?--Or did ye grace the halls,
Once peopled by the mighty? Haply there,
In your still grandeur, from the pillar’d walls
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,[219]
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare
The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow.
--Behold again!--high hearts make nobler offerings now!
LXXI.
The stately fane is reach’d--and at its gate
The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state
Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried
By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died,
While his implores forgiveness!--“If there be
One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride
Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”
LXXII.
But all is silence; and a gush of tears
Alone replies! He hath not been of those
Who, fear’d by many, pine in secret fears
Of all; th’ environ’d but by slaves and foes,
To whom day brings not safety, night repose,
For they have _heard the voice cry_, “_Sleep no more!_”
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o’er,
When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!
LXXIII.
_He_ hath been loved. But who may trust the love
Of a degenerate race?--in other mould
Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold,
And call him not forsaken!--thoughts untold
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold
Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.
LXXIV.
’Tis a proud vision--that most regal pile
Of ancient days! The lamps are streaming bright
From its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle,
Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes
Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height,
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220]
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.
LXXV.
But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own hues
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie--
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse
Arch, column, rich mosaic--pass thou by
The stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie,
Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know,
A deeper source of all sublimity
Lives in man’s bosom, than the world can show
In nature or in art--above, around, below.
LXXVI.
Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze)
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone:
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze;
Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone,
Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrown
Full from the shrine on one, a nation’s lord,
A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done--
E’en now, as Faith’s mysterious cup is pour’d,
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!
LXXVII.
The rite is o’er. The band of brethren part,
Once--and _but_ once--to meet on earth again!
Each, in the strength of a collected heart,
To dare what man may dare--and know ’tis vain!
The rite is o’er: and thou, majestic fane!
The glory is departed from thy brow!--
Be clothed with dust!--the Christian’s farewell strain
Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow,
Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!
LXXVIII.
The streets grow still and lonely--and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire.
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
With battle-sounds;[221] the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.
LXXIX.
The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve,
And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well,
And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell,
Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!--yet who can tell,
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit’s dream!--Sleep, weary Constantine!
LXXX.
Doth the blast rise?--the clouded east is red,
As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
The soft and smother’d step of those that fear
Surprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere--
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!
LXXXI.
Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascending
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Through tower and wall, a path for their array?
Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply;
And the earth rocks beneath their engines’ sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!
LXXXII.
_They_ fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne;
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong,
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own!
--Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
No! from their towers th’ invading tide is driven
Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:[222]
Shout, warriors of the Cross!--for victory is of Heaven!
LXXXIII.
Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing,
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,
With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing
Fast o’er their sides, as rivers to the deep.
Stand firm!--there yet is hope; th’ ascent is steep,
And from on high no shaft descends in vain.
--But those that fall swell up the mangled heap,
In the red moat, the dying and the slain,
And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!
LXXXIV.
Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,
Of all terrific sounds!--the savage tone
Of the wild horn, the cannon’s peal, the shower
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o’erthrown,
The deep dull tambour’s beat--man’s voice alone
Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry
Of trampled thousands--prayer, and shriek, and moan,
All drown’d, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.
LXXXV.
War-clouds have wrapt the city!--through their dun
O’erloaded canopy, at times a blaze
As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
From the Greek fire shoots up![223] and lightning rays
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze,
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air!
--Ay! _this_ is in the compass of our gaze,
But fearful things unknown, untold, are there--
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!
LXXXVI.
Woe, shame and woe!--A chief, a warrior flies,
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
--Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies
Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail!
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son![224]
Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!
--But there are tortures which thou canst not shun:
The spirit is _their_ prey--thy pangs are but begun!
LXXXVII.
Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead!
The seal is set on their majestic fame;
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed,
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name!
_They_ may not, in one bitter moment, shame
Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame,
And stars drop, fading from the diadem;
But the bright _past_ is theirs--there is no change for _them_!
LXXXVIII.
Where art thou, Constantine?--where death is reaping
His sevenfold harvest!--where the stormy light,
Fast as th’ artillery’s thunderbolts are sweeping,
Throws meteor-bursts o’er battle’s noonday-night!
Where the towers rock and crumble from their height,
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply
Like red Vesuvio; and where human might
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,
While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.
LXXXIX.
Where art thou, Constantine?--where Christian blood
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain!
Where faith and valour perish in the flood,
Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gain
Dark strength each moment; where the gallant slain
Around the banner of the Cross lie strew’d
Thick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain;
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming
multitude.
XC.
Now is he battling midst a host alone,
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway
Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o’erthrown
Its forest-brethren in their green array!
And he hath cast his purple robe away,
With its imperial bearings, that his sword
An iron ransom from the chain may pay,
And win, what haply fate may yet accord,
A soldier’s death--the all now left an empire’s lord!
XCI.
Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave!
Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles
Of shatter’d helms and shields which could not save,
And crests and banners never more to wave
In the free winds of heaven! He is of those
O’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
Yet wake them not!--so deep their long and last repose!
XCII.
Woe to the vanquish’d!--thus it hath been still
Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry!
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil
Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly;
Hark! now each piercing tone of agony
Blends in the city’s shriek! The lot is cast.
Slaves! ’twas your _choice_ thus, rather thus, to die,
Than where the warrior’s blood flows warm and fast,
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!
XCIII.
Oh! well doth freedom battle! Men have made,
E’en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand,
And on the floors, where once their children play’d,
And by the hearths, round which their household band
At evening met; ay, struggling hand to hand,
Within the very chambers of their sleep,
_There_ have they taught the spoilers of the land
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,
To guard free homes! But ye!--kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!
XCIV.
’Tis eve--the storm hath died, the valiant rest
Low on their shields; the days fierce work is done,
And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attest
Its fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run!
Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun
Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won)
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell
The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!
XCV.
Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong,
He comes: the Moslem treads those ancient halls!
But all is stillness there, as death had long
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls.
And half that silence of the grave appals
The conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour,
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower
O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!
XCVI.
“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung
Her watch-song,[225] and around th’ imperial throne
The spider weaves his web!”--Still darkly hung
That verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone,
O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flown
To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air,
That the coil’d snake may bask on sculptured stone,
And nations clear the forest, to prepare
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!
XCVII.
But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying,
As a crown’d leader in such hours should die,
Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying,
With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy,
And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh,
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now
Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high,
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow--
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!
XCVIII.
“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!”
We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whom
The earth received her destiny, and fell
Before them trembling--to a sterner doom
Have oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom,
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb,
Without a tomb’s repose, the chain hath weigh’d
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay’d.
XCIX.
Or in the eye of thousands they have stood,
To meet the stroke of death; but not like thee!
From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal’d _their_ blood,
But thou didst fall unfetter’d, arm’d, and free,
And kingly to the last! And if it be,
That from the viewless world, whose marvels none
Return to tell, a spirit’s eye can see
The things of earth: still may’st thou hail the sun,
Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!
C.
And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancing
Far through the forest god’s Arcadian shades!
--’Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing,
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades.
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades,
Round dark Cithæron and by Delphi’s steep;
--’Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids,
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep,
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!
CI.
Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old
Awoke to freedom’s first heroic strain,
And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll’d
The Persian helm and standard to the main;
And the blue waves of Salamis again
Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply,
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain,
Far as Platæa’s, where the mighty lie,
Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty![226]
CII.
Bright land, with glory mantled o’er by song!
Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams,
And fountains, whose deserted banks along
Still the soft air with inspiration teems;
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes
To verse for ever; and of ruin’d shrines,
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams,
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines?
--When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?
CIII.
_Thou_ wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear!
--Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave
O’er Mantinea’s earth?--doth Pindus rear
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave?
And is there yet on Marathon a grave?
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line
By Sparta’s ruins? And shall man, a slave,
Bow’d to the dust, amid such scenes repine?
--If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!
CIV.
Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers.
--Beneath Sophia’s dome the Moslem prays,
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers,
In the Comneni’s halls the Tartar sways:[227]
But not for long!--the spirit of those days,
When the three hundred made their funeral pile
Of Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the rays
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.
CV.
If then ’tis given thee to arise in might,
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain,
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright!
The cross of victory should not know a stain!
So may that faith once more supremely reign,
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust!
And deem not, e’en when virtue dies in vain,
She dies forsaken; but repose our trust
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable--but just.
[205] The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of Constantinople,
was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who were not
enrolled amongst the regular troops.
The Sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his army
must have been principally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he
had previously visited.
[206]
“Huc vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves Flores amœnæ ferre jube
rosæ.”--Horace.
[207] The castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine
history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an
edifice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople;
and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the
Propontis, in the later periods of the empire. For a description of
this building, see Pouqueville’s _Travels_.
[208] An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at the
funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors.
[209] The following was the ceremony of consecration with which Decius
devoted himself in battle:--He was ordered by Valerius, the Pontifex
Maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe he wore in
the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil, commanded
him to put forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing
with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words:--“O Janus,
Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona! and ye, Lares and Novensiles! All you
heroes who dwell in heaven! and all ye gods who rule over us and our
enemies--especially ye gods of hell!--I honour you, invoke you, and
humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer
all fear and terror from them to their enemies; and I do, for the
safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, and with
myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to the infernal gods,
and the goddess of the earth.” Decius then, girding his robe around
them, mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the thickest of the
enemy’s battalions. The Latins were, for a while, thunderstruck at
this spectacle; but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a
shower of darts, under which the Consul fell.
[210] See Gibbon’s animated description of the arrival of five
Christian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the
besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantinople.--_Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. xii. p. 215.
[211] “The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, particularly
about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which
grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity that, in
the sultry season of the year, the friction occasioned by a strong
dry wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which, frequently
setting the woods in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a
valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of
fire.”--_Notes to_ Kindersley’s _Specimens of Hindoo Literature_.
[212] Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the
Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and
never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, covered with
eternal snows.--_Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. iii. p. 8.
[213] Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His
calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the
29th of May, as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city.
[214] Constantine Palæologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess, and
the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople had been
fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that city.
[215] Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand
for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were
foreigners, and chiefly Italians.
[216] This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a
beautiful song of Goethe’s:--
“Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bluhn Mit dunkeln laub die gold
orangen gluhn?” etc.
[217] The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in
Schiller’s poem, “Das Lied der Glocke.”
[218] It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is
announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the
streets at midnight; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre,
who summons the devoted person by name.
[219] Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons
resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That of
Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.
[220] For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries,
employed in the construction of St Sophia, see _The Decline and Fall_,
&c., vol. vii. p. 120.
[221] The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the
Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also
been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This
circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of
_Constantine Palæologus_:--
“Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump,
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe
Our near approach betray: silent and soft
As the pard’s velvet foot on Libya’s sands,
Slow stealing with crouch’d shoulders on her prey.”
Constantine Palæologus, act iv.
“The march and labour of thousands” must, however, as Gibbon observes,
“have inevitably produced a strange confusion of discordant clamours,
which reached the ears of the watchmen on the towers.”
[222] “After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and
preserved their advantage,” says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the
janizaries first turned the fortune of the day.
[223] “A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople
is the union of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and
the battering-ram were directed against the same wall; nor had
the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and
inextinguishable fire.”--_Decline and Fall_, &c., vol. xii., p. 213.
[224] “The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the
bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani, (a
Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood and exquisite pain appalled the
courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart
of the city.”--_Decline and Fall_, &c., vol. xii. p. 229.
[225] Mohammed II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of
the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and
desolation which reigned within its precincts. “A melancholy reflection
on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his mind, and
he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: ‘The spider has wove
his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch-song on
the towers of Afrasiab.’”--_Decline and Fall_, &c., vol. xii. p. 240.
[226] One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platæa was annually
commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the _Bowl of
Liberty_, which was afterwards poured forth in libation.
[227] The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the families
who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the Eastern
Empire.
ANNOTATION ON “THE LAST CONSTANTINE.”
[It may seem necessary to mention that “The Last Constantine” first
appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along with “Belshazzar’s Feast,”
the “Siege of Valencia,” and some lyrical miscellanies.
“The present publication appears to us, (Dr Morehead in _Constable’s
Magazine_, Sept. 1823,) in every respect superior to any thing Mrs
Hemans has yet written: more powerful in particular passages--more
interesting in the narrative part--as pathetic and delicate in
the reflective--as elaborately faultless in its versification--as
copious in imagery. Of the longer poems, ‘The Last Constantine’ is
our favourite.... The leading features of Constantine’s character
seem to be taken from the unequal, but, on the whole, admirable play
of _Constantine Palæologus_, by the gifted rival of our authoress,
Joanna Baillie; and the picture of that enduring and Christian courage
which, in the midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the
last of the Cæsars, when all earthly hope and help had failed him, is
eminently touching and poetical. The following stanzas appear to us
particularly beautiful:--
‘Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle,’ etc.
The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of Constantine’s
character is still more fully brought out, are likewise excellent:--
‘It was a sad and solemn task to hold
Their midnight watch on that beleaguer’d wall,’ etc.
These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably expressed,
full of eloquence and melody; and the poem contains many others
equally beautiful. As we have already hinted, the story might have
been better told--or rather, there is scarcely any story at all; but
the reader is borne down the stream of pensive reflection so gently,
and so easily, that he scarcely perceives the want of it.”]
THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS;
OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF GRUTLI.
[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of
the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of Austria. The field
called the Grutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited
yeomen, Walter Furst, (the father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner
Stauffacher, and Erni (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting
to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects.
“Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the heights,
and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On
the night preceding the 11th of November 1307, they met here, each
with ten associates, men of approved worth; and while at this solemn
hour they were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success
depended the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter, and Arnold
held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who
has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly
and strenuously to defend that freedom. The thirty associates heard
the oath with awe; and with uplifted hands attested the same God, and
all his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives
for the defence of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on
their future proceedings, and for the present each returned to his
hamlet.”--Planta’s _History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.
On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throwing off the
Austrian yoke, and “it is well attested,” says the same author, “that
not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable occasion, nor had one
proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of
land. The Swiss met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed
by oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their perpetual
league.”]
I.
’Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn’s wild horn,[228]
Like a wind’s voice, had pour’d its last long tone,
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods borne,
To the low cabins of the glens made known
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had gone
By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest;
The chamois slumber’d, for the chase was done;
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press’d,
And the rock-eagle couch’d high on his cloudy nest.
II.
Did the land sleep? The woodman’s axe had ceased
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane;
The grapes were gather’d in; the vintage feast
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper’s strain
Hush’d by the streams; the year was in its wane,
The night in its mid watch--it was a time
E’en mark’d and hallow’d unto slumber’s reign;
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime,
And o’er his white Alps moved the spirit of the clime.
III.
For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread,
High and unmark’d by mortal footstep lay;
And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed,
Burst in their joy of light and sound away;
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play,
Had hung man’s dwellings midst the realms of air,
O’er cliffs the very birthplace of the day--
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare
To lay her withering hand on God’s bright works e’en there?
IV.
Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushing
To bring down rainbows o’er their sparry cell,
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest rushing
Up where the sun’s red fire-glance earliest fell,
And the fresh pastures where the herd’s sweet bell
Recall’d such life as Eastern patriarchs led;
_There_ peasant men their free thoughts might not tell
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread,
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt’s dull stealthy tread.
V.
But in a land of happy shepherd homes,
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining,
With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight glooms,
From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shining--
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining
Their memory with all memories loved and blest--
In such a land there dwells a power, combining
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast;
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its rest!
VI.
A sound went up--the wave’s dark sleep was broken--
On Uri’s lake was heard a midnight oar--
Of man’s brief course a troubled moment’s token
Th’ eternal waters to their barriers bore;
And then their gloom a flashing image wore
Of torch-fires streaming out o’er crag and wood,
And the wild falcon’s wing was heard to soar
In startled haste--and by that moonlight flood,
A band of patriot men on Grutli’s verdure stood.
VII.
They stood in arms: the wolf-spear and the bow
Had waged their war on things of mountain race;
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad foe?
--Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase,
True hearts in fight, were gather’d on that place
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil
So met those men in Heaven’s majestic face:
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil,
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil.
VIII.
O’er their low pastoral valleys might the tide
Of years have flow’d, and still, from sire to son,
Their names and records on the green earth died,
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun
To hush all sound. But silent on its height,
The snow mass, full of death, while ages run
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light,
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding might.
IX.
So were _they_ roused. Th’ invading step had pass’d
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door,
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind’s blast,[229]
Could bar Oppression from their home no more.
Why, what had _she_ to do where all things wore
Wild grandeur’s impress? In the storm’s free way,
How dared _she_ lift her pageant crest before
Th’ enduring and magnificent array
Of sovereign Alps, that wing’d their eagles with the day?
X.
This might not long be borne: the tameless hills
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling,
Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling
That He hath made man free! and they, whose dwelling
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear;
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repelling,
They rose--the forester--the mountaineer--
Oh! what hath earth more strong than the good peasant spear?
XI.
Sacred be Grutli’s field! Their vigil keeping
Through many a blue and starry summer night--
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleeping,
Had those brave Switzers met; and in the sight
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might
To gird the oppress’d, had given their deep thoughts way,
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight,
With lovely images of homes that lay
Bower’d midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent spray.
XII.
Now had endurance reach’d its bounds! They came
With courage set in each bright earnest eye,
The day, the signal, and the hour to name,
When they should gather on their hills to die,
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry
For the land’s freedom. ’Twas a scene combining
All glory in itself--the solemn sky,
The stars, the waves their soften’d light enshrining,
And man’s high soul supreme o’er mighty Nature shining.
XIII.
Calmly they stood, and with collected mien,
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low--
As if the spirit of the hour and scene,
With the woods’ whisper and the waves’ sweet flow,
Had temper’d in their thoughtful hearts the glow
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow,
E’en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death.
XIV.
And three, that seem’d as chieftains of the band,
Were gather’d in the midst on that lone shore
By Uri’s lake. A father of the land,[230]
One on his brow the silent record wore
Of many days, whose shadows had pass’d o’er
His path among the hills, and quench’d the dreams
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory’s lore
Still his life’s evening drew its loveliest gleams,
For he had walk’d with God, beside the mountain streams.
XV.
And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well
To their last pillow silently have gone,
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell
How life may task the spirit? He was one
Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done,
And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d,
Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun,
He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast
Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.
XVI.
But for such holy rest strong hands must toil,
Strong hearts endure! By that pale elder’s side,
Stood one that seem’d a monarch of the soil,
Serene and stately in his manhood’s pride--
Werner,[231] the brave and true! If men have died
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep,
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried
Within his breast, “Arise!” came still and deep
From his far home, that smiled e’en then in moonlight sleep.
XVII.
It was a home to die for! As it rose
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound
Of mirthful childhood, o’er the green repose
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round;
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound,
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye,
And set his free step firmer on the ground,
When o’er his soul its melodies went by,
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy.
XVIII.
But who was he that on his hunting-spear
Lean’d, with a prouder and more fiery bearing?
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear,
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing
That which they may not tame--a soul declaring
War against earth’s oppressors. Midst that throng
Of other mould he seem’d, and loftier daring,
One whose blood swept high impulses along,
One that should pass, and leave a name for warlike song--
XIX.
A memory on the mountains!--one to stand,
When the hills echo’d with the deepening swell
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land,
And in some rock defile, or savage dell,
Array her peasant children to repel
Th’ invader, sending arrows for his chains!
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell,
Her banner with a smile--for through his veins
The joy of danger flow’d, as torrents to the plains.
XX.
There was at times a wildness in the light
Of his quick-flashing eye; a something born
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright,
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn!
It well might be!--Young Erni’s step had worn[232]
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps,
And track’d the lynx above the clouds of morn,
And follow’d where the flying chamois leaps
Across the dark blue rifts, th’ unfathom’d glacier deeps.
XXI.
He was a creature of the Alpine sky,
A being whose bright spirit had been fed
Midst the crown’d heights of joy and liberty,
And thoughts of power. He knew each path which led
To the rock’s treasure caves, whose crystal shed
Soft light o’er secret fountains. At the tone
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer[233] had spread
A startled wing--for oft that peal had blown
Where the free cataract’s voice was wont to sound alone.
XXII.
His step had track’d the waste, his soul had stirr’d
The ancient solitudes--his voice had told
Of wrongs to call down heaven.[234] That tale was heard
In Hasli’s dales, and where the shepherds’ fold
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold
On the bleak Oberland; and where the light
Of day’s last footsteps bathes in burning gold
Great Righi’s cliffs; and where Mount Pilate’s height
Casts o’er his glassy lake the darkness of his might.
XXIII.
Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunter pass’d,
And, from the bosom of the wilderness,
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast
The weight of bondage down--and bright and fast,
As the clear waters, joyously and free,
Burst from the desert rock, it rush’d at last,
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest-Sea.[235]
XXIV.
They link’d their hands, they pledged their stainless faith
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven,
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death,
With the severe and solemn transport given
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven,
How man _might_ strive, and vainly strive, they knew,
And call’d upon their God, whose arm had riven
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt’s might o’erthrew.
XXV.
They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted
Into the bright mid air, had caught from day
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted,
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted,
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born--
So far was heard the blast of freedom’s echoing horn!
XXVI.
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came rending
The frozen stillness which around them hung;
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending
Gave answer, till the sky’s blue hollow rung;
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming
To the far Seelisberg; whence light was flung
On Grutli’s field, till all the red lake gleaming
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour seeming.
XXVII.
And the winds toss’d each summit’s blazing crest,
As a host’s plumage; and the giant pines,
Fell’d where they waved o’er crag and eagle’s nest,
Heap’d up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs,
As o’er a city’s burning towers and shrines,
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown’d and bright,
In Werner’s dwelling flow’d; through leafless vines
From Walter’s hearth stream’d forth the festive light,
And Erni’s blind old sire gave thanks to heaven that night.
XXVIII.
Then on the silence of the snows there lay
A Sabbath’s quiet sunshine--and its bell
Fill’d the hush’d air awhile, with lonely sway;
For the stream’s voice was chain’d by winter’s spell,
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and dell
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee
Peal’d from the mountain churches, with a swell
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea--
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps were free!
[228] Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss Alps.
[229] Fohnwind, the south-east wind, which frequently lays waste the
country before it.
[230] Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell.
[231] Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to rouse and
unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland.
[232] Erni, Arnold Melchthal.
[233] The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle.
[234] The eyes of his aged father had been put out by the orders of the
Austrian governor.
[235] Forest-Sea--the lake of the Four Cantons is frequently so called.
SONGS OF THE CID.[236]
THE CID’S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE.
With sixty knights in his gallant train,
Went forth the Campeador of Spain;
For wild sierras and plains afar,
He left the lands of his own Bivar.[237]
To march o’er field, and to watch in tent,
From his home in good Castile he went;
To the wasting siege and the battle’s van,
--For the noble Cid was a banish’d man!
Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play’d,
And his native streams wild music made,
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay,
When for march and combat he took his way.
With a thoughtful spirit his way he took,
And he turn’d his steed for a parting look,
For a parting look at his own fair towers,
--Oh! the exile’s heart hath weary hours!
The pennons were spread, and the band array’d,
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay’d--
It _was_ but a moment; the halls were lone,
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown.
There was not a steed in the empty stall,
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall,
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door,
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor.[238]
Then a dim tear swell’d to the warrior’s eye,
As the voice of his native groves went by;
And he said--“My foemen their wish have won:
Now the will of God be in all things done!”
But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer,
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear,
And the fields of his glory lay distant far,
--He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar!
[236] These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are
founded upon some of the “wild and wonderful” traditions preserved in
the romances of that language, and the ancient poem of the Cid.
[237] Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about
two leagues from Burgos.
[238]
“Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando:
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cañados,
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos:
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados.
Sospirò mio Cid.” _Poem of the Cid._
THE CID’S DEATHBED.
It was an hour of grief and fear
Within Valencia’s walls,
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear
Above her marble halls.
There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,
And steps of hurrying feet,
Where the Zambra’s[239] notes were wont to rise,
Along the sunny street.
It was an hour of fear and grief
On bright Valencia’s shore,
For Death was busy with her chief,
The noble Campeador.
The Moor-king’s barks were on the deep,
With sounds and signs of war;
But the Cid was passing to his sleep,
In the silent Alcazar.
No moan was heard through the towers of state,
No weeper’s aspect seen,
But by the couch Ximena sate,
With pale yet steadfast mien.[240]
Stillness was round the leader’s bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners, o’er his glorious head,
Were drooping heavily.
And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;
He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.
What said the Ruler of the field?
--His voice is faint and low;
The breeze that creeps o’er his lance and shield
Hath louder accents now.
“Raise ye no cry, and let no moan
Be made when I depart;
The Moor must hear no dirge’s tone;
Be ye of mighty heart!
“Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain
From your walls ring far and shrill;
And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.
“And gird my form with mail-array,
And set me on my steed;
So go ye forth on your funeral-way,
And God shall give you speed.
“Go with the dead in the front of war,
All arm’d with sword and helm,[241]
And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.
“And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed my day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth.”
--Now wave, ye glorious banners! wave!
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by,
And the arms, o’er the deathbed of the brave,
Send forth a hollow sigh.
Now wave, ye banners of many a fight!
As the fresh wind o’er you sweeps;
The wind and the banners fall hush’d as night;
The Campeador--he sleeps!
Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn,
And swell out the trumpet’s blast,
Till the notes prevail o’er the voice of wail,
For the noble Cid hath pass’d!
[239] The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the Cid,
many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside under
his government.
[240] The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the
romances.
[241]
“Banderas antiguas, tristes
Be victorias un tiempo amadas,
Tremolando estan al viento
Y lloran aunque no hablan,” &c.
Herder’s translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen
Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous
fidelity.
THE CID’S FUNERAL PROCESSION.
The Moor had beleaguer’d Valencia’s towers,
And lances gleam’d up through her citron bowers,
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain,
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain;
For the Cid was gone to rest.
There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps,
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps,
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs,
For the shrill horn of Afric had call’d her sons
To the battles of the West.
The midnight bell, o’er the dim seas heard,
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr’d;
The stars were shining o’er tower and wave,
And the camp lay hush’d as a wizard’s cave;
But the Christians woke that night.
They rear’d the Cid on his barded steed,
Like a warrior mail’d for the hour of need,
And they fix’d the sword in the cold right hand
Which had fought so well for his father’s land,
And the shield from his neck hung bright.
There was arming heard in Valencia’s halls,
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls;
Stars had not faded nor clouds turn’d red,
When the knights had girded the noble dead,
And the burial train moved out.
With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands,
Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands;
And they gave no battle-shout.
When the first went forth, it was midnight deep,
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep;
When the last through the city’s gates had gone,
O’er tent and rampart the bright day shone,
With a sun-burst from the sea.
There were knights five hundred went arm’d before,
And Bermudez the Cid’s green standard bore;[242]
To its last fair field, with the break of morn,
Was the glorious banner in silence borne,
On the glad wind streaming free.
And the Campeador came stately then,
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men!
The helmet was down o’er the face of the dead,
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led,
For he knew that the Cid was there.
He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword,
And Ximena following her noble lord;
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow,
But there rose not a sound of war or woe,
Not a whisper on the air.
The halls in Valencia were still and lone,
The churches were empty, the masses done;
There was not a voice through the wide streets far,
Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar,
--So the burial-train moved out.
With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirass’d bands,
Like a lion’s tread on the burning sands;
And they gave no battle-shout.
But the deep hills peal’d with a cry ere long,
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng!
--With a sudden flash of the lance and spear,
And a charge of the war-steed in full career,
It was Alvar Fañez came![243]
He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud,
Had pass’d before like a threatening cloud!
And the storm rush’d down on the tented plain,
And the Archer-Queen,[244] with her bands, lay slain;
For the Cid upheld his fame.
Then a terror fell on the King Bucar,
And the Libyan kings who had join’d his war;
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away,
And their hands could not wield an assagay,
For the dreadful things they saw!
For it seem’d where Minaya his onset made,
There were seventy thousand knights array’d,
All white as the snow on Nevada’s steep,
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep
--’Twas a sight of fear and awe!
And the crested form of a warrior tall,
With a sword of fire, went before them all;
With a sword of fire and a banner pale,
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail;
He rode in the battle’s van!
There was fear in the path of his dim white horse,
There was death in the giant-warrior’s course!
Where his banner stream’d with its ghostly light,
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight--
For it seem’d not the sword of man!
The field and the river grew darkly red,
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled;
There was work for the men of the Cid that day!
--They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay,
As reapers whose task is done!
The kings and the leaders of Afric fled!
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread;
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain,
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain.
--So the Cid to his grave pass’d on!
[242] “And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming up
with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle, and they
knew his _green pennon_.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_.
[243] Alvar Fañez Minaya, one of the Cid’s most distinguished warriors.
[244] A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors,
accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that
she obtained the name of the Star of Archers.
“Una Mora muy gallarda,
Gran maestra en el tirar,
Con Saetas del Aljava,
De los arcos de Turquia
Estrella era nombrada,
Por la destreza que avia
En el herir de la Xara.”
THE CID’S RISING.
’Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night,
And Leon in slumber lay,
When a sound went forth in rushing might,
Like an army on its way![245]
In the stillness of the hour
When the dreams of sleep have power,
And men forget the day.
Through the dark and lonely streets it went,
Till the slumberers woke in dread;--
The sound of a passing armament,
With the charger’s stony tread.
There was heard no trumpet’s peal,
But the heavy tramp of steel,
As a host’s to combat led.
Through the dark and lonely streets it pass’d,
And the hollow pavement rang,
And the towers, as with a sweeping blast,
Rock’d to the stormy clang!
But the march of the viewless train
Went on to a royal fane,
Where a priest his night-hymn sang.
There was knocking that shook the marble floor,
And a voice at the gate, which said--
“That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador,
Was there in his arms array’d;
And that with him, from the tomb,
Had the Count Gonzalez come
With a host, uprisen to aid!
“And they came for the buried king that lay
At rest in that ancient fane;
For he must be arm’d on the battle-day,
With them to deliver Spain!”
--Then the march went sounding on,
And the Moors by noontide sun
Were dust on Tolosa’s plain.
[245] See Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 352.
GREEK SONGS
THE STORM OF DELPHI.[246]
Far through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rush’d on high,
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o’er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.
Banners, with deep-red gold
All waving as a flame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia’s war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.
He came with starry gems
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands press’d.
But a gloom fell o’er their way,
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind’s low swell,
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell,
But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior’s dying sigh!
A gloom fell o’er their way!
’Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross’d the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
The air was fill’d with a mightier sway--
But on the spearmen pass’d!
And hollow to their tread
Came the echoes of the ground;
And banners droop’d, as with dews o’erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn
Had an alter’d cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.
But they blew a louder strain,
When the steep defiles were pass’d!
And afar the crown’d Parnassus rose,
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!
In golden light it stood,
Midst the laurels gleaming lone;
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile,
O’er its graceful pillars look’d awhile,
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.
And the Persians gave a shout!
But the marble walls replied
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore,
And a savage trumpet’s note peal’d out,
Till their hearts for terror died!
On the armour of the god
Then a viewless hand was laid;
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array’d.
And a sudden silence fell
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild-bird’s wing and the myrtle spray,
And the very founts in their silvery way:
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.
But the pause was broken soon!
’Twas not by song or lyre;
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city’s towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon--
That battle-noon of fire!
It burst from earth and heaven!
It roll’d from crag and cloud!
For a moment on the mountain-blast
With a thousand stormy voices pass’d;
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal’d aloud.
And the lightnings in their play
Flash’d forth, like javelins thrown:
Like sun-darts wing’d from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban’d brow;
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!
And the massy oak-boughs crash’d
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam’d and dash’d,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.
Then rush’d the Delphian men
On the pale and scatter’d host.
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush’d from the dim Corycian cave;
And the singing blast o’er wood and glen
Roll’d on, with the spears they toss’d.
There were cries of wild dismay,
There were shouts of warrior-glee,
There were savage sounds of the tempest’s mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!
And the Pæan swell’d ere long,
Io Pæan! from the fane;
Io Pæan! for the war-array
On the crown’d Parnassus riven that day!
--Thou shalt rise _as_ free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.
[246] See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford’s _Greece_.
THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.[247]
Before the fiery sun--
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won--
Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.
Amidst the tombs they stood,
The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.
They call’d the glorious dead,
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.
They call’d them from the shades--
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.
Then fast the bright-red wine
Flow’d to _their_ names who taught the world to die,
And made the land’s green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.[248]
So the rejoicing earth
Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.
_We_ have the battle-fields,
The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields;
--When shall _we_ crown the Bowl of Liberty?
[247] This and the following piece appeared originally in the _New
Monthly Magazine_.
[248] For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in
commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s _Antiquities of
Greece_, vol. i. p. 389.
THE VOICE OF SCIO.
A voice from Scio’s isle--
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d,
And earth was hush’d the while--
The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Still by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
And kings their turf have crown’d!
And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
A voice from Scio’s isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where’er our sun may smile!
Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne’er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Know ye not whence it comes?
--From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!
’Tis with us through the night!
’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky--
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O’er the mid-waves of fight!
THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]
[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says
Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their
warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes
and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered
to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a
steed too proud for the spur.”--Campbell, _On the Elegiac Poetry of
the Greeks_.]
’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress’d the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills,
Arcadia’s rocks and pines.
And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander’d by,
When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunters’ choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour’d?
Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane
Strike the full-sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell’d through the deep blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d,
Rang with no battle-shout!
They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!
So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!
[249] Originally published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.
THE URN AND SWORD.
They sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.[250]
They scatter’d far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour’d;
--What found they in the home of sleep?--
A mouldering urn, a shiver’d sword!
An urn, which held the dust of one
Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done
Between our mountains and the sea.
And these are treasures!--undismay’d,
Still for their suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid
With freedom’s sword and valour’s dust.
[250] See Potter’s _Grecian Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 234.
THE MYRTLE BOUGH.
Still green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer’d on the graves--
The graves wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.
Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet’s mirth,
And free the minstrel’s hand;
And guests, with shining myrtle crown’d,
Sent the wreath’d lyre and wine-cup round.
Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant’s blood was pour’d:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer’s sword!
Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRÜTLI.
Whence art thou, flower? From holy ground,
Where freedom’s foot hath been!
Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound
Ne’er shook that solemn scene.
Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross’d,
And shiver’d helms have strewn the earth,
Midst banners won and lost.
But where the sunny hues and showers
Unto thy cup were given,
There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven;
And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell
Free as the wind, the torrent’s foam,
The shaft of William Tell.
And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow’d the pastoral sod;
And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.
Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,
And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain-land.
Then welcome, Grütli’s free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay
There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.
ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.
And was thy home, pale wither’d thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?
Those suns in golden light e’en now
Look o’er the poet’s lovely grave;
Those winds are breathing soft, but thou
Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.
The flowers o’er Posilippo’s brow
May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th’ o’ershadowing ilex-bough,
Thy breezy place is void by Virgil’s tomb.
Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,
Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.
Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung
On the green stem which once was thine;
When shall another strain be sung
Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine?
THE CHIEFTAIN’S SON.
Yes, it is ours!--the field is won,
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
Let me not hear your trumpets ring,
Swell not the battle-horn!
Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring,
When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!
Speak not of victory!--in the name
There is too much of woe!
Hush’d be the empty voice of Fame--
Call me back _his_ whose graceful head is low.
Speak not of victory!--from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls
Must sink ere long; I had but him--but one!
Within the dwelling of my sires
The hearths will soon be cold,
With me must die the beacon-fires
That stream’d at midnight from the mountain-hold.
And let them fade, since this must be,
My lovely and my brave!
Was thy bright blood pour’d forth for me?
And is there but for stately youth a grave?
Speak to me once again, my boy!
Wilt thou not hear my call?
Thou wert so full of life and joy,
I had not dreamt of _this_--that thou couldst fall!
Thy mother watches from the steep
For thy returning plume;
How shall I tell her that thy sleep
Is of the silent house, th’ untimely tomb?
Thou didst not seem as one to die,
With all thy young renown!
--Ye saw his falchion’s flash on high,
In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went down!
Slow be your march! the field is won!
A dark and evil field!
Lift from the ground my noble son,
And bear him homewards on his bloody shield.
A FRAGMENT.
Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave!
Let the pines murmur o’er your grave,
Your dirge be in the moaning wave--
We call you back no more!
Oh! there was mourning when ye fell,
In your own vales a deep-toned knell,
An agony, a wild farewell--
But that hath long been o’er.
Rest with your still and solemn fame;
The hills keep record of your name,
And never can a touch of shame
Darken the buried brow.
But we on changeful days are cast,
When bright names from their place fall fast;
And ye that with your glory pass’d,
We cannot mourn you now.
ENGLAND’S DEAD.
Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is rear’d o’er Glory’s bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
On Egypt’s burning plains,
By the pyramid o’ersway’d,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade;--
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges’ banks at night
Is heard the tiger’s roar;--
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
Loud rush the torrent-floods
The Western wilds among,
And free, in green Columbia’s woods,
The hunter’s bow is strung;--
But let the floods rush on!
Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
Why should _they_ reck whose task is done?--
_There_ slumber England’s dead!
The mountain storms rise high
In the snowy Pyrenees,
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
Like rose-leaves on the breeze;--
But let the storm rage on!
Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,--
_There_ slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
When round the ship the ice-fields close,
And the northern night-clouds lower;--
But let the ice drift on!
Let the cold-blue desert spread!
_Their_ course with mast and flag is done,--
Even there sleep England’s dead.
The warlike of the isles,
The men of field and wave!
Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep--
Free, free the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England’s dead.
THE MEETING OF THE BARDS.
WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH BARDS, HELD IN LONDON,
MAY 22, 1822.
[The _Gorseddau_, or meetings of the British bards, were anciently
ordained to be held in the open air, on some conspicuous situation,
whilst the sun was above the horizon; or, according to the expression
employed on these occasions, “in the face of the sun, and in the eye
of light.” The places set apart for this purpose were marked out by a
circle of stones, called the circle of federation. The presiding bard
stood on a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in
the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was the ceremony
which announced the opening of a _Gorsedd_, or meeting. The bards
always stood in their uni-coloured robes, with their heads and feet
uncovered, within the circle of federation.--See Owen’s _Translation
of the Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_.]
Where met our bards of old?--the glorious throng,
They of the mountain and the battle-song?
They met--oh! not in kingly hall or bower,
But where wild Nature girt herself with power:
They met where streams flash’d bright from rocky caves;
They met where woods made moan o’er warriors’ graves,
And where the torrent’s rainbow spray was cast,
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast,
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride;
And where the Carnedd,[251] on its lonely hill,
Bore silent record of the mighty still;
And where the Druid’s ancient Cromlech[252] frown’d,
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round.
There throng’d th’ inspired of yore!--on plain or height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_,
And, baring unto heaven each noble head,
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread.
Well might their lays be lofty!--soaring thought
From Nature’s presence tenfold grandeur caught:
Well might bold freedom’s soul pervade the strains
Which startled eagles from their lone domains,
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went
Up through the blue resounding firmament.
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high?
’Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by,
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest
With their good swords, upon the mountain’s breast;
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow,
Sever’d by cloud and storm from all below;
And the turf-mounds,[253] once girt by ruddy spears,
And the rock-altars of departed years.
--Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent’s roar,
The winds a thousand wild responses bore;
And the green land, whose every vale and glen
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men,
On all her hills awakening to rejoice,
Sent forth proud answers to her children’s voice.
For us, not ours the festival to hold,
Midst the stone circles hallow’d thus of old;
Not where great Nature’s majesty and might
First broke all glorious on our infant sight;
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave,
Not by the mountain-llyn,[254] the ocean-wave,
In these late days we meet--dark Mona’s shore,
Eryri’s[255] cliffs resound with harps no more!
But as the stream, (though time or art may turn
The current, bursting from its cavern’d urn,
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers,
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,)
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep,
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep;
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm and free,
Land of the bard! our spirit flies to thee!
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts belong,
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song!
Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less
To the green memory of thy loveliness,
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal’d from every height,
_In the sun’s face, beneath the eye of light_!
[251] Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn.
[252] Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word means a stone
of covenant.
[253] The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their followers
from small artificial mounts of turf.--_Pennant._
[254] Llyn, a lake or pool.
[255] _Eryri_, Snowdon.
THE VOICE OF SPRING.[256]
I come, I come! ye have call’d me long--
I come o’er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains;--
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!
I have look’d on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,
And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free,
And the pine has a hinge of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,
And call’d out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird’s lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,
They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!
Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine--I may not stay.
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth!
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
But ye!--ye are changed since ye met me last!
There is something bright from your features pass’d!
There is that come over your brow and eye
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die!
--Ye smile! but your smile hath a dimness yet:
Oh! what have you look’d on since last we met?
Ye are changed, ye are changed!--and I see not
here
All whom I saw in the vanish’d year!
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets
bright,
Which toss’d in the breeze with a play of light;
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay!
There were steps that flew o’er the cowslip’s head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread;
There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality!
Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains pass’d?
Ye have look’d on death since ye met me last!
I know whence the shadow comes o’er you now--
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow!
Ye have given the lovely to earth’s embrace--
She hath taken the fairest of beauty’s race,
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown:
They are gone from amongst you in silence down!
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair,
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair!
But I know of a land where there falls no blight--
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light!
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer--farewell, farewell!
The summer is coming, on soft winds borne--
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn!
For me, I depart to a brighter shore--
Ye are mark’d by care, ye are mine no more;
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not Death’s. Fare ye well, farewell!
[256] Originally published in the _New Monthly Magazine_.
[“‘The Voice of Spring,’ perhaps the best known and best loved of all
Mrs Hemans’ lyrics, was written early in the year 1823; and is thus
alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had lately suffered a severe
and sudden bereavement:--‘The Voice of Spring’ expresses some peculiar
feelings of my own. Although my life has yet been unvisited by any
affliction so deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one
you have been called upon to sustain; yet I cannot but feel every
year, with the return of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind
have deepened since its last appearance; and to me the spring, with
all its joy and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtfulness rather
than mirth. I think the most delightful poetry I know upon the subject
of this season, is contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet,
with whom you are perhaps acquainted; but the feelings he expresses
are of a very different character from those I have described to you,
seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.’
“This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced by the
influence of spring, will be well understood by many a gentle heart.
Never do the
‘Fond strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cell
Gush for the faces we no more shall see,’
with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature breathes
of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and joyous things around
us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force
of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly
reminding us of the great gulf that divides us from those who
are now ‘gone down in silence.’ Some unforgotten voice is ever
whispering--‘And I too in Arcadia!’ We remember how we were wont to
rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine; and these things can
charm us no longer, ‘because _they_ are not.’ The farewell sadness of
autumn, on the contrary--its falling leaves, and universal imagery of
decay, by bringing more home to us the sense of our own mortality,
identifies us more closely with those who are gone before, and the
veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are
impressed with a more pervading conviction that ‘we shall go to them;’
while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to echo, ‘they will not
return to us!’
“These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs Hemans’
writings, deepening with the influence of years and of sorrows, and
more particularly developed in the poem called ‘Breathings of Spring.’
And when it is remembered that it was at this season her own earthly
course was finished, the following passage from a letter, written in
the month of May, some years after the one last quoted, cannot be
read without emotion:--‘Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With
the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to think of;
yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it should be in
spring--the influence of that season is so strangely depressing to my
heart and frame.’”--_Memoir_, p. 66-68.
“‘The Voice of Spring,’ one of the first of what may be called Mrs
Hemans’ fanciful lyrics, which presently became as familiar as the
music of some popular composer when brought to our doors by wandering
minstrels.”--Chorley’s _Memorials_, vol. i. p. 113.
“But it is time Mrs Hemans’ poetry were allowed to speak for itself;
in making our extracts from it, we have really been as much puzzled
as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden--now attracted by
a rose--straightway allured by a lily--now tempted by a stately
tulip--and again unsettled by a breathing violet, or ‘well-attired
woodbine.’ We do think, however, that the ‘Voice of Spring’ is
the pride of Mrs H.’s parterre--the rose of her poetry.”--(A. A.
Watts.)--_Literary Magnet_, 1826.]
ELYSIUM.
[“In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and
persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the
children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes--that is to say,
Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence--were banished to the infernal
Regions.”--Chateaubriand, _Génie du Christianisme_.]
Fair wert thou in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,
Where, as they pass’d, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!
Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast
From purple skies ne’er deep’ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!--but _thy_ golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Æolian sound went by
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer’s breezy sigh,
And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath,
Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!
And the transparent sky
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that midst the woods made harmony,
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.
And who, with silent tread,
Moved o’er the plains of waving asphodel?
Call’d from the dim procession of the dead,
Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale?
They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine, at nations’ feasts went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found
Their echoes midst the mountains!--and become
In man’s deep heart as voices of his home!
They of the daring thought!
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied--
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought
The soul’s far birthplace--but without a guide!
Sages and seers, who died,
And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams.
But the most _loved_ are they
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.
And these--of whose abode,
Midst her green valleys, earth retain’d no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
A dim and vacant place
In some sweet home;--thou hadst no wreaths for _these_,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!
The peasant at his door
Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind! From _thy_ bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head--
Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh’d to bid the festal sun farewell!
The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years,
As embers in a burial-urn compress’d;
_He_ might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o’er _his_ path, and whisper’d “Liberty!”
Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before the mother lay,
E’en so to pass away,
With its bright smile!--Elysium! what wert _thou_
To her, who wept o’er that young slumb’rer’s brow?
Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life’s fresh flowers just opening in its hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
Which in its clear eye shone
Like spring’s first wakening! but that light was past--
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast?
Not where _thy_ soft winds play’d,
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o’er the gloomy deep,
And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love![257]
[257] The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs Hemans
some years after its first publication, and, though done so perhaps
to advantage, one verse was omitted. As originally written, the two
following stanzas concluded the piece:--
For the most loved are they
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls! The shades o’erhang their way;
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps; till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer’s burning eye.
And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
The long-remember’d dead!
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell--
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel!
THE FUNERAL GENIUS,
AN ANCIENT STATUE.
“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et
le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude
le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des
figures semblables.”--Visconti, _Description des Antiques du Musée
Royal_.
Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls--
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!
And thou!--thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom,
Which of the grove seems breathing--not the tomb.
_They_ fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music’s dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.
They fear’d not death!--yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!
Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
--His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d;
And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?
Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!
--Let him who _thus_ hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart.
But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we--for loftier faith is ours!
_Their_ gems were lost in ashes--yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for _us_ a darker gloom to shed
O’er its dim precincts?--do we not intrust
But for a time its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
Why should _we_ dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?
THE TOMBS OF PLATÆA.
FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.
And there they sleep!--the men who stood
In arms before th’ exulting sun,
And bathed their spears in Persian blood,
And taught the earth how freedom might be won.
They sleep!--th’ Olympic wreaths are dead,
Th’ Athenian lyres are hush’d and gone;
The Dorian voice of song is fled--
Slumber, ye mighty! slumber deeply on.
They sleep--and seems not all around
As hallow’d unto glory’s tomb?
Silence is on the battle-ground,
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom.
And stars are watching on their height,
But dimly seen through mist and cloud;
And still and solemn is the light
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud.
And thou, pale Night-queen! here thy beams
Are not as those the shepherd loves,
Nor look they down on shining streams,
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves.
Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep,
In shadowy quiet, midst its vines;
No temple gleaming from the steep,
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines:
But o’er a dim and boundless waste,
Thy rays, e’en like a tomb-lamp’s, brood,
Where man’s departed steps are traced
But by his dust, amidst the solitude.
And be it thus!--What slave shall tread
O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains?
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead
When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains.
Here, where the Persian clarion rung,
And where the Spartan sword flash’d high,
And where the pæan strains were sung,
From year to year swell’d on by liberty;
Here should no voice, no sound, be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,
Save of the leader’s charging-word,
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven!
Rest in your silent homes, ye brave!
No vines festoon your lonely tree,[258]
No harvest o’er your war-field wave,
Till rushing winds proclaim--The land is free!
[258] A single tree appears in Mr Williams’ impressive picture.
THE VIEW FROM CASTRI.
FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS.
There have been bright and glorious pageants here,
Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns lie;
There have been words, which earth grew pale to hear,
Breathed from the cavern’s misty chambers nigh:
There have been voices through the sunny sky,
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes sending,
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody
With incense-clouds around the temple blending,
And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar bending.
There have been treasures of the seas and isles
Brought to the Day-god’s now-forsaken throne;
Thunders have peal’d along the rock-defiles,
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known
That foes were on their way! The deep wind’s moan
Hath chill’d th’ invader’s heart with secret fear;
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone,
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce career,
From his bold hand have struck the banner and the spear.
The shrine hath sunk!--but thou unchanged art there!
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams!
Unchanged--and rising through the radiant air,
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams,
And all thy founts of song! Their bright course teems
With inspiration yet; and each dim haze,
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days!
Away, vain fantasies!--doth less of power
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest,
Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin’s flower
Wave o’er the pillars mouldering on thy breast?
--Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy crest!
Let the great rocks their solitude regain!
No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest
With their full chords:--but silent be the strain!
Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th’ Eternal’s reign![259]
[259] This, with the preceding, and several of the following pieces,
first appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_.
THE FESTAL HOUR.
When are the lessons given
That shake the startled earth? When wakes the foe
While the friend sleeps? When falls the traitor’s blow?
When are proud sceptres riven,
High hopes o’erthrown?--It is when lands rejoice,
When cities blaze and lift th’ exulting voice,
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!
Fear ye the festal hour!
When mirth o’erflows, then tremble!--’Twas a night
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,
When through the regal bower
The trumpet peal’d ere yet the song was done,
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon,
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.
The marble shrines were crown’d:
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky,
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody,
And censers waved around;
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour’d!
When through the streets flash’d out the avenging sword,
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound![260]
Through Rome a triumph pass’d.
Rich in her Sun-god’s mantling beams went by
That long array of glorious pageantry,
With shout and trumpet-blast.
An empire’s gems their starry splendour shed
O’er the proud march; a king in chains was led;
A stately victor, crown’d and robed, came last.[261]
And many a Dryad’s bower
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play,
Stirr’d the warm air, and glisten’d round his way
As a quick-flashing shower.
--O’er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung,
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung--
Woe for the dead!--the father’s broken flower!
A sound of lyre and song,
In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile,
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,
Swept with that voice along;
And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam
Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome,
And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng.
’Twas Antony that bade
The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose
Of wilder omen at the banquet’s close!
Sounds, by no mortal made,[262]
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night,
And pass’d--and with another sunset’s light,
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.
Bright midst its vineyards lay
The fair Campanian city,[263] with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,
Clear in the golden day;
Joy was around it as the glowing sky,
And crowds had fill’d its halls of revelry,
And all the sunny air was music’s way.
A cloud came o’er the face
Of Italy’s rich heaven!--its crystal blue
Was changed, and deepen’d to a wrathful hue
Of night, o’ershadowing space
As with the wings of death!--in all his power
Vesuvius woke, and hurl’d the burning shower,
And who could tell the buried city’s place?
Such things have been of yore,
In the gay regions where the citrons blow,
And purple summers all their sleepy glow
On the grape-clusters pour;
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving,
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving,
As with a flow of light, their southern shore.
Turn we to other climes!--
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread,
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead;[264]
And ancient battle-rhymes
Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed
And lofty songs of Britain’s elder time;--
But ere the giant-fane
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even,
Hush’d were the bards, and in the face of heaven,
O’er that old burial-plain,
Flash’d the keen Saxon dagger!--blood was streaming
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming,
And Britain’s hearths were heap’d that night in vain--
For they return’d no more!
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart,
In that fierce banquet’s mirth to bear their part:
And on the rushy floor,
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls,
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls;
But not for them--they slept--their feast was o’er!
Fear ye the festal hour!
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o’erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose,
And the rich myrtle’s flower,
Have veil’d the sword! Red wines have sparkled fast
From venom’d goblets, and soft breezes pass’d
With fatal perfume through the revel’s bower.
Twine the young glowing wreath!
But pour not all your spirit in the song,
Which through the sky’s deep azure floats along
Like summer’s quickening breath!
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth:
Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth,
So darkly press’d and girdled in by death!
[“‘The Festal Hour’ certainly appears to us to be one of the noblest,
regular, and classical odes in the English language--happy in the
general idea, and rich in imagery and illustration.”--Dr Morehead _in
Constable’s Magazine_, _Sept. 1823_.]
[260] The sword of Harmodius.
[261] Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and
another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when
Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.
[262] See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of
the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night
before Antony’s death.
[263] Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants
were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes which
overwhelmed the city descended.
[264] Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the
memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as
a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.
SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN.
[“In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of
Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince
repeatedly declared he ‘would trample the audacious rustics under
his feet;’ and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the
purpose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death.
“The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on the
shields and armour of the advancing host; and this being the first
army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the
Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang
led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space
between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on
the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down
heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates on
the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed
down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column.
With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and
dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured
the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions; many leaped
into the lake; all were startled; and at last the whole column gave
way, and fell suddenly back on the infantry; and these last, as the
nature of the country did not allow them to open their files, were run
over by the fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general
rout ensued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a
peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times
saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed.”--Planta’s
_History of the Helvetic Confederacy_.]
The wine-month[265] shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes clustering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer’s clime,
Than the vintage music, rung--
A sound through vaulted cave,
A sound through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave;
--’Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a trumpet, pealing wild and far,
Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war
With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms
Flash’d helmets to the day;
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.
In Hasli’s[266] wilds there was gleaming steel
As the host of the Austrian pass’d;
And the Schreckhorn’s[267] rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mirth of his clarion’s blast.
Up midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard,
With the charger’s tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader’s gathering-word.
But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With blazon’d streamers and lances tall,
Moved onwards in princely state.
They came with heavy chains
For the race despised so long--
But amidst his Alp-domains,
The herdsman’s arm is strong!
The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they enter’d the rock-defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter’s horn
Their bugles rang the while.
But on the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood,
There was stillness as of night,
When storms at distance brood.
There was stillness as of deep, dead night,
And a pause--but not of fear,
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and spear.
On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,
But they look’d not to the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.
The pass was fill’d with their serried power,
All helm’d and mail-array’d,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm’d in by cliff and flood,
When a shout arose from the misty height
Where the mountain-people stood.
And the mighty rocks came bounding down
Their startled foes among,
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown--
Oh! the herdsman’s arm is strong!--
They came like lauwine[268] hurl’d
From Alp to Alp in play,
When the echoes shout through the snowy world,
And the pines are borne away.
The fir-woods crash’d on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rush’d from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry:
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm’d the narrow dell;
And first in the shock, with Uri’s spear,
Was the arm of William Tell.[269]
There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay;
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant’s hand that day!
And the Empire’s banner then
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men,
The men of the Forest-Sea.
With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield,
And the war-horse dash’d to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the field!
The field--but not of sheaves--
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o’er it thick as the birch-wood leaves
In the autumn tempest’s way.
Oh! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view’d
When the Austrian turn’d to fly,
And the brave, in the trampling multitude,
Had a fearful death to die!
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm’d was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the freeman tills
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills,
All burden’d with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
When children sprang to greet their sires
From the wild Morgarten fight
[265] _Wine-month_, the German name for October.
[266] Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne.
[267] Schreckhorn, the _peak of terror_, a mountain in the canton of
Berne.
[268] _Lauwine_, the Swiss name for the avalanche.
[269] William Tell’s name is particularly mentioned amongst the
confederates at Morgarten.
ODE ON THE DEFEAT OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, AND HIS ARMY, IN
AFRICA.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA.
[Ferdinand de Herrera, surnamed the Divine, was a Spanish poet
who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is still considered by
the Castilians as one of their classic writers. He aimed at the
introduction of a new style into Spanish poetry, and his lyrics are
distinguished by the sustained majesty of their language, the frequent
recurrence of expressions and images derived apparently from a fervent
study of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of
national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by the
nature of the subjects to which some of these productions are devoted.
This last characteristic is blended with a deep and enthusiastic
feeling of religion, which rather exalts than tempers the haughty
confidence of the poet in the high destinies of his country. Spain
is to him what Judea was to the bards who sang beneath the shadow of
her palm-trees--the chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed
from all others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are
peculiarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infidel.
This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in his magnificent
Ode on the Battle of Lepanto.
The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of the Spanish
reader, by another of Herrera’s lyric compositions, will, it is
feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the medium of the
following translation.]
“Voz de dolor, y canto de gemido,” etc.
A voice of woe, a murmur of lament,
A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire;
Let such record the day, the day of wail
For Lusitania’s bitter chastening sent!
She who hath seen her power, her fame expire,
And mourns them in the dust, discrown’d and pale.
And let the awful tale
With grief and horror every realm o’ershade,
From Afric’s burning main
To the far sea, in other hues array’d,
And the red limits of the Orient’s reign,
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold
Christ’s glorious banner to the winds unfold.
Alas! for those that in embattled power,
And vain array of chariots and of horse,
O desert Libya! sought thy fatal coast!
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source
Of might and glory, but in earthly force,
Making the strength of multitudes their boast,
A flush’d and crested host,
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode
Their path of pride, as o’er a conquer’d land
Given for the spoil; nor raised their eyes to God:
And Israel’s Holy One withdrew his hand,
Their sole support;--and heavily and prone
They fell--the car, the steed, the rider, all o’erthrown!
It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe,
Which to deep solitude and tears consign’d
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth.
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow
Announced the morn--it seem’d as nature pined,
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam’s birth;
While, startling the pale earth,
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud
With visitation dread,
Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow’d,
And raised barbarian nations o’er their head,
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold,
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncontroll’d.
Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword
Of the strong infidel’s ignoble hand,
Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown
Of thy fair knighthood; and the insatiate horde,
Not with thy life content, O ruin’d land!
Sad Lusitania! even thy bright renown
Defaced and trampled down;
And scatter’d, rushing as a torrent-flood,
Thy pomp of arms and banners;--till the sands
Became a lake of blood--thy noblest blood!--
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter’d bands.
Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed;
On thy devoted sons--amaze, and shame, and dread.
Are _these_ the conquerors, _these_ the lords of fight,
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed,
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay,
Whose spoils were empires?--They that in their might
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed,
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day
To desolation’s sway,
Making the cities of imperial name
E’en as the desert-place?
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race
In one brief hour? Is this their valour’s doom,
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?
Once were they, in their splendour and their pride,
As an imperial cedar on the brow
Of the great Lebanon! It rose, array’d
In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide
Majestic branches, leaving far below
All children of the forest. To its shade
The waters tribute paid,
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky,
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair
Beneath; and nations by its canopy
Were shadow’d o’er. Supreme it stood, and ne’er
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.
But all elated, on its verdant stem,
Confiding solely in its regal height,
It soar’d presumptuous, as for empire born;
And God for this removed its diadem,
And cast it from its regions of delight,
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn,
By the deep roots uptorn!
And lo! encumbering the lone hills it lay,
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state;
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away,
Who in its ample shade had found so late
Their bower of rest; and nature’s savage race
Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.
But thou, base Libya! thou whose arid sand
Hath been a kingdom’s deathbed, where one fate
Closed her bright life and her majestic fame,--
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand
Hath fall’n the victory, be not thou elate!
Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame,
Unworthy of a name!
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance,
Aroused to vengeance by a nation’s cry,
Pierced by his searching lance,
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony,
And thine affrighted streams to ocean’s flood
An ample tribute bear of Afric’s Paynim blood.
SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL.
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Sebastian.
Gonzalez, _his friend_.
Zamor, _a young Arab_.
Sylveira.
Scene I. _The sea-shore near Lisbon._
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor.
_Seb._ With what young life and fragrance in its breath
My native air salutes me! From the groves
of citron, and the mountains of the vine,
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on
In power and freedom o’er its golden sands,
Fair stream, my Tajo! youth, with all its glow
And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land,
My own, my fathers’ land, of sunny skies
And orange bowers!--Oh! is it not a dream
That thus I tread thy soil? Or do I wake
From a dark dream but now! Gonzalez, say,
Doth it not bring the flush of early life
Back on th’ awakening spirit, thus to gaze
On the far-sweeping river, and the shades
Which, in their undulating motion, speak
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born,
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands
Of the lone desert? Time and toil must needs
Have changed our mien; but this, our blessèd land,
Hath gain’d but richer beauty since we bade
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus?
Thy brow is clouded.
_Gon._ To mine eye the scene
Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness,
A hue of desolation; and the calm,
The solitude and silence which pervade
Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less
To peace than sadness! We have proudly stood
Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave,
When it hath look’d not thus.
_Seb._ Ay, now thy soul
Is in the past! Oh no! it look’d not thus
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails,
And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour,
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst
Again upon my vision! I behold
The stately barks, the arming, the array,
The crests, the banners of my chivalry,
Sway’d by the sea-breeze till their motion show’d
Like joyous life! How the proud billows foam’d!
And the oars flash’d like lightnings of the deep,
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun,
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide
The valiant unto fame! Ay, the blue heaven
Seem’d for that noble scene a canopy
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar
To peals of warlike sound! My gallant bands!
Where are you now?
_Gon._ Bid the wide desert tell
Where sleep its dead! To mightier hosts than them
Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast
Is room for nations yet!
_Seb._ It cannot be
That all have perish’d! Many a noble man,
Made captive on that war-field, may have burst
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour,
Which to my soul is as the fountain’s draught
To the parch’d lip of fever, with a thought
So darkly sad!
_Gon._ Oh never, never cast
That deep remembrance from you! When once more
Your place is midst earth’s rulers, let it dwell
Around you, as the shadow of your throne,
Wherein the land may rest. My king! this hour
(Solemn as that which to the voyager’s eye,
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold
A new and boundless world) may haply be
The last in which the courage and the power
Of truth’s high voice may reach you. Who may stand
As man to man, as friend to friend, before
Th’ ancestral throne of monarchs? Or perchance
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance,
Henceforth may wait us here! But howsoe’er
This be, the lessons now from sufferings past
Befit all time, all change. Oh! by the blood,
The free, the generous blood of Portugal,
Shed on the sands of Afric--by the names
Which, with their centuries of high renown,
There died, extinct for ever--let not those
Who stood in hope and glory at our side
Here, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass’d
To fall, and leave no trophy--let them not
Be soon, be e’er forgotten! for their fate
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness,
Whence power might well learn wisdom!
_Seb._ Thinkst thou, then,
That years of sufferance and captivity,
Such as have bow’d down eagle hearts ere now,
And made high energies their spoil, have pass’d
So lightly o’er my spirit? It is not thus!
The things thou wouldst recall are not of those
To be forgotten! But my heart hath still
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy,
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez!
Thou’rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud helms
Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver’d. Thou art one
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude
Into the captive’s bosom, and beguile
The long slow march beneath the burning noon
With lofty patience; but for those quick bursts,
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights
Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose wing
Wanders in chainless joy; for things like these
Thou hast no sympathies! And thou, my Zamor,
Art wrapt in thought! I welcome thee to this,
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not
A goodly heritage?
_Zam._ The land is fair;
But he, the archer of the wilderness,
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade
His tents are scatter’d, and his camels rest;
And therefore is he sad!
_Seb._ Thou must not pine
With that sick yearning of th’ impatient heart,
Which makes the exile’s life one fever’d dream
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away,
And faces wearing the familiar hues
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known
Too much of this, and would not see another
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee,
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset’s glow,
Lies within signal-reach. If it be thus,
Then fare thee well--farewell, thou brave, and true,
And generous friend! How often is our path
Cross’d by some being whose bright spirit sheds
A passing gladness o’er it, but whose course
Leads down another current, never more
To blend with ours! Yet far within our souls,
Amidst the rushing of the busy world,
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet
Around that image. And e’en so, kind Zamor!
Shalt thou be long remember’d.
_Zam._ By the fame
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes
Tell round the desert’s watchfire, at the hour
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars,
I will not leave thee! ’Twas in such an hour
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay
Shrouded in slumber’s mantle, as within
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then,
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole
Soft on the sleeper? Whose keen dart transfix’d
The monarch of the solitudes? I woke,
And saw _thy_ javelin crimson’d with his blood,
Thou, my deliverer! and my heart e’en then
Call’d thee its brother.
_Seb._ For that gift of life
With one of tenfold price, even freedom’s self,
Thou hast repaid me well.
_Zam._ Then bid me not
Forsake thee! Though my father’s tents may rise
At times upon my spirit, yet my home
Shall be amidst thy mountains, prince! and thou
Shalt be my chief, until I see thee robed
With all thy power. When thou canst need no more
Thine Arab’s faithful heart and vigorous arm,
From the green regions of the setting sun
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek
His Orient wilds again.
_Seb._ Be near me still,
And ever, O my warrior! I shall stand
Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king,
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place
Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease
To need true hearts, bold hands? Not in the field
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part.
_Gon._ Be all thy friends thus faithful, for e’en yet
They may be fiercely tried.
_Seb._ I doubt them not.
Even now my heart beats high to meet their welcome.
Let us away!
_Gon._ Yet hear once more, my liege.
The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine
Returning, finds not e’en his peasant home
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face,
Which made the sunlight of his lowly board,
Is touch’d by sickness; some familiar voice
Greets him no more; and shall not fate and time
Have done their work, since last we parted hence,
Upon an empire? Ay, within those years,
Hearts from their ancient worship have fall’n off,
And bow’d before new stars; high names have sunk
From their supremacy of place, and others
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds
At which thrones tremble. Oh! be slow to trust
E’en those to whom your smiles were wont to seem
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by
Leaving earth’s face unchanged.
_Seb._ Whence didst thou learn
The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow
O’er a most noble nature?
_Gon._ Life hath been
My stern and only teacher. I have known
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most
In human hearts. Oh! yet awhile tame down
That royal spirit, till the hour be come
When it may burst its bondage! On thy brow
The suns of burning climes have set their seal,
And toil, and years, and perils, have not pass’d
O’er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye,
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change
The mask beneath whose shelter thou may’st read
Men’s thoughts, and veil thine own.
_Seb._ Am I thus changed
From all I was? And yet it needs must be,
Since e’en my soul hath caught another hue
From its long sufferings. Did I not array
The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry,
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour
Destruction on the Moslem? I return,
And as a fearless and a trusted friend,
Bring, from the realms of my captivity,
An Arab of the desert!--But the sun
Hath sunk below th’ Atlantic. Let us hence--
Gonzalez, fear me not.
[_Exeunt._
Scene II.--_A Street in Lisbon illuminated._
Many Citizens.
_1st Cit._ In sooth our city wears a goodly mien,
With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps
Shining from all her marble palaces,
Countless as heaven’s fair stars. The humblest lattice
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling waves
Fling back the light!
_2d Cit._ Ay, ’tis a gallant show;
And one which serves, like others, to conceal
Things which must not be told.
_3d Cit._ What wouldst thou say?
_2d Cit._ That which may scarce, in perilous times like these,
Be said with safety. Hast thou look’d within
Those stately palaces? Were they but peopled
With the high race of warlike nobles, once
Their princely lords, think’st thou, good friend, that now
They would be glittering with this hollow pomp,
To greet a conqueror’s entrance?
_3d Cit._ Thou say’st well.
None but a land forsaken of its chiefs
Had been so lost and won.
_4th Cit._ The lot is cast;
We have but to yield. Hush! for some strangers come:
Now, friends, beware.
_1st Cit._ Did the king pass this way
At morning, with his train?
_2d Cit._ Ay: saw you not
The long and rich procession?
Sebastian _enters with_ Gonzalez _and_ Zamor.
_Seb. to Gon._ This should be
The night of some high festival. E’en thus
My royal city to the skies sent up,
From her illumined fanes and towers, a voice
Of gladness, welcoming our first return
From Afric’s coast. Speak thou, Gonzalez! ask
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart
Deep feelings rush, so mingling and so fast,
My voice perchance might tremble.
_Gon._ Citizen,
What festal night is this, that all your streets
Are throng’d and glittering thus?
_1st Cit._ Hast thou not heard
Of the king’s entry, in triumphal pomp,
This very morn?
_Gon._ The king! triumphal pomp!--
Thy words are dark.
_Seb._ Speak yet again: mine ears
Ring with strange sounds. Again!
_1st Cit._ I said, the king,
Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal,
This morning enter’d with a conqueror’s train
Our city’s royal palace: and for this
We hold our festival.
_Seb._ (_in a low voice._) Thou said’st--the king!
His name?--I heard it not.
_1st Cit._ Philip of Spain.
_Seb._ Philip of Spain! We slumber, till aroused
By th’ earthquake’s bursting shock. Hath there not fall’n
A sudden darkness? All things seem to float
Obscurely round me. Now ’tis past. The streets
Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench those lamps;
They glare upon me till my very brain
Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare ye thus
Light up your shrines for _him_?
_Gon._ Away, away!
This is no time, no scene----
_Seb._ Philip of Spain!
How name ye this fair land? Why, is it not
The free, the chivalrous Portugal?--the land
By the proud ransom of heroic blood
Won from the Moor of old? Did that red stream
Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide,
Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps,
Might be a kingdom’s barrier?
_2d Cit._ That high blood
Which should have been our strength, profusely shed
By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch’s guilt
Hath brought this ruin down.
_Seb._ Must this be heard,
And borne, and unchastised? Man, darest thou stand
Before me face to face, and thus arraign
Thy sovereign?
_Zam._ (_aside to Seb._) Shall I lift the sword, my prince,
Against thy foes?
_Gon._ Be still--or all is lost.
_2d Cit._ I dare speak that which all men think and know.
’Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life,
And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds.
_3d Cit._ Talk not of bonds. May our new monarch rule
The weary land in peace! But who art thou?
Whence com’st thou, haughty stranger, that these things,
Known to all nations, should be new to thee?
_Seb._ (_wildly._) I come from regions where the cities lie
In ruins, not in chains!
_Exit with_ Gonzalez _and_ Zamor.
_2d Cit._ He wears the mien
Of one that hath commanded; yet his looks
And words were strangely wild.
_1st Cit._ Mark’d you his fierce
And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian’s name
Became our theme?
_2d Cit._ Trust me, there’s more in this
Than may be lightly said. These are no times
To breathe men’s thoughts i’ th’ open face of heaven
And ear of multitudes. They that would speak
Of monarchs and their deeds, should keep within
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence; and then
We’ll commune of this stranger.
Scene III.--_The Portico of a Palace._
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor.
_Seb._ Withstand me not! I tell thee that my soul,
With all its passionate energies, is roused
Unto that fearful strength which _must_ have way,
E’en like the elements in their hour of might
And mastery o’er creation.
_Gon._ But they _wait_
That hour in silence. Oh! be calm awhile--
Thine is not come. My king----
_Seb._ I am no king,
While in the very palace of my sires,
Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light,
Where my soul’s thrilling echoes first awoke
To the high sound of earth’s immortal names,
Th’ usurper lives and reigns. I am no king
Until I cast him thence.
_Zam._ Shall not thy voice
Be as a trumpet to th’ awak’ning land?
Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts forth,
When the brave hear their chief?
_Gon._ Peace, Zamor! peace!
Child of the desert, what hast thou to do
With the calm hour of counsel?
Monarch, pause:
A kingdom’s destiny should not be the sport
Of passion’s reckless winds. There is a time
When men, in very weariness of heart
And careless desolation, tamed to yield
By misery strong as death, will lay their souls
E’en at the conqueror’s feet--as nature sinks,
After long torture, into cold, and dull,
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour
Of fierce atonement? Ay! the slumberer wakes
With gather’d strength and vengeance; and the sense
And the remembrance of his agonies
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens
Take off its interdict. Wait, then, the hour
Of that high impulse.
_Seb._ Is it not the sun
Whose radiant bursting through the embattled clouds
Doth make it morn? The hour of which thou speak’st,
Itself, with all its glory, is the work
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid
The sullen shades disperse. Away!--e’en now
The land’s high hearts, the fearless and the true,
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, friend
Sylveira?
_Gon._ Ay, its glittering lamps too well
Illume the stately vestibule to leave
Our sight a moment’s doubt. He ever loved
Such pageantries.
_Seb._ _His_ dwelling thus adorn’d
On such a night! Yet will I seek him here.
He must be faithful, and to him the first
My tale shall be reveal’d. A sudden chill
Falls on my heart; and yet I will not wrong
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been
Link’d all too closely with mine inmost soul.
And what have I to lose?
_Gon._ Is their blood naught
Who without hope will follow where thou lead’st,
E’en unto death?
_Seb._ Was that a brave man’s voice?
Warrior and friend! how long, then, hast thou learn’d
To hold thy blood thus dear?
_Gon._ Of _mine_, mine own
Think’st thou I spoke? When all is shed for thee
Thou’lt know me better.
_Seb._ (_entering the palace._) For a while farewell.
[_Exit._
_Gon._ Thus princes lead men’s hearts. Come, follow me;
And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor!
There will I bid thee welcome.
[_Exeunt._
Scene IV.--_A Hall within the Palace._
Sebastian, Sylveira.
_Sylv._ Whence art thou, stranger?--what wouldst thou with me?
There is a fiery wildness in thy mien
Startling and almost fearful.
_Seb._ From the stern,
And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind
Breathes of the tomb, and whose dark children make
The bow and spear their law, men bear not back
That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask
The secrets of their spirits midst the stir
Of courts and cities. I have look’d on scenes
Boundless, and strange, and terrible; I have known
Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope
Of wild imagination; and these things
Have stamp’d me with their impress. Man of peace,
Thou look’st on one familiar with th’ extremes
Of grandeur and of misery.
_Sylv._ Stranger, speak
Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time
Ill suits these mysteries. I must hence; to-night
I feast the lords of Spain.
_Seb._ Is that a task
For King Sebastian’s friend?
_Sylv._ Sebastian’s friend!
That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead
Rise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid
The living for their mirth? The grave sets bounds
Unto all human friendship.
_Seb._ On the plain
Of Alcazar full many a stately flower,
The pride and crown of some high house, was laid
Low in the dust of Afric; but of these
Sebastian was not one.
_Sylv._ I am not skill’d
To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off
The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine
What mean’st thou?--Speak!
_Seb._ Sebastian died not there.----
I read no joy in that cold doubting mien.
Is not thy name Sylveira?
_Sylv._ Ay.
_Seb._ Why, then,
Be glad! I tell thee that Sebastian lives!
Think thou on this--he lives! Should he return--
For he may yet return--and find the friend
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust
As should be heaven’s alone--mark’st thou my words?--
Should he then find this man, not girt and arm’d,
And watching o’er the heritage of his lord,
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith,
Holding luxurious revels with his foes,
How would thou meet his glance?
_Sylv._ As I do thine,
Keen though it be, and proud.
_Seb._ Why, thou dost quail
Before it! even as if the burning eye
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul
Through all its depths.
_Sylv._ Away! he died not there!
He _should_ have died there, with the chivalry
And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost
By his impetuous rashness.
_Seb._ This from _thee_?
Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze
At its unmask’d and withering mien, should blight
High souls at once? I wake. And this from thee?
There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs
Which lie beneath the desert, and the gold
And gems within earth’s caverns, far below
The everlasting hills: but who hath dared
To dream that heaven’s most awful attribute
Invested his mortality, and to boast
That through its inmost folds his glance could read
One heart, one human heart? Why, then, to love
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms
Of keenest temper and unerring aim,
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware!
Sebastian lives!
_Sylv._ If it be so, and thou
Art of his followers still, then bid him seek
Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre
To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home,
For none is left him here.
_Seb._ This is to live
An age of wisdom in an hour! The man
Whose empire, as in scorn, o’erpass’d the bounds
E’en of the infinite deep; whose Orient realms
Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds
Were brooding in their sunset mantle still,
O’er his majestic regions of the West;
This heir of far dominion shall return,
And, in the very city of his birth,
Shall find no home! Ay, I _will_ tell him this,
And he will answer that the tale is false,
False as a traitor’s hollow words of love;
And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls
We commune now--a friend’s, a monarch’s gift,
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira,
Should yield him still a welcome.
_Sylv._ Fare thee well!
I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain.
I mock thy wiles to scorn.
_Seb._ Ha! ha! The snake
Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning,
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go’st not thus.
My heart is bursting, and I _will_ be heard.
What! know’st thou not my spirit was born to hold
Dominion over thine? Thou shalt not cast
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou there,
And tremble in the presence of thy lord!
_Sylv._ This is all madness.
_Seb._ Madness! no, I say--
’Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel,
And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness,
Things which come o’er her, as a sense of pain
O’ th’ sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet;
Be still. Thou’rt used to smile and to obey;
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast,
As from the fulness of a heart o’ercharged
With loyal love. Oh! never, never more
Let tears or smiles be trusted! When thy king
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise,
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid,
And he stood o’er thee with the look of one
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes
Were fill’d with tears like thine. No! _not_ like thine:
_His_ bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem’d
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior’s shield,
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone
Are brightly imaged forth.
_Sylv._ What now avail
These recollections?
_Seb._ What! I have seen thee shrink,
As a murderer from the eye of light, before me:
I have earn’d (how dearly and how bitterly
It matters not, but I _have_ earn’d at last)
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone!
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though arraign’d
E’en of Sebastian’s friendship. Make his scorn
(For he _will_ scorn thee, as a crouching slave
By all high hearts is scorn’d) thy right, thy charter
Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice,
Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee,
Be as a sign, a token of thy claim
To all such guerdons as are shower’d on traitors,
When noble men are crush’d. And fear thou not:
’Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm
Hurls from his mountain throne--th’ ignoble shrub,
Grovelling beneath, may live.
_Sylv._ It is _thy_ part
To tremble for thy life.
_Seb._ They that have look’d
Upon a heart like thine, should know too well
The worth of life to tremble. Such things make
Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom fate
Would trample should be thus. It is enough--
Thou may’st depart.
_Sylv._ And thou, if thou dost prize
Thy safety, speed thee hence.
[_Exit_ Sylveira.
_Seb._ (_alone._) And this is he
Who was as mine own soul: whose image rose,
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought
That on the sick man’s weary couch he lay,
Pining to share my battles!
CHORUS.
Ye winds that sweep
The conquer’d billows of the western deep,
Or wander where the morn
Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born,
Waft o’er bright isles and glorious worlds the fame
Of the crown’d Spaniard’s name:
Till in each glowing zone
Its might the nations own,
And bow to him the vassal knee
Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea.
_Seb._ Away--away! this is no place for him
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now
A word of desolation. [_Exit._
THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.
A DRAMATIC POEM.[270]
“Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna
Del valor que en los siglos venideros
Tendrán los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna,
Hijos de tal padres herederos.
Hallò sola en Numancia todo quanto
Debe con justo titulo cantarse
Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.”
Cervantes, _Numancia_.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Alvar Gonzalez, _Governor of Valencia_.
Alphonso, Carlos, _his Sons_.
Hernandez, _a Priest_.
Abdullah, _a Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army besieging Valencia_.
Garcias, _a Spanish Knight_.
Elmina, _Wife to Gonzalez_.
Ximena, _her Daughter_.
Theresa, _an attendant_.
_Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c._
[270] _Advertisement by the Author._--The history of Spain records
two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism which forms the
subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred
at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho
King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother Don Juan, by
Guzman surnamed the Good.[271] The second is related of Alonso Lopez
de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by
pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro
the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.[272]
Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these
memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages
that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality,
might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted “to
describe high passions and high actions,” by connecting a religious
feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been
proved “faithful unto death,” and by surrounding her ideal _dramatis
personæ_ with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish
chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary
characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them
“A local habitation and a name.”
[271] See Quintana’s “Vidas de Espanoles Celebres,” p. 53.
[272] See the Preface to Southey’s “Chronicle of the Cid.”
Scene I.--_Room in a Palace of Valencia._--Ximena _singing to a lute_.
BALLAD.
“Thou hast not been with a festal throng
At the pouring of the wine;
Men bear not from the hall of song
A mien so dark as thine!
There’s blood upon thy shield,
There’s dust upon thy plume,
Thou hast brought from some disastrous field
That brow of wrath and gloom!”
“And is there blood upon my shield?
Maiden, it well may be!
We have sent the streams from our battle-field
All darken’d to the sea!
We have given the founts a stain,
Midst their woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet--but not with rain,
Deep dyed--but not with wine!
“The ground is wet--but not with rain--
We have been in war-array,
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.
I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait.
“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait
There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!
There’s many a fair young face
Which the war-steed hath gone o’er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!”
“Alas! for love, for woman’s breast,
If woe like this must be!
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest,
And a white plume waving free?
With his proud quick-flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?
Doth he come from where the swords flash’d high
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait?”
“In the gloomy Roncesvalles’ Strait
I saw, and mark’d him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate,
When the pride of manhood fell!
But it is not _youth_ which turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy’s high heart too wildly burns,
Till it rests amidst the slain!”
“Thou canst not say that _he_ lies low,
The lovely and the brave:
Oh! none could look on his joyous brow,
And think upon the grave!
Dark, dark perchance the day
Hath been with valour’s fate;
But _he_ is on his homeward way
From the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
“There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o’er his graceful head;
And the war-horse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed!
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles’ Strait!”
Elmina _enters._
_Elm._ Your songs are not as those of other days,
Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke
Joy’s echo from all hearts?
_Xim._ My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour’d those gladd’ning strains.
_Elm._ Alas! thy heart
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills,
Where thy young brothers, o’er the rock and heath,
Bound in glad boyhood, e’en as torrent-streams
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt,
Thou shouldst have track’d ere now, with step as light,
Their wild-wood paths.
_Xim._ I would not but have shared
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild
O’ th’ summer-forest, filling earth and heaven
With its own awful music. And ’tis well!
Should not a hero’s child be train’d to hear
The trumpet’s blast unstartled, and to look
In the fix’d face of death without dismay?
_Elm._ Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young
Should thus be call’d to stand i’ the tempest’s path,
And bear the token and the hue of death
On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk
From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers,
And not o’er foaming billows. We are fall’n
On dark and evil days!
_Xim._ Ay, days that wake
All to their tasks!--Youth may not loiter now
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood
Is summon’d unto conflicts, heretofore
The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts;
Not amidst joy.
_Elm._ Hast thou some secret woe
That thus thou speak’st?
_Xim._ What sorrow should be mine,
Unknown to thee?
_Elm._ Alas! the baleful air,
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks
Through the devoted city, like a blight
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall’n,
And wrought an early withering. Thou hast cross’d
The paths of death, and minister’d to those
O’er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still,
Deep, solemn radiance; and thy brow hath caught
A wild and high expression, which at times
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike
What youth’s bright mien should wear. My gentle child!
I look on thee in fear!
_Xim._ Thou hast no cause
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step
Of armèd men, break on our morning dreams--
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave
Are falling round us, and we deem it much
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease
Had chill’d their fiery blood;--it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whispering in the gale.--My father comes--
Oh! speak of me no more. I would not shade
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.
Gonzalez _enters_.
_Elm._ My noble lord!
Welcome from this day’s toil! It is the hour
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose
Unto all weary men; and wilt not thou
Free thy mail’d bosom from the corslet’s weight,
To rest at fall of eve?
_Gon._ There may be rest
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath
His vine and olive he may sit at eve,
Watching his children’s sport: but unto _him_
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height,
When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten realms
--Who speaks of rest?
_Xim._ My father, shall I fill
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute
Whose sounds thou lovest?
_Gon._ If there be strains of power
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn
May cast off nature’s feebleness, and hold
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down
Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to those!
I have need of such, Ximena!--we must hear
No melting music now!
_Xim._ I know all high
Heroic ditties of the elder-time,
Sung by the mountain-Christians,[273] in the holds
Of th’ everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear
The print of Freedom’s step; and all wild strains
Wherein the dark serranos[274] teach the rocks
And the pine-forests deeply to resound
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid?
_Gon._ Ay, speak of him; for in that name is power,
Such as might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him!
We are his children! They that can look back
I’ th’ annals of their house on such a name,
How should _they_ take Dishonour by the hand,
And o’er the threshold of their fathers’ halls
First lead her as a guest?
_Elm._ Oh, why is this?
How my heart sinks!
_Gon._ It must not fail thee _yet_,
Daughter of heroes!--thine inheritance
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number
In thy long line of glorious ancestry
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made
The ground it bathed e’en as an altar, whence
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not,
Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross,
With its victorious inspiration girt
As with a conqueror’s robe, till th’ infidel,
O’erawed, shrank back before them? Ay, the earth
Doth call them martyrs; but _their_ agonies
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope
Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them _martyrs_!
Why, heaven but claim’d their blood, their lives, and not
The things which grew as tendrils round their hearts;
No, not their children!
_Elm._ Mean’st thou? know’st thou aught?--
I cannot utter it--my sons! my sons!
Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them?
_Gon._ A mother’s heart divineth but too well!
_Elm._ Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all.
Where are my children?
_Gon._ In the Moorish camp
Whose lines have girt the city.
_Xim._ But they live?
--All is not lost, my mother!
_Elm._ Say, they live.
_Gon._ Elmina, still they live.
_Elm._ But captives! They
Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds
Where the rock-eagle seem’d not more secure
In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys
Are captives with the Moor!--oh! how was this?
_Gon._ Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls,
With his young brother, eager to behold
The face of noble war. Thence on their way
Were the rash wanderers captured.
_Elm._ ’Tis enough.
--And when shall they be ransom’d?
_Gon._ There is ask’d
A ransom far too high.
_Elm._ What! have we wealth
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons
The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them,
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us
As ’twere a cumbrous robe! Why, _thou_ art one,
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been
But as the plumage to a warrior’s helm,
Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me,
Thou knowst not how serenely I could take
The peasant’s lot upon me, so my heart,
Amidst its deep affections undisturb’d,
May dwell in silence.
_Xim._ Father! doubt thou not
But we will bind ourselves to poverty,
With glad devotedness, if this, but this,
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father!
We can bear all things.
_Gon._ Can ye bear disgrace?
_Xim._ We were not born for this.
_Gon._ No, thou say’st well!
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child!
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems
Torn from her secret caverns? If by them
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring
Rejoicing to the light! But he for whom
Freedom and life may but be won with shame,
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens,
And proudly die!
_Elm._ Gonzalez, _who_ must die?
_Gon._ (_hurriedly._) They on whose lives a fearful price is set,
But to be paid by treason! Is’t enough?
Or must I yet seek words?
_Elm._ That look saith more!
Thou canst not mean----
_Gon._ I do! why dwells there not
Power in a glance to speak it? They must die!
They--must their names be told?--_our sons_ must die,
Unless I yield the city!
_Xim._ Oh, look up!
My mother, sink not thus! Until the grave
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope.
_Elm._ (_in a low voice._)
Whose knell was in the breeze? No, no, not _theirs_!
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope?
--And there is hope! I will not be subdued--
I will not hear a whisper of despair!
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath
Moves like a quickening spirit o’er the depths
Within a father’s heart. Thou too, Gonzalez,
Wilt tell me there is hope!
_Gon._ (_solemnly._) Hope but in Him
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when
The bright steel quiver’d in the father’s hand
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice
Through the still clouds and on the breathless air,
Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope:
It rests with Him.
_Elm._ _Thou_ canst not tell me this!
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands
Doth lie thy children’s fate.
_Gon._ If there have been
Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made
Its accents as the solitary sound
Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing
Th’ austere and yet divine remonstrances
Whisper’d by faith and honour, lift thy hands;
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with strength,
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne’er
Be thus found wanting!
_Elm._ Then their doom is seal’d!
Thou wilt not save thy children?
_Gon._ Hast thou cause,
Wife of my youth! to deem it lies within
The bounds of possible things, that I should link
My name to that word--_traitor_? They that sleep
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine,
Died not for this!
_Elm._ Oh, cold and hard of heart!
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free
Its haughty flight! Men! men! too much is yours
Of vantage; ye that with a sound, a breath,
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space
Of rooted-up affections, o’er whose void
Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is,
Dominion must be won! Nay, leave me not--
My heart is bursting, and I _must_ be heard!
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony,
As to the elements in their hour of might
And mastery o’er creation! Who shall dare
To mock that fearful strength! I _must_ be heard!
Give me my sons.
_Gon._ That they may live to hide
With covering hands th’ indignant flush of shame
On their young brows, when men shall speak of him
They call’d their father! Was the oath whereby,
On th’ altar of my faith, I bound myself
With an unswerving spirit to maintain
This free and Christian city for my God
And for my king, a writing traced on sand?
That passionate tears should wash it from the earth,
Or e’en the life-drops of a bleeding heart
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away
The last light vessel’s wake? Then never more
Let man’s deep vows be trusted!--though enforced
By all th’ appeals of high remembrances,
And silent claims o’ th’ sepulchres wherein
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep,
On their good swords! Think’st thou _I_ feel no pangs?
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart
Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more:
’Tis vain. I tell thee that th’ inviolate Cross
Still from our ancient temples must look up
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its foot
I perish, with my race. Thou _darest_ not ask
That I, the son of warriors--men who died
To fix it on that proud supremacy--
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor
In impious joy to trample!
_Elm._ Scorn me not
In mine extreme of misery! Thou art strong--
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild;
I know not what I ask. And yet ’twere but
Anticipating fate--since it must fall,
That Cross _must_ fall at last! There is no power,
No hope within this city of the grave,
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor
Hath bent his bow against them; for the shaft
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark,
Than th’ arrow of the desert. Even the skies
O’erhang the desolate splendour of her domes
With an ill omen’s aspect, shaping forth,
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs
Foreboding ruin. _Man_ might be withstood,
But who shall cope with famine and disease
When leagued with armèd foes? Where now the aid,
Where the long-promised lances of Castile?
We are forsaken in our utmost need--
By heaven and earth forsaken!
_Gon._ If this be,
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall
As men that in severe devotedness
Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to death,
Through high conviction that their suffering land
By the free blood of martyrdom alone
Shall call deliverance down.
_Elm._ Oh! I have stood
Beside thee through the beating storms of life
With the true heart of unrepining love--
As the poor peasant’s mate doth cheerily,
In the parch’d vineyard, or the harvest field,
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat
And burden of the day. But now the hour,
The heavy hour is come, when human strength
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust,
Owning that woe is mightier! Spare me yet
This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her,
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn
In her unpeopled home--a broken stem,
O’er its fallen roses dying!
_Gon._ Urge me not,
Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been found
Worthy a brave man’s love!--oh, urge me not
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears,
In its own hues thou seest not! Death may scarce
Bring aught like this!
_Elm._ All, all thy gentle race,
The beautiful beings that around thee grew,
Creatures of sunshine! Wilt thou doom them all?
She, too, thy daughter--doth her smile unmark’d
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day?
Shadows are gathering round her: seest thou not
The misty dimness of the spoiler’s breath
Hangs o’er her beauty; and the face which made
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send,
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul,
Telling of early fate?
_Gon._ I see a change
Far nobler on her brow! She is as one,
Who, at the trumpet’s sudden call, hath risen
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm,
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost
The beam which laugh’d upon th’ awakening heart,
E’en as morn breaks o’er earth. But far within
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch,
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade!
The altar-flame, i’ th’ sanctuary’s recess,
Burns quenchless, being of heaven! She hath put on
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy,
Even as a breastplate. Ay! men look on her,
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks,
Binding the warrior’s wounds, and bearing fresh
Cool draughts to fever’d lips--they look on her,
Thus moving in her beautiful array
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn
Unto their heavy toils.
_Elm._ And seest thou not
In that high faith and strong collectedness,
A fearful inspiration? _They_ have cause
To tremble, who behold th’ unearthly light
Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought
Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child
Waits but a father’s hand to snatch her back
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me;
Ximena! kneel beside me, and implore
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied,
--His children’s lives!
_Xim._ Alas! this may not be:
Mother!--I cannot.
[_Exit_ Ximena.
_Gon._ My heroic child!
--A terrible sacrifice thou claim’st, O God!
From creatures in whose agonising hearts
Nature is strong as death!
_Elm._ Is ’t thus in thine?
Away! What time is given thee to resolve
On--what I cannot utter? Speak! thou know’st
Too well what I would say.
_Gon._ Until--ask not!
The time is brief.
_Elm._ Thou said’st--I heard not right----
_Gon._ The time is brief.
_Elm._ What! must we burst all ties
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined!
And, for this task’s fulfilment, can it be
That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared,
To number and to mete us forth the sands
Of hours, nay, moments? Why, the sentenced wretch,
He on whose soul there rests a brother’s blood
Pour’d forth in slumber, is allow’d more time
To wean his turbulent passions from the world
His presence doth pollute! It is not thus?
We must have time to school us.
_Gon._ We have but
To bow the head in silence, when heaven’s voice
Calls back the things we love.
_Elm._ Love! love!--there are soft smiles and gentle words,
And there are faces, skilful to put on
The look we trust in--and ’tis mockery all!
--A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat
The thirst that semblance kindled! There is none,
In all this cold and hollow world--no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother’s heart. It is but pride, wherewith
To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright glad creature springing in his path,
But as the heir of his great name--the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is _man’s_ love! What marvel!--_you_ ne’er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy,
While to the fulness of your heart’s glad heavings
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! _You_ ne’er kept watch
Beside him, till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke
On your dim weary eye; not _yours_ the face
Which, early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as heaven’s light,
Was there to greet his wak’ning! _You_ ne’er smooth’d
His couch, ne’er sang him to his rosy rest;
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lip to his,
When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries,
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are _woman’s_ tasks!--in these her youth,
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark’d! My boys! my boys!
Hath vain affection borne with all for this?
--Why were ye given me?
_Gon._ Is there strength in man
Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through all
Its depths of silent agony, the heart
Thy voice of woe doth rend!
_Elm._ Thy heart--_thy_ heart! Away! it feels not _now_!
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man
Unto the infant’s weakness; nor shall heaven
Spare you that bitter chastening! May you live
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem
Most heavy to sustain! For me, my voice
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon
With all forgotten sounds--my quiet place
Low with my lovely ones; and we shall sleep,
Though kings lead armies o’er us--we shall sleep,
Wrapt in earth’s covering mantle! You the while
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls,
And hear the wild and melancholy winds
Moan through their drooping banners, never more
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up
Shadows--dim phantoms from ancestral tombs,
But all, all--_glorious_,--conquerors, chieftains, kings,
To people that cold void! And when the strength
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more
A fiery wakening,--if at last you pine
For the glad voices and the bounding steps
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light
Of eyes that laugh’d with youth, and made your board
A place of sunshine,--when those days are come,
Then, in your utter desolation, turn
To the cold world--the smiling, faithless world,
Which hath swept past you long--and bid it quench
Your soul’s deep thirst with _fame_! immortal _fame_!
Fame to the sick of heart!--a gorgeous robe,
A crown of victory, unto him that dies
I’ th’ burning waste, for water!
_Gon._ This from _thee_!
Now the last drop of bitterness is pour’d.
Elmina--I forgive thee!
[_Exit_ Elmina.
Aid me, Heaven!
From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set
Duties so stern of aspect in my path,
They almost to my startled gaze assume
The hue of things less hallow’d! Men have sunk
Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He
Who made us know the limits of our strength?
My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause
To give my heart one moment’s mastery thus!
[_Exit_ Gonzalez.
[273] Mountain-Christians, those natives of Spain who, under their
prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of the northern
provinces, where they maintained their religion and liberty, whilst the
rest of their country was overrun by the Moors.
[274] _Serranos_, mountaineers.