Hernandez--_A few citizens gathered round him._
_Her._ Why, men have cast the treasures, which their lives
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre;
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand,
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear
The flame which gave their temples and their homes
In ashes to the winds! They have done this,
Making a blasted void where once the sun
Look’d upon lovely dwellings; and from earth
Razing all record that on such a spot
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept,
And frail humanity knelt before her God:
They have done _this_, in their free nobleness,
Rather than see the spoiler’s tread pollute
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs,
Who have left man such lessons! And these things,
Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky,
Whose arch bends o’er you, and the seas, wherein
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb,
And all memorials of man’s heart and faith,
Thus proudly honour’d! Be ye not outdone
By the departed! Though the godless foe
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong!
A few bright torches and brief moments yet
Shall baffle his flush’d hope; and we may die,
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me!
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate--
The ruin, not the yoke; and make thy towers
A beacon unto Spain!
_Cits._ We’ll follow thee!
Alas! for our fair city, and the homes
Wherein we rear’d our children! But away!
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o’er our fanes!
_Voice._ (_from a tower on the walls._) Succours!--Castile! Castile!
_Cits._ (_rushing to the spot._) It is even so!
Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved!
Castile! Castile!
_Voice._ (_from the tower._) Line after line of spears,
Lance after lance, upon th’ horizon’s verge,
Like festal lights from cities bursting up,
Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host!
_Another voice._ The Moor hath turn’d him from our walls, to front
Th’ advancing might of Spain!
_Cits._ (_shouting._) Castile! Castile!
Gonzalez _enters, supported by_ Elmina _and a citizen_.
_Gon._ What shouts of joy are these?
_Her._ Hail! chieftain, hail!
Thus, even in death, ’tis given thee to receive
The conqueror’s crown! Behold our God hath heard,
And arm’d himself with vengeance! Lo! they come!
The lances of Castile!
_Gon._ I knew, I knew,
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God! forsake
Thy servant in his need! My blood and tears
Have not sunk vainly to th’ attesting earth.
Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived
To see this hour!
_Elm._ And I, too, bless thy name,
Though thou hast proved me unto agony!
O God!--thou God of chastening!
_Voice._ (_from the tower._) They move on!
I see the royal banner in the air,
With its emblazon’d towers!
_Gon._ Go, bring ye forth
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here,
To stream above me, for an answering sign
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place
Within Valencia still! What see you now?
_Her._ I see a kingdom’s might upon its path,
Moving, in terrible magnificence,
Unto revenge and victory! With the flash
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks,
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep,
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes,
Like a land’s harvest in the autumn wind,
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun,
But flung from sheets of steel--it comes, it comes,
The vengeance of our God!
_Gon._ I hear it now,
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes,
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths.
_Her._ Ay, earth knows well the omen of that sound;
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre’s,
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond
Unto the step of death!
_Gon._ Hark! how the wind
Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain?
Now the heart feels its power! A little while
Grant me to Eve, my God! What pause is this?
_Her._ A deep and dreadful one! The serried files
Level their spears for combat; now the hosts
Look on each other in their brooding wrath,
Silent, and face to face.
_Voices heard without, chanting._
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E’en while with ours thy footsteps trode
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath!
Soul, to its place on high!
They that have seen thy look in death
No more may fear to die.
_Elm._ (_to_ Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o’er thy daughter’s bier!
But I am calm; and e’en like gentle winds,
That music, through the stillness of my heart,
Sends mournful peace.
_Gon._ Oh! well those solemn tones
Accord with such an hour, for all her life
Breathed of a hero’s soul!
[_A sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain._]
_Her._ Now, now they close! Hark! what a dull dead sound
Is in the Moorish war-shout! I have known
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given--
Lo! they have placed their shields before their hearts,
And lower’d their lances with the streamers on,
And on their steeds bent forward! God for Spain!
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field!--
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks
To match with this! ’Tis not the gallant crests,
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry;
The very nature and high soul of man
Doth now reveal itself!
_Gon._ Oh, raise me up,
That I may look upon the noble scene!--
It will not be!--That this dull mist would pass
A moment from my sight! Whence rose that shout,
As in fierce triumph?
_Her._ (_clasping his hands._) Must I look on this?
The banner sinks--’tis taken!
_Gon._ Whose?
_Her._ Castile’s!
_Gon._ O God of Battles!
_Elm._ Calm thy noble heart;
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed.
Nay, rest thee on my bosom.
_Her._ Cheer thee yet!
Our knights have spurr’d to rescue. There is now
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things,
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness
Wherewith they moved before! I see tall plumes
All wildly tossing o’er the battle’s tide,
Sway’d by the wrathful motion, and the press
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms.
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood,
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield
Pierced through! Now, shout for Santiago, shout!
Lo! javelins with a moment’s brightness cleave
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down
With their helm’d riders! Who, but One, can tell
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush
And trampling-on of furious multitudes?
_Gon._ Thou’rt silent!--See’st thou more? My
soul grows dark.
_Her._ And dark and troubled, as an angry sea,
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze!
I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross’d,
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms
To lighten with the stroke! But round the spot
Where, like a storm-fell’d mast, our standard sank,
The heart of battle burns.
_Gon._ Where is that spot?
_Her._ It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms,
That lift their green heads o’er the tumult still,
In calm and stately grace.
_Gon._ _There_ didst thou say?
Then God is with us, and we _must_ prevail!
For on that spot they died: my children’s blood
Calls on th’ avenger thence!
_Elm._ They perish’d there!
--And the bright locks that waved so joyously
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled
Even on that place of death! O Merciful!
Hush the dark thought within me!
_Her._ (_with sudden exultation._) Who is he,
On the white steed, and with the castled helm,
And the gold-broider’d mantle, which doth float
E’en like a sunny cloud above the fight;
And the pale cross, which from his breastplate gleams
With star-like radiance?
_Gon._ (_eagerly._) Didst thou say the cross?
_Her._ On his mail’d bosom shines a broad white cross,
And his long plumage through the dark’ning air
Streams like a snow-wreath.
_Gon._ That should be--
_Her._ The king!
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late,
To the Cid’s tomb, e’en for the silver cross,
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind
O’er his brave heart in fight?[284]
_Gon._ (_springing up joyfully._) My king! my king!
Now all good saints for Spain! My noble king!
And thou art there! That I might look once more
Upon thy face! But yet I thank thee, heaven!
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands
Thus to receive his city!
[_He sinks back into_ Elmina’s _arms_.
_Her._ He hath clear’d
A pathway midst the combat, and the light
Follows his charge through yon close living mass,
E’en as a gleam on some proud vessel’s wake
Along the stormy waters! ’Tis redeem’d--
The castled banner; it is flung once more,
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds!
There seems a wavering through the Paynim hosts--
Castile doth press them sore--now, now rejoice!
_Gon._ What hast thou seen?
_Her._ Abdullah falls! He falls!
The man of blood!--the spoiler!--he hath sunk
In our king’s path! Well hath that royal sword
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez!
They give way,
The Crescent’s van is broken! On the hills,
And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel
Call vainly, in his agony of fear,
To cover him from vengeance! Lo! they fly!
They of the forest and the wilderness
Are scatter’d, e’en as leaves upon the wind!
Woe to the sons of Afric! Let the plains,
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas,
Take their dead unto them!--that blood shall wash
Our soil from stains of bondage.
_Gon._ (_attempting to raise himself._) Set me free!
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king,
After his battle-field!
_Her._ Oh, blest in death!
Chosen of heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross,
And part from earth in peace!
_Gon._ Now, charge once more!
God is with Spain, and Santiago’s sword
Is reddening all the air! Shout forth “Castile!”
The day is ours! I go; but fear ye not!
For Afric’s lance is broken, and my sons
Have won their first good field!
[_He dies._
_Elm._ Look on me yet!
Speak one farewell, my husband!--must thy voice
Enter my soul no more! Thine eye is fix’d--
Now is my life uprooted--and ’tis well.
[_A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many Castilian
Knights and Soldiers enter._]
_A Cit._ Hush your triumphal sounds, although ye come
E’en as deliverers! But the noble dead,
And those that mourn them, claim from human hearts
Deep silent reverence.
_Elm._ (_rising proudly._) No, swell forth, Castile!
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens,
And the deep hills, give every stormy note
Echoes to ring through Spain! How, know ye not
That all array’d for triumph, crown’d and robed
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land,
E’en now a conqueror to his rest is gone?
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind
Swell on with victory’s shout!--_He_ will not hear--
Hath earth a sound more sad?
_Her._ Lift ye the dead,
And bear him with the banner of his race
Waving above him proudly, as it waved
O’er the Cid’s battles, to the tomb wherein
His warrior sires are gather’d. [_They raise the body._
Elm. Ay, ’tis thus
Thou shouldst be honour’d! And I follow thee,
With an unfaltering and a lofty step,
To that last home of glory. She that wears
In her deep heart the memory of thy love,
Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the God
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth,
Looking upon her still and chasten’d soul,
Call it once more to thine!
(_To the Castilians._) Awake, I say!
Tambour and trumpet, wake! And let the land
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal.
--So should a hero pass to his repose.
[_Exeunt omnes._
[284] This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the last of
that name. He sent to the Cid’s tomb for the cross which that warrior
was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to battle, and had
it made into one for himself, “because of the faith which he had, that
through it he should obtain the victory.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the
Cid_.
[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE “SIEGE OF VALENCIA.”
“Of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ we say little, for we by no means consider
it as the happiest of Mrs Hemans’s efforts. Not that it does not
contain, nay, abound with fine passages; but the whole wants vigour,
coherence, and compression. The story is meagre, and the dialogue
too diffuse.”--_The_ Rev. Dr Morehead _in Constable’s Magazine for
September 1823_.
“The ‘Tales and Historic Scenes,’ ‘The Sceptic,’ ‘The Welsh Melodies,’
‘The Siege of Valencia,’ and ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’” says Delta,
“may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career, and are
characterised by beauties of a high and peculiar stamp. With reference
to the two latter, it must be owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans
was not essentially dramatic, yet that both abound with high and
magnificent bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste
and uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life and
character necessary to the success of scenic exhibition; and she must
have been aware of the difficulties that surrounded her in that path.
If these cannot, therefore, be considered as successful tragedies,
they hold their places as dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic
beauty. Indeed, it would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs
Hemans’s writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived,
more skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the
Monk’s tale in ‘The Siege of Valencia.’ The description of his son,
in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his boyish beauty and
accomplishments--of his horror at that son’s renunciation of the
Christian faith, and leaguing with the infidel--and of the twilight
encounter, in which he took the life of his own giving--are all worked
out in the loftiest spirit of poetry.”--_Biographical Memoir_, p.
16-17.
“‘The Siege of Valencia,’ ‘The Last Constantine,’ and other poems,
were published in the course of the year 1823. This volume was marked
by more distinct evidences of originality than any of Mrs Hemans’s
previous works. None of her after poems contain finer bursts of
strong, fervid, indignant poetry than ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ its
story--a thrilling conflict between maternal love and the inflexible
spirit of chivalrous honour--afforded to her an admirable opportunity
of giving utterance to the two master interests of her mind. It is a
tale that will bear a second reading--though, it must be confessed
that, as in the case of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ somewhat of a
monotony of colouring is thrown over its scenes by the unchanged
employment of a lofty and enriched phraseology, which would have
gained in emphasis by its being more sparingly used. Ximena, too,
all glowing and heroic as she is, stirring up the sinking hearts of
the besieged citizens with her battle-song of the Cid, and dying as
it were of that strain of triumph--is too spiritual, too saintly,
wholly to carry away the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her
splendid, high-toned devotion--our tears are called forth by the grief
of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, but not degraded,
by the agony of maternal affection, to connive at a treachery she
is too noble wholly to carry through. The scenes with her husband
are admirable; some of her speeches absolutely startle us with their
passion and intensity--the following, for instance:--
‘Love! love! there are soft smiles and gentle words,’” etc.
--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 110-12.
“‘The Siege of Valencia’ is a dramatic poem, but not intended for
representation. The story is extremely simple. The Moors, who besiege
Valencia, take the two sons of the governor, Gonzalez, captive, as
they come to visit their father, and now the ransom demanded for them
is the surrender of the city: they are to die if the place is not
yielded up. Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their sister,
are the remaining members of a family to which so dreadful an option
is submitted. The poem is one of the highest merit. The subject is of
great dignity, being connected with the defence of Spain against the
Moors; and at the same time it is of the greatest tenderness, offering
a succession of the most moving scenes that can be imagined to occur
in the bosom of a family. The father is firm, the daughter is heroic,
the mother falters. She finds her way to the Moorish camp, sees her
children, forms her plan for betraying the town, and then is not able
to conceal her grief and her design from her husband. He immediately
sends a defiance to the Moors, his children are brought out and
beheaded, a sortie is made from the besieged city: finally, the king
of Spain arrives to the rescue; the wrongs of Gonzalez are avenged;
he himself dies in victory; and the poem closes with a picture of
his wife, moved by the strongest grief, of which she is yet able to
restrain the expression. The great excellence of the poem lies in the
description of the struggle between the consciousness of duty and
maternal fondness. We believe none but a mother could have written
it.”--Professor Norton, in _North American Review_ for April 1827.
“The graceful powers of Mrs Hemans in the same walk which had been
trodden so grandly by Miss Baillie, were manifested in her ‘Vespers
of Palermo’, and her ‘Siege of Valencia.’ The latter is a noble
work, and as a poem ranks with her highest productions, though it is
filled too uniformly perhaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be
very distinctively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of the
variety of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted nature, which
belongs to few among mankind, and to them, perhaps, only in strange
and terrible crises. The steadfastness of the paternal chieftain, the
sterner enthusiasm of the priest, the mother’s maddening affection,
and the gentle heroism of the melancholy Ximena are drawn with
individuality, but it is the individuality of a common greatness, the
apparent appropriation to many of an essence really the same in all.
In her own heart the poetess found this pure essence; and when she
created her Christian patriots at Valencia, she but translated herself
into a new dialect of manners and motives. Of this one elevated
material she has, however, made fine dramatic use. The language, while
faultless in its measured music, has passion to swell its cadences;
the loftiness is never languid; and the flow of the verse is skilfully
broken into the animated abruptness suitable to earnest dialogue.
There are many, too, of those sudden glimpses of profound truth in
which the energy of passion seems to force its rude way, in a moment,
into regions of the heart that philosophy would take hours to survey
with its technical language. Thus, when the iron-hearted monk is
telling the story of his son’s disgrace,--
’Elmina. He died?
Hernandez. Not so!
--Death! death! Why, earth should be a paradise
To make that name so fearful! Had he died,
With his young fame about him for a shroud,
I had not learn’d the might of agony
To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off----
Why do I tell thee this? What right hast thou
To learn how pass’d the glory from my house?
Yet listen. He forsook me! He that was
As mine own soul forsook me!--trampled o’er
The ashes of his sires!--ay, leagued himself
Even with the infidel, the curse of Spain;
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid,
Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death!
“The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs, is moulded in
the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilderment of the mother
betrayed into guilt by overpowering affection, and the death of the
beautiful enthusiast Ximena, are sketched in a style of excellence
little inferior; and the peculiar powers of Mrs Hemans’s poetry, less
dramatic than declamatory, have full scope in the spirit-stirring
address of the latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she
lifts in her own ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts
the sublime legend of his martial burial. Spain and its romances
formed the darling theme of Mrs Hemans’s muse; and before leaving
the subject, she gives us her magnificent series of ballads, the
‘Songs of the Cid,’ which meet us at the close of the drama, as if
to form an appropriate chorus to the whole.”--William Archer Butler,
_Introductory Notice to National Lyrics and Songs for Music_. Dublin:
1838.]
Miscellaneous Poems.
SONG.
FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE.
Away! though still thy sword is red
With life-blood from my sire,
No drop of thine may now be shed
To quench my bosom’s fire;
Though on my heart ’twould fall more blest
Than dews upon the desert’s breast.
I’ve sought thee midst the sons of men,
Through the wide city’s fanes;
I’ve sought thee by the lion’s den,
O’er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that mark’d the burning waste,
But mine its lonely course hath traced.
Thy name hath been a baleful spell,
O’er my dark spirit cast;
No thought may dream, no words may tell,
What there unseen hath pass’d:
This wither’d cheek, this faded eye,
Are seals of thee--behold! and fly!
Hath not my cup for thee been pour’d
Beneath the palm-tree’s shade?
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored
Within my dwelling laid?
What though unknown--yet who shall rest
Secure--if not the Arab’s guest?
Haste thee! and leave my threshold-floor
Inviolate and pure!
Let not thy presence tempt me more,
--Man may not thus endure!
Away! I bear a fetter’d arm,
A heart that burns--but must not harm.
Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle!
The wind in speed subdue!
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,
As vengeance shall pursue;
And hate, like love in parting pain,
Smiles o’er _one_ hope--we meet again!
To-morrow--and th’ avenger’s hand,
The warrior’s dart is free!
E’en now, no spot in all thy land,
Save _this_, had shelter’d thee;
Let blood the monarch’s hall profane,--
The Arab’s tent must bear no stain!
Fly! may the desert’s fiery blast
Avoid thy secret way!
And sternly, till thy steps be past,
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day!
I would not that thy doom should be
Assign’d by heaven to aught but me.
ALP-HORN SONG.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK.
What dost thou here, brave Swiss?
Forgett’st thou thus thy native clime--
The lovely land of thy bright spring-time?
The land of thy home, with its free delights,
And fresh green valleys and mountain heights?
Can the stranger’s yield thee bliss?
What welcome cheers thee now?
Dar’st thou lift thine eye to gaze around?
Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown’d?
Where is the song, on the wild winds borne,
Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn,
Or the peasant’s fearless brow?
But thy spirit is far away!
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes.
Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies,
With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free,
And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea,
And the summits clothed with day!
Back, noble child of Tell!
Back to the wild and the silent glen,
And the frugal board of peasant-men!
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here?--
Away! not a true Swiss heart is near,
Against thine own to swell!
THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.
[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern
hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a
Spanish traveller in South America.]
In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,
Where savannahs in boundless magnificence spread,
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.
The fir-tree waves o’er me, the fire-flies’ red light
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night;
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth,
How distant my steps from the land of my birth.
But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently bum
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.
Thou recallest the ages when first o’er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazon’d in thee.
How oft in their course o’er the oceans unknown,
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone,
Hath their spirit been cheer’d by thy light, when the deep
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!
As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,[285]
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl’d;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.
And to me, as I traversed the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.
Shine on!--my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes that I love, though e’en now they may be
O’er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!
But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o’er the Andes to mingle with thee.
[285] Constantine.
THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON.
I lay upon the solemn plain,
And by the funeral mound,
Where those who died not there in vain,
Their place of sleep had found.
’Twas silent where the free blood gush’d,
When Persia came array’d--
So many a voice had there been hush’d,
So many a footstep stay’d.
I slumber’d on the lonely spot
So sanctified by death;
I slumber’d--but my rest was not
As theirs, who lay beneath.
For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose--the chainless dead--
All arm’d they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.
I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by--
Chased to the seas without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly.
I woke--the sudden trumpet’s blast
Call’d to another fight:
From visions of our glorious past,
Who doth not wake in might?
TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
What Wish can Friendship form for thee,
What brighter star invoke to shine?--
Thy path from every thorn is free,
And every rose is thine!
Life hath no purer joy in store,
Time hath no sorrow to efface;
Hope cannot paint one blessing more
Than memory can retrace!
_Some_ hearts a boding fear might own,
Had Fate to _them_ thy portion given,
Since many an eye, by tears alone,
Is taught to gaze on heaven!
And there are virtues oft conceal’d,
Till roused by anguish from repose;
As odorous trees no balm will yield,
Till from their wounds it flows.
But fear not _thou_ the lesson fraught
With Sorrow’s chastening power to know;
Thou need’st not thus be sternly taught
“To melt at others’ woe.”
Then still, with heart as blest, as warm,
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth;
Ah! why should Virtue dread the _storm_,
If _sunbeams_ prove her worth?
WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE SAME.
What first should consecrate as thine,
The volume, destined to be fraught
With many a sweet and playful line,
With many a pure and pious thought?
It should be, what a loftier strain
Perchance less meetly would impart;
What never yet was pour’d in vain,--
The blessing of a grateful heart--
For kindness, which hath soothed the hour
Of anxious grief, of weary pain,
And oft, with its beguiling power,
Taught languid Hope to smile again.
Long shall that fervent blessing rest
On thee and thine; and, heavenwards borne,
Call down such peace to soothe _thy_ breast,
As _thou_ wouldst bear to all that mourn.
TO THE SAME;
ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER.
Say not ’tis fruitless, nature’s holy tear,
Shed by affection o’er a parent’s bier!
More blest than dew on Hermon’s brow that falls,
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls,
Awakes some purer hope, ordain’d to rise,
By earthly sorrow strengthen’d for the skies;
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love,
With its lost treasure, seeks a home--above.
But grief will claim her hour,--and He whose eye
Looks pitying down on nature’s agony,
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep,
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep!
He, too, hath wept--and sacred be the woes
Once borne by Him, their inmost source who knows,
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing!
And who but He shall soothe, when one dread stroke
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke?
Oh! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore
The vanish’d light, that cheers their path no more!
Th’ Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt,
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt!
By fire and storm, heaven tries the Christian’s worth,
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth,
Where still too long, with beings born to die,
Time hath dominion o’er Eternity.
Yet not the less, o’er all the heart hath lost,
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most.
Then comes her triumph! through the shadowy gloom,
Her star in glory rises from the tomb,
Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below,
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow!
Yes, all is o’er! fear, doubt, suspense are fled--
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead!
The final ordeal of the soul is past,
And the pale brow is seal’d to heaven at last![286]
And thou, loved spirit! for the skies mature,
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure;
Thou that didst make the home thy presence bless’d
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast,
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found,
Whence beam’d her smile benignantly around;
Thou, that to bosoms widow’d and bereft
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left,
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be,
Till heaven recall surviving love to thee!
O cherish’d and revered! fond memory well
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell!
So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone
Could make more perfect happiness thine own.
He came: thy cup of joy, serenely bright,
Full to the last, still flow’d in cloudless light;
He came--an angel, bearing from on high
The all it wanted--Immortality!
[286] “Till we have sealed the servants of God in their
foreheads.”--_Revelation_.
FROM THE SPANISH OF GARCILASO DE LA VEGA.
Divine Eliza!--since the sapphire sky
Thou measur’st now on angel wings, and feet
Sandall’d with immortality--oh, why
Of me forgetful? Wherefore not entreat
To hurry on the time, when I shall see
The veil of mortal being rent in twain,
And smile that I am free?
In the third circle of that happy land,
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand,
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain,
Other romantic streams and mountains blue,
And other vales, and a new shady shore,
When I may rest, and ever in my view
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise
Of being sunder’d more!
FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO.
Oh! pure and blessèd soul,
That, from thy clay’s control
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere,
And from thy crystal throne
Look’st down, with smiles alone,
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear;
Thy happy feet have trod
The starry spangled road,
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding;
And from their erring track
Thou charm’st thy shepherds back,
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding.
Oh! who shall Death withstand--
Death, whose impartial hand
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine!
When shall our ears again
Drink in so sweet a strain,
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine!
APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA.
(TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE LUSIAD OF CAMOENS.)
Propitious winds our daring bark impell’d
O’er seas which mortal ne’er till then beheld,
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood
Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood,
High o’er our heads arose a cloud so vast,
O’er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast:
Awful, immense, it came! so thick, so drear,
Its gloomy grandeur chill’d our hearts with fear,
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar,
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore.
Thrill’d with amaze, I cried, “Supernal Power!
What mean the omens of this threatening hour!
What the dread mystery of this ocean-clime,
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime?”
Scarce had I spoke, when lo! a mighty form,
Tower’d through the gathering shadows of the storm;
Of rude proportions and gigantic size,
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes;
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew,
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue.
Well may I tell thee that his limbs and height,
In vast dimensions and stupendous might,
Surpass’d that wonder, once the sculptor’s boast,
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast.
Deep was his voice--in hollow tones he spoke,
As if from ocean’s inmost caves they broke;
And but that form to view, that voice to hear,
Spread o’er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills of fear.
“O daring band!” he cried, “far, far more bold
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told;
Adventurous spirits! whom no bounds of fear
Can teach one pause in rapine’s fierce career;
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main,
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign,
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time,
No sail e’er broke the solitude sublime:
Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown
O’er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown,
Ne’er yet reveal’d to aught of mortal birth,
Howe’er supreme in power, unmatch’d in worth--
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate,
Rash, bold intruders! on your course await!
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue,
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must yet subdue!
“Know that o’er every bark, whose fearless helm
Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm,
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour,
And guard with storms my own terrific shore!
And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave,
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear,
Have time to prophesy destruction near!
“Yes, desperate band! if right my hopes divine,
Revenge, fierce, full, unequall’d, shall be mine!
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way--
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey!
And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind)
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm,
Death shall be deem’d misfortune’s mildest form.
* * * * *
“Lo! where my victim comes!--of noble birth,
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth,
With her,[287] his best beloved, in all her charms,
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms!
From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly,
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony!
Oh! dark the fate that calls them from their home,
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam,
And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb,
For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom!
--Yes! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain,
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain;
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear,
From her, the soft, the idolised, the fair;
Shall see those limbs, of nature’s finest mould,
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold,
And, in long wanderings o’er a desert land,
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand.
“Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold
Who live through toils unequall’d and untold!
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky,
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die!
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense,
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense;
Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes,
Their struggling spirits mount from anguish to repose!”
As the dark phantom sternly thus portray’d
Our future ills, in Horror’s deepest shade,--
“Who then art _thou_?” I cried. “Dread being, tell
Each sense thus bending in amazement’s spell!”
--With fearful shriek, far echoing o’er the tide,
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied:
“Behold the genius of that secret shore
Where the wind rages and the billows roar--
That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone,
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown!
Far to the southern pole my throne extends,
That hidden rock, which Afric’s region ends.
Behold that spirit, whose avenging might,
Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite.”
* * * * *
Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries,
The giant-spectre vanish’d from our eyes;
In sable clouds dissolved--while far around,
Dark ocean’s heaving realms his parting yells resound!
[287] Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, and his wife, Leonora de Sà.
A DIRGE.
Weep for the early lost!--
How many flowers were mingled in the crown
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down,
E’en when life promised most!
How many hopes have wither’d! They that bow
To heaven’s dread will, feel all its mysteries now.
Did the young mother’s eye
Behold her child, and close upon the day,
Ere from its glance th’ awakening spirit’s ray
In sunshine could reply?
--Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn!
Oh! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne.
For there is hush’d on earth
A voice of gladness--there is veil’d a face,
Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place
By the once-joyous hearth;
A smile hath pass’d, which fill’d its home with light,
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright!
But there _is_ power with faith!
Power, e’en though nature o’er the untimely grave
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave;
For sorrow comes of Death,
And with a yearning heart we linger on,
When they, whose glance unlock’d its founts, are gone!
But glory from the dust,
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those
On whose bright memory love may still repose
With an immortal trust!
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part,
Such hope as she hath left--“the pure in heart!”
1823.
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.
TO VENUS.
BOOK I., ODE XXX.
Oh! leave thine own loved isle,
Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores!
And here in Glycera’s fair temple smile,
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours.
Waft here thy glowing son;
Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround,
And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be won,
And the light Graces with the zone unbound.
TO HIS ATTENDANT.
BOOK I., ODE XXXVIII.
I hate the Persian’s costly pride:
The wreaths with bands of linden tied--
These, boy, delight me not;
Nor where the lingering roses bide
Seek thou for me the spot.
For me be naught but myrtle twined--
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind
Alike thy brows and mine,
While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined
Beneath th’ o’erarching vine.
TO DELIUS.
BOOK II., ODE III.
Firm be thy soul!--serene in power,
When adverse fortune clouds the sky;
Undazzled by the triumph’s hour,
Since, Delius, thou must die--
Alike, if still to grief resign’d,
Or if, through festal days, ’tis thine
To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined,
The old Falernian wine--
Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs
Love with the pine’s to blend on high,
And some clear fountain brightly flows
In graceful windings by.
There be the rose with beauty fraught,
So soon to fade, so brilliant now;
There be the wine, the odours brought,
While time and fate allow!
For thou, resigning to thine heir
Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store,
Must leave that home, those woodlands fair,
On yellow Tiber’s shore.
What then avails it, if thou trace
From Inachus thy glorious line?
Or, sprung from some ignoble race,
If not a roof be thine?
Since the dread lot for all must leap
Forth from the dark revolving urn,
And we must tempt the gloomy deep,
Whence exiles ne’er return.
TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA.
BOOK III., ODE XIII.
Oh! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine,
Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright!
To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine,
Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might:
Ev’n now of love and war he dreams in vain,
Doom’d with his blood thy gelid wave to stain.
Let the red dog-star burn!--his scorching beam
Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee!
Still shelter’d from his rays, thy banks, fair stream!
To the wild flock around thee wandering free,
And the tired oxen from the furrow’d field,
The genial freshness of their breath shall yield.
And thou, bright fount! ennobled and renown’d
Shalt by thy poet’s votive song be made;
Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown’d,
Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o’ershade
Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale,
Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale.
TO FAUNUS.
BOOK III., ODE XVIII.
Faunus! who lovest the flying nymphs to chase,
Oh, let thy steps with genial influence tread
My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace
Soft on my nursling groves and borders shed;
If, at the mellow closing of the year,
A tender kid in sacrifice be thine,
Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear,
Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine.
Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays,
When the December feast returns to thee;
Calmly the ox along the pasture strays,
With festal villagers from toil set free.
Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat,
Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round;
And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet
In triple dance have struck the hated ground.
DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS.
A TRAGEDY.[288]
[“About this time, Mrs Hemans was engaged in the composition of
another tragedy, entitled ‘_De Chatillon, or, The Crusaders_;’ in
which, with that deference to _fair_ criticism which she was always
ready to avow, and to act upon, she made it her purpose to attempt
a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of
poetic diction which had been censured as the prevailing fault of
‘The Vespers.’ It may possibly be thought that in the composition
in question she has fallen into the opposite extreme of want of
elaboration; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely
amenable to criticism--for, by some strange accident, the fair copy
transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some of her
subsequent removals, and the piece was long considered as utterly
lost. Nearly two years after her death, the original rough MS., with
all its hieroglyphical blots and erasures, was discovered amongst
a mass of forgotten papers; and it has been a task of no small
difficulty to decipher it, and complete the copy now first given to
the world. Allowances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages
under which it appears,--thus deprived of her own finishing touches,
and with no means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy
so unaccountably missing.”--_Memoir_, p. 80-1.]
[288] First published in Edition of Collected Works, vol. iv. 1840.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Rainier de Chatillon, _A French Baron_.
Aymer, _His Brother_.
Melech, _A Saracen Emir_.
Herman, } _Knights_.
Du Mornay,}
Gaston, _A Vassal of Rainier’s_.
Urban, _A Priest_.
Sadi.
Moraima, _Daughter of Melech_.
_Knights_, _Arabs_, _Citizens_, _&c._
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_Before the gates of a city in Palestine._
Urban, Priests, Citizens, _at the gates. Others looking from the
walls above._
_Urb._ (_to a_ Citizen _on the walls above_.)
You see their lances glistening? You can tell
The way they take?
_Cit._ Not yet. Their march is slow;
They have not reach’d the jutting cliff, where first
The mountain path divides.
_Urb._ And now?
_Cit._ The wood
Shuts o’er their track. Now spears are flashing out--
It is the banner of De Chatillon.
(_Very slow and mournful military music without._)
This way! they come this way!
_Urb._ All holy saints
Grant that they pass us not! Those martial sounds
Have a strange tone of sadness! Hark, they swell
Proudly, yet full of sorrow.
Rainier de Chatillon _enters with knights, soldiers, &c._
Welcome, knights!
Ye bring us timely aid! men’s hearts were full
Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon!
True soldier of the Cross! I welcome thee;
I greet thee with all blessing! Where thou art
There is deliverance!
_Rai._ (_bending to receive the Priest’s blessing._)
Holy man, I come
From a lost battle.
_Urb._ And thou bring’st the heart
Whose spirit yields not to defeat.
_Rai._ I bring
My father’s bier.
_Urb._ His bier! I marvel not
To see your brow thus darken’d! And he died,
As he had lived, in arms?
_Rai._ (_gloomily._) Not, not in arms--
His war-cry had been silenced. Have ye place
Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres
For a warrior with his sword? He bade me bear
His dust to slumber here.
_Urb._ And it shall sleep
Beside our noblest, while we yet can call
One holy place our own! Heard you, my lord,
That the fierce Kaled’s host is on its march
Against our city?
_Rai._ (_with sudden exultation._) That were joy to know!
That were proud joy!--Who told it?--there’s a weight
That must be heaved from off my troubled heart
By the strong tide of battle! Kaled!--ay,
A gallant name! How heard you?
_Urb._ Nay, it seem’d
As if a breeze first bore the rumour in.
I know not how it rose; but now it comes
Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left
Hopeless of aid or counsel--till we saw----
_Rai._ (_hastily._) You have my brother here?
_Urb._ (_with embarrassment._) We have; but he----
_Rai._ But he--but he!--Aymer de Chatillon!
The fiery knight--the very soul o’ the field--
Rushing on danger with the joyous step
Of a hunter o’er the hills!--is _that_ a tone
Wherewith to speak of _him_? I heard a tale--
If it be true--nay, tell me!
_Urb._ He is here:
Ask _him_ to tell thee.
_Rai._ If that tale be true----
(_He turns suddenly to his companions._)
--Follow me, give the noble dead his rites,
And we will have our day of vengeance yet,
Soldiers and friends!
[_Exeunt omnes._
Scene II.--_A Hall of Oriental architecture, opening upon gardens. A
fountain in the centre._
Aymer de Chatillon, Moraima.
_Mor._ (_bending over a couch on which her brother is sleeping._)
He sleeps so calmly now; the soft wind here
Brings in such lulling sounds! Nay, think you not
This slumber will restore him? See you not
His cheek’s faint glow?
_Aym._ (_turning away._) It was _my_ sword which gave
The wound he dies from!
_Mor._ Dies from! say not so!
The brother of my childhood and my youth,
My heart’s first friend!--Oh! I have been too weak,
I have delay’d too long! _He_ could not sue,
He bade _me_ urge the prayer he would not speak,
And I withheld it! Christian, set us free!
You have been gentle with us! ’tis the weight,
The bitter feeling, of captivity
Which preys upon his life!
_Aym._ You would go hence?
_Mor._ For _his_ sake!
_Aym._ You would leave me! ’Tis too late!
You see it not--you know not, that your voice
Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake
Mine inmost soul?--that you but look on me,
With the soft darkness of your earnest eyes,
And bid the world fade from me, and call up
A thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my life
As with a troubled cloud? The very sound
Of your light step hath made my heart o’erflow,
Even unto aching, with the sudden gush
Of its deep tenderness! You know it not?
--Moraima!--speak to me!
_Mor._ (_covering herself with her veil._) I can but weep!
Is it even so?--this love was born for tears!
Aymer! I can but weep! (_going to leave him, he detains her._)
_Aym._ Hear me, yet hear me! I was rear’d in arms;
And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts
Of banner’d armies--these were joy to me,
Enough of joy! Till you!--I look’d on you--
We met where swords were flashing, and the light
Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain--
And then----
_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) Yes! then you saved me!
_Aym._ Then I knew,
At once, what springs of deeper happiness
Lay far within my soul; and they burst forth
Troubled and dash’d with fear--yet sweet! I loved!
Moraima! leave me not!
_Mor._ For _us_ to love!
Oh! is’t not taking sorrow to our hearts,
Binding her there? I know not what I say!
How shall I look upon my brother? Hark!
Did he not call? (_she goes up to the couch._)
_Aym._ Am I beloved? She wept
With a full heart! I am! and such deep joy
Is found on earth! If I should lose her now!
If aught----
[_an attendant enters._
(_To attendant._) You seek me!--why is this?
_Att._ My lord,
Your brother and his knights----
_Aym._ Here! are they here?
The knights--my brother, saidst thou?
_Att._ Yes, my lord,
And he would speak with you.
_Aym._ I see--I know--
(_To attendant._) Leave me! I know why he is come: ’tis vain,
They shall not part us!
(_Looking back on Moraima as he goes out._)
What a silent grace
Floats round her form! They shall not part us! no!
[_Exit--Scene closes._
Scene III.--_A square of the city--a church in the background._
Rainier de Chatillon.
_Rai._ (_walking to and fro impatiently._)
And now, too! now! My father unavenged,
Our holy places threaten’d, every heart
Task’d to its strength! A knight of Palestine
_Now_ to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul
In love-lorn sighs; and for an infidel!
--Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine?
Will he not----hush!
Aymer _enters_. (_They look on each other for a moment without
speaking._)
_Rai._ (_suppressing his emotion._) So brothers meet! You know
Wherefore I come?
_Aym._ It cannot be; ’tis vain.
Tell me not of it!
_Rai._ How! you have not heard?
(_Turning from him._)
He hath so shut the world out with his dreams,
The tidings have not reach’d him! or perchance
Have been forgotten! You have captives here?
_Aym._ (_hurriedly._) Yes, mine! my own--won by the right of arms!
You dare not question it.
_Rai._ A prince, they say,
And his fair sister:--_is_ the maid so fair?
_Aym._ (_turning suddenly upon him._)
What, _you_ would see her!
_Rai._ (_scornfully._) I!--oh, yes! to quell
My soul’s deep yearnings! Let _me_ look on swords.
Boy, boy! recall yourself!--I come to you
With the last blessing of our father!
_Aym._ Last!
His last!--how mean you? Is he----
_Rai._ Dead?--yes! dead.
He died upon my breast.
_Aym._ (_with the deepest emotion._) And I was _here_!
Dead!--and upon _your_ breast! _You_ closed his eyes--
While I--he spoke of me?
_Rai._ With such deep love!
He ever loved you most! His spirit seem’d
To linger for your coming.
_Aym._ What! he thought
That I was on my way! He look’d for me?
And I----
_Rai._ You came not! I had sent to you,
And told you he was wounded.
_Aym._ Yes--but not--
Not _mortally_!
_Rai._ ’Twas not that outward wound--
_That_ might have closed; and yet he surely thought
That you would come to him! He call’d on you
When his thoughts wander’d! Ay, the very night,
The very hour he died, some hasty step
Enter’d his chamber--and he raised his head,
With a faint lightning in his eyes, and ask’d
If it were yours! That hope’s brief moment pass’d--
He sank then.
_Aym._ (_throwing himself upon his brother’s neck._)
Brother! take me to his grave,
That I may kneel there, till my burning tears,
With the strong passion of repentant love,
Wring forth a voice to pardon me!
_Rai._ You weep!
_Tears_ for the garlands on a maiden’s grave!
You know not _how_ he died!
_Aym._ Not of his wound?
_Rai._ His wound!--it is the silent spirit’s wound,
We cannot reach to heal! One burning thought
Prey’d on his heart.
_Aym._ Not--not--he had not heard--
He bless’d _me_, Rainier?
_Rai._ Have you flung away
Your birthright? Yes! he bless’d you!--but he died
--He whose name stood for Victory’s--he believed
The ancient honour from his gray head fall’n,
And died--he died of _shame_!
_Aym._ What feverish dream----
_Rai._ (_vehemently._) Was it not lost, the warrior’s latest field,
The noble city held for Palestine
Taken--the Cross laid low? I came too late
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight,
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence
Wounded, upon his shield----
_Aym._ And I was _here_!
_Rai._ He cast one look back on his burning towers,
Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields
To the earth--and hid his face! I knew, I knew
His heart was broken! Such a death for _him_!
--The wasting--the sick loathing of the sun--
Let the foe’s charger trample out my life,
Let me not die of _shame_! But we will have--
_Aym._ (_grasping his hand eagerly._)Yes! vengeance!
_Rai._ Vengeance! By the dying once,
And once before the dead, and yet once more
Alone with heaven’s bright stars, I took that vow
For _both_ his sons! Think of it, when the night
Is dark around you, and in festive halls
Keep your soul hush’d, and think of it!
_A low Chant of female voices, heard from behind the scenes._
Fall’n is the flower of Islam’s race!
Break ye the lance he bore,
And loose his war-steed from its place:
He is no more--
_Single voice._ No more!
Weep for him mother, sister, bride!
He died, with all his fame--
_Single voice._ He died!
_Aym._ (_Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speaking to his attendant,
who enters._)
Came it not thence? Rudolf, what sounds are these?
_Att._ The Moslem prince, your captive--he is dead:
It is the mourners’ wail for him.
_Aym._ And she--
His sister--heard you--did they say she wept?
[_Hurrying away._
_Rai._ (_indignantly_.) All the deep stirring tones of honour’s voice
In a moment silenced!
[_Solemn military music._
(_A funeral procession, with priests, &c., crosses the background to
enter the church._)
_Rai._ (_following_ Aymer _and grasping his arm._)
Aymer! there--look there!
It is your father’s bier!
_Aym._ (_returning._) He bless’d me, Rainier?
You heard him bless me? Yes! _you_ closed his eyes:
He look’d for me in vain!
[_He goes to the bier, and bends over it, covering his face._
ACT II.
Scene I.--_A room in the Citadel._
Rainier, Aymer, _Knights_, _assembled in council_.
_A Knight._ What! with our weary and distracted bands
To dare another field! Nay, give them rest.
_Rai._ (_impatiently._) Rest! and that sleepless thought----
_Knight._ These walls have strength
To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in--
We must wait aid; our soldiers must forget
That last disastrous day.
_Rai._ (_coming forward._) If they forget it, in the combat’s press
May their spears fail them!
_Knight._ Yet, bethink thee, chief.
_Rai._ When _I_ forget it----how! you see not, knights!
Whence we must _now_ draw strength. Send down your thoughts
Into the very depths of grief and shame,
And bring back courage _thence_! To talk of _rest_!
How do they rest, unburied on their field,
Our brethren slain by Gaza? Had we time
To give them funeral rites? and ask we now
Time to _forget_ their fall? My father died--
I cannot speak of him! What! and _forget_
The infidel’s fierce trampling o’er our dead?
_Forget_ his scornful shout? Give battle now,
While the thought lives as fire lives!--_there_ lies strength!
Hold the dark memory fast! Now, now--this hour!
--Aymer, you do not speak!
_Aym._ (_starting._) Have I not said?
Battle!--yes, give us battle!--room to pour
The troubled spirit forth upon the winds,
With the trumpet’s ringing blast! Way for remorse!
Free way for vengeance!
_All the Knights._ Arm! Heaven wills it so!
_Rai._ Gather your forces to the western gate!
Let none forget that day! Our field was lost,
Our city’s strength laid low--one mighty heart
Broken! Let none forget it!
[_Exeunt._
Scene II.--_Garden of a Palace._
Moraima.
_Mor._ Yes! his last look--my brother’s dying look
Reproach’d me as it faded from his face.
And I deserved it! Had I not given way
To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart,
I might have won his freedom! Now, ’tis past.
He _is_ free now!
Aymer _enters, armed as for battle_.
Aymer! you look so changed!
_Aym._ Changed!--it may be. A storm o’ the soul goes by
Not like a breeze! There’s such a fearful grasp
Fix’d on my heart! Speak to me--lull _remorse_!
Bid me farewell!
_Mor._ Yes! it _must_ be farewell!
No other word but that.
_Aym._ No other word!
The passionate, burning words that I could pour
From my heart’s depths! ’Tis madness! What have I
To do with love? I see it all--the mist
Is gone--the bright mist gone! I see the woe,
The ruin, the despair! And yet I love,
Love wildly, fatally! But speak to me!
Fill all my soul once more with reckless joy!
That blessèd voice again!
_Mor._ Why, why is this?
Oh! send me to my father! We must part.
_Aym._ Part!--yes, I know it all! I could not go
Till I had seen you! Give me one farewell,
The last--perchance the last!--but one farewell,
Whose mournful music I may take with me
Through tumult, horror, death!
[_A distant sound of trumpets._
_Mor._ (_starting._) You go to battle!
_Aym._ Hear you not that sound?
Yes! I go _there_, where dark and stormy thoughts
Find their free path!
_Mor._ Aymer! who leads the foe?
(_Confused._) I meant--I mean--my people! Who is he,
My people’s leader?
_Aym._ Kaled. (_Looking at her suspiciously._) How! you seem--
The name disturbs you!
_Mor._ My last brother’s name!
_Aym._ Fear not _my_ sword for him!
_Mor._ (_turning away._) If they should meet!
I know the vow he made.
(_To_ Aymer.) If thou--if _thou_
Shouldst fall!
_Aym._ Moraima! then your blessèd tears
Would flow for me? then you would weep for me?
_Mor._ I must weep tears of very shame; and yet--
If--if your words have been love’s own true words,
Grant me one boon!
[_Trumpet sounds again._
_Aym._ Hark! I must hence. A boon!
Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart,
As the last token, it may be, of love
So deep and sad.
_Mor._ Pledge me your knightly faith!
_Aym._ My knightly faith, my life, my honour--all,
I pledge thee all to grant it!
_Mor._ Then, to-day,
Go not _this_ day to battle! He is there,
My brother Kaled!
_Aym._ (_wildly._) Have I flung my sword
Down to dishonour?
[_Going to leave her--she detains him._
_Mor._ Oh! your name hath stirr’d
His soul amidst his tents, and he had vow’d,
Long ere we met, to cross his sword with yours,
Till one or both should fall. There hath been _death_
Since then, amongst us; he will seek _revenge._
And _his_ revenge--forgive me!--oh! forgive!
--I could not bear _that_ thought!
_Aym._ Now must the glance
Of a brave man strike me to the very dust!
Ay, this is _shame_.
[_Covering his face._
(_Turning wildly to Moraima._)
_You_ scorn me too? Away!--She does not know
What she hath done!
[_Rushes out._
Scene III.--_Before a gateway within the city._
Rainier, Herman, _Knights_, _Men-at-arms_, &c.
_Her._ ’Tis past the hour.
_Rai._ (_looking out anxiously._) Away! ’tis _not_ the hour--
Not yet! When was the battle’s hour delay’d
For a Chatillon? We must have come too soon!
All are not here.
_Her._ Yes, all!
_Rai._ They came too soon!
[_Going up to the knights._
Couci, De Foix, Du Mornay--here, all here!
And _he_ the last!--_my_ brother!
(_To a Soldier._) Where’s your lord?
(_Turning away._) Why should I ask, when that fair Infidel----
Aymer _enters_.
The Saracen at our gates--and _you_ the last!
Come on, remember all your fame!
_Aym._ (_coming forward in great agitation._) My fame!
--Why did you save me from the Paynim’s sword,
In my first battle?
_Rai._ What wild words are these?
_Aym._ You should have let me perish _then_--yes, _then_!
Go to your field and leave me!
_Knights._ (_thronging round him._) Leave you!
_Rai._ Aymer!
Was it _your_ voice?
_Aym._ _Now_ talk to me of fame!
Tell me of all my warlike ancestors,
And of my father’s death--that bitter death!
Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst
As I for this day’s vengeance! To your field!
--I may not go!
_Rai._ (_turning from him._) The name his race hath borne
Through a thousand battles--lost!
(_Returning to_ Aymer.) A Chatillon!
Will you _live_ and wed dishonour?
_Aym._ (_covering his face._) Let the grave
Take me and cover me! I must go down
To its rest without my sword!
_Rai._ There’s some dark spell upon him! Aymer, brother!
Let _me_ not die of shame! He that died so
Turn’d sickening from the sun!
_Aym._ Where should I turn?
[_Going up abruptly to the knights._
Herman--Du Mornay! ye have stood with me
I’ the battle’s front--ye know me! ye have seen
The fiery joy of danger bear me on
As a wind the arrow! Leave me now--’tis past!
_Rai._ (_with bitterness._)
He comes from _her_!--the infidel hath _smiled_,
Doubtless, for this.
_Aym._ I should have been to-day
Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords
Cannot flash out for blood!--Hark! you are call’d!
[_Wild Turkish music heard without. The background of the scene
becomes more and more crowded with armed men._
Lay lance in rest!--wave, noble banners! wave!
[_Throwing down his sword._
Go from me!--leave the fallen!
_Her._ Nay, but the cause?
Tell us the cause!
_Rai._ (_approaching him indignantly._)
Your sword--your crested helm
And your knight’s mantle--cast them down! your name
Is in the dust!--our father’s name! The cause?
--Tell it not, tell it not!
[_Turning to the soldiers and waving his hand._
Sound, trumpets! sound!
On, lances! for the Cross!
[_Military music. As the knights march out,
he looks back at_ Aymer.
I would not now
Call back my noble father from the dead,
If I could with but a breath!--Sound, trumpets, sound!
[_Exeunt knights and soldiers._
_Aym._ Why should I bear this shame? ’tis not too late!
[_Rushing after them, he suddenly checks himself._
My faith! my knightly faith pledged to my fall!
[_Exit._
Scene IV. _Before a Church._
_Groups of Citizens passing to and fro._ Aymer _standing against one
of the pillars of the church in the background, and leaning on his
sword_.
_1st Cit._ (_to 2d._) From the walls, how goes the battle?
_2d Cit._ Well, all well,
Praise to the Saints! I saw De Chatillon
Fighting, as if upon his single arm
The fate o’ the day were set.
_3d Cit._ Shame light on those
That strike not with him in their place!
_1st Cit._ You mean
His brother? Ay, is’t not a fearful thing
That one of such a race--a brave one too--
Should have thus fallen?
_2d Cit._ They say the captive girl
Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith
To the vile Paynim creed.
_Aym._ (_suddenly coming forward._) Who dares say _that_?
Show me who dares say that!
[_They shrink back--he laughs scornfully._
Ha! ha! ye thought
To play with a sleeper’s name!--to make your mirth
As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest
O’er a dead warrior! Where’s the slanderer? Speak!
A Citizen _enters hastily_.
_Cit._ Haste to the walls! De Chatillon hath slain
The Paynim chief!
[_They all go out._
_Aym._ Why should they shrink? I, I should ask the night
To cover me! I that have flung my name
Away to scorn! Hush! am I not alone?
[_Listening eagerly._
There’s a voice calling me--a voice i’ the air--
My father’s!--’Twas my father’s! Are the dead,
Unseen, yet with us? Fearful!
(_Loud shouts without, he rushes forward exultingly._)
’Tis the shout
Of victory! We have triumph’d!--_We!_ my place
Is midst the fallen!
[_Music heard, which approaches, swelling into a triumphant march.
Knights enter in procession, with banners, torch-bearers, &c. The
gates of the church are thrown open, and the altar, tombs, &c. within,
are seen illuminated. Knights pass over, and enter the church. One
of them takes a torch, and lifts it to_ Aymer’s _face in passing. He
strikes it down with a sword; then, seeing_ Rainier _approach, drops
the sword, and covers his face_.
_Aym._ (_grasping Rainier by the mantle, as he is about to pass._)
Brother! forsake me not!
_Rai._ (_suddenly drawing his sword, and showing it him._)
_My_ sword is red
With victory and revenge! Look--dyed to the hilt!
--We fought--and where were you?
_Aym._ Forsake me not!
_Rai._ (_pointing with his sword to the tombs within the church._)
Those are proud tombs! The dead, the glorious dead,
Think you they sleep, and know not of their sons
In the mysterious grave? We laid _him_ there!
--Before the ashes of your father, speak!
Have you abjured your faith?
_Aym._ (_indignantly._)
Your name is mine--your blood--and you ask _this_!
Wake _him_ to hear me answer!--Have you? No!
--You have not _dared_ to think it.
[_Breaks from him, and goes out._
_Rai._ (_entering the church, and bending over one of the tombs._)
Not yet lost!
Not yet _all_ lost! He shall be thine again!
So shalt thou sleep in peace!
_Music and Chorus of Voices from the church._
Praise, praise to heaven!
Sing of the conquer’d field, the Paynim flying,--
Light up the shrines, and bid the banners wave!
Sing of the warrior for the red-cross dying--
Chant a proud requiem o’er his holy grave!
Praise, praise to heaven!
Praise!--lift the song through night’s resounding sky!
Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die!
Sleep soft, ye brave!
ACT III.
Scene I.--_A platform before the Citadel. Knights entering._
_Her._ (_to one of the Knights._) You would plead for him?
_Knight._ Nay, remember all
His past renown!
_Her._ I had a friend in youth--
This Aymer’s father had _him_ shamed for less
Than his son’s fault--far less!
We must accuse him;--he must have his shield
Reversed--his name degraded.
_Knight._ He might yet--
_All the Knights._ Must his shame cleave to _us_?
We cast him forth--
We will not bear it.
Rainier _enters_.
_Rai._ Knights! ye speak of _him_--
My brother--was’t not so? All silent! Nay,
Give your thoughts breath! What said ye?
_Her._ That his name
Must be degraded.
_Rai._ Silence! ye disturb
The dead. Thou hear’st, my father!
[_Going up indignantly to the Knights._
Which of ye
Shall first accuse him? He, whose bold step won
The breach at Ascalon ere Aymer’s step,
Let him speak first!
He that plunged deeper through the stormy fight,
Thence to redeem the banner of the Cross,
On Cairo’s plain, let him speak first! Or he
Whose sword burst swifter o’er the Saracen,
I’ the rescue of our king, by Jordan’s waves--
I say, let him speak first!
_Her._ Is he not an apostate?
_Rai._ No, no, no!
If he were _that_, had my life’s blood that taint,
This hand should pour it out! He is not _that_.
_Her._ _Not yet._
_Rai._ Not yet, nor ever! Let me die
In a lost battle first!
_Her._ Hath he let go
Name--kindred--honour--for an infidel,
And will he grasp his faith?
_Rai._ (_after a gloomy pause._)
That which bears poison--should it not be crush’d
What though the weed look lovely?
[_Suddenly addressing_ Du Mornay
You have seen
My native halls, Du Mornay, far away
In Languedoc?
_Du Mor._ I was your father’s friend--
I knew them well.
_Rai._ (_thoughtfully._) The weight of gloom that hangs--
The very banners seem to droop with it--
O’er some of those old rooms! Were we there now,
With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries,
Why, I could tell you----
[_Coming closer to_ Du Mornay.
There’s a dark-red spot
Grain’d in the floor of one--you know the tale?
_Du Mor._ I may have heard it by the winter fires,
--Now ’tis of things gone by.
_Rai._ (_turning from him displeased._) Such legends give
_Some_ minds a deeper tone.
(_To_ Herman.) If _you_ had heard
That tale i’ the shadowy tower----
_Her._ Nay, tell it now!
_Rai._ They say the place is haunted--moaning sounds
Come thence at midnight--sounds of woman’s voice.
_Her._ And you believe----
_Rai._ I but believe the deed
Done there of old. I had an ancestor--
Bertrand, the lion-chief--whose son went forth
(A younger son--I am not of _his_ line)
To the wars of Palestine. He fought there well--
Ay, all his race were brave; but he return’d,
And with a Paynim bride.
_Her._ The recreant!--say,
How bore your ancestor?
_Rai._ Well may you think
It chafed him--but he bore it--for the love
Of that fair son, the child of his old age.
He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel
A place in his own halls.
_Her._ But did this last?
_Rai._ How _should_ it last? Again the trumpet blew,
And men were summon’d from their homes to guard
The city of the Cross. But _he_ seem’d cold--
That youth! He shunn’d his father’s eye, and took
No armour from the walls.
_Her._ Had he then fallen?
Was his faith wavering?
_Rai._ So the father fear’d.
_Her._ If _I_ had been that father----
_Rai._ Ay, _you_ come
Of an honour’d lineage. What would you have done?
_Her._ Nay, what did _he_?
_Rai._ What did the lion-chief?
[_Turning to_ Du Mornay.
Why, _thou_ hast seen the very spot of blood
On the dark floor! He slew the Paynim bride.
Was it not well?
(_He looks at them attentively, and as he goes out exclaims--_)
My brother must not fall!
Scene II.--_A deserted Turkish burying-ground in the city--tombs and
stones overthrown--the whole shaded by dark cypress-trees._
_Mor._
(_leaning over a monumental pillar, which has been lately raised._)
_He_ is at rest;--and I!--is there no power
In grief to win forgiveness from the dead?
When shall I rest? Hark! a step--Aymer’s step!
The thrilling sound!
[_She shrinks back as reproaching herself._
To feel _that_ joy even _here_!
Brother! oh, pardon me!
_Rai._ (_entering, and slowly looking round._)
A gloomy scene!
A place for----Is she not an infidel?
Who shall dare call it murder?
[_He advances to her slowly, and looks at her._
She is fair--
The deeper cause! Maid, have you thought of death
Midst these old tombs?
_Mor._ (_shrinking from him fearfully._) This is my brother’s grave.
_Rai._ _Thy_ brother’s! That a warrior’s grave had closed
O’er _mine_--the free and noble knight he was!
Ay, that the desert-sands had shrouded him
Before he look’d on thee!
_Mor._ If you are _his_--
If Aymer’s brother--though your brow be dark,
I may not fear you!
_Rai._ No? why, _thou_ shouldst fear
The very dust o’ the mouldering sepulchre,
If it had lived, and borne his name on earth!
Hear’st thou?--that dust hath stirr’d, and found a voice,
And said that thou must die!
_Mor._ (_clinging to the pillar as he approaches._)
Be with me, heaven!
You will not _murder_ me?
_Rai._ (_turning away._) A goodly word
To join with a warrior’s name!--a sound to make
Men’s flesh creep. What!--for Paynim blood
Did _he_ stand faltering thus--my ancestor--
In that old tower?
[_He again approaches her--she falls on her knees._
_Mor._ So young, and thus to die!
Mercy--have mercy! In your own far land
If there be love that weeps and watches for you,
And follows you with prayer--even by that love
Spare me--for it is woman’s! If light steps
Have bounded there to meet you, clinging arms
Hung on your neck, fond tears o’erflow’d your cheek,
Think upon those that loved you thus, for thus
Doth woman love! and spare me!--think on them;
They, too, may yet need mercy! Aymer, Aymer!
Wilt _thou_ not hear and aid me?
_Rai._ (_starting._) There’s a name
To bring back strength! Shall I not strike to save
His honour and his life? Were his _life_ all----
_Mor._ To save his life and honour!--will my death----
[_She rises and stands before him,
covering her face hurriedly._
Do it with one stroke! I may not _live_ for him!
_Rai._ (_with surprise._) A woman meet death thus!
_Mor._ (_uncovering her eyes._) Yet one thing more--
I have sisters and a father. Christian knight!
Oh! by your mother’s memory, let them know
I died with a name unstain’d.
_Rai._ (_softened and surprised._)
And such high thoughts from _her_!--an infidel!
And she named my mother!--Once in early youth
From the wild waves I snatch’d a woman’s life;
My mother bless’d me for it
(_slowly dropping his dagger_)--even with tears
She bless’d me. Stay, are there no other means?
(_Suddenly recollecting himself._) Follow me, maiden! Fear not now.
_Mor._ But he--
But Aymer--
_Rai._ (_sternly._) Wouldst thou perish? Name him not!--
Look not as if thou wouldst! Think’st thou dark thoughts
Are blown away like dew-drops? or I, like him,
A leaf to shake and turn i’ the changing wind?
Follow me, and beware!
[_She bends over the tomb for a moment, and follows him._
Aymer _enters, and slowly comes forward from the background._
_Aym._ For the last time--yes! it must be the last!
Earth and heaven say--the last! The very dead
Rise up to part us! But _one_ look--and then
She must go hence for ever! Will she weep?
It had been little to have _died_ for her--
I have borne shame.
She shall know all! Moraima! Said they not
She would be found here at her brother’s grave?
Where should she go? Moraima! There’s the print
Of her step--what gleams beside it?
(_Seeing the dagger, he takes it up._) Ha! men work
Dark deeds with things like this!
[_Looking wildly and anxiously around._
I see no----blood!
[_Looking at the dagger._
Stain’d!--it may be from battle; ’tis not--wet.
[_Looks round, intently listening; then again examines the spot._
Ha!--what is this? another step in the grass!--
Hers and another’s step!
[_He rushes into the cypress-grove._
Scene III.--_A hall in the citadel, hung with arms and banners._
Rainier, Herman--_Knights in the background, laying aside their armour._
_Her._ (_coming forward and speaking hurriedly._)
Is it done? Have you done it?
_Rai._ (_with disgust._) What! you thirst
For blood so deeply?
_Her._ (_indignantly._) Have you struck, and saved
The honour of your house?
_Rai._ (_thoughtfully to himself._) The light i’ the soul
Is such a wavering thing! Have I done well?
(_To_ Herman).
Ask me not! Never shall they meet again.
Is ’t not enough?
Aymer _enters hurriedly with the dagger, and goes up with it to several
of the knights, who begin to gather round the front_.
_Aym._ Whose is this dagger?
_Rai._ (_coming forward and taking it._) Mine.
_Aym._ Yours! yours!--and know you where--
_Rai._ (_about to sheath it, but stopping._)
Oh! you do well
So to remind me! Yes! it must have lain
In the Moslem burial-ground--and that vile dust--
Hence with it! ’tis defiled.
[_Throws it from him._
_Aym._ If such a deed----
Brother! where is she?
_Rai._ Who?--what knight hath lost
A Ladye-love?
_Aym._ Could he speak thus, and wear
That scornful calm, if----No! he is not calm.
What have you done?
_Rai._ (_aside._) Yes! she shall die to him!
_Aym._ (_grasping his arm._) What have you done--speak!
_Rai._ You should know the tale
Of our dark ancestor, the Lion-Chief,
And his son’s bride.
_Aym._ Man! man! you _murder’d_ her!
[_Sinking back._
It grows so dark around me! She is dead!
(_Wildly._) I’ll not believe it! No! she never look’d
Like what could die! [_Goes up to his brother._
If you have done that deed----
_Rai._ (_sternly._) If I have done it, I have flung off shame
From my brave father’s house!
_Aym._ (_in a low voice to himself._)
So young, and dead!--because I loved her--dead!
(_To_ Rainier).
Where is she, murderer? Let me see her face.
You think to hide it with the dust!--ha! ha!
The dust to cover _her_! We’ll mock you still:
If I call her back, she’ll come! Where is she?--speak!
Now, by my father’s tomb! but I am calm.
_Rai._ Never more hope to see her!
_Aym._ Never more!
[_Sitting down on the ground._
I loved her, so she perish’d!--All the earth
Hath not another voice to reach my soul,
Now hers is silent! Never, never more!
If she had but said farewell!--(_Bewildered._) It grows so dark!
This is some fearful dream. When the morn comes I shall wake.
----My life’s bright hours are done!
_Rai._ I must be firm.
(_Takes a banner from the wall, and brings it to_ Aymer.)
Have you forgotten _this_? We thought it lost,
But it rose proudly waving o’er the fight
In a warrior’s hand again! Yours, Aymer! yours!
Brother! redeem your fame!
_Aym._ (_putting it from him._) The worthless thing!
Fame! _She_ is dead!--give a king’s robe to one
Stretch’d on the rack! Hence with your pageantries
Down to the dust!
_Her._ The banner of the Cross!
Shame on the recreant! Cast him from us!
_Rai._ Boy!
Degenerate boy! _Here_, with the trophies won
By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim war
Above you and around; the very air,
When it but shakes their armour on the walls,
Murmuring of glorious deeds; to sit and weep
_Here_ for an Infidel! My father’s son,
Shame! shame! deep shame!
_Knights._ Aymer de Chatillon!
Go from us, leave us!
_Aym._ (_starting up._) Leave you! what! ye thought
That I would stay to breathe the air _you_ breathe!--
And fight by you! Murderers! I burst all ties!
[_Throws his sword on the ground before them._
There’s not a thing of the desert half so free!
(_To_ Rainier.)
You have no brother! Live to need the love
Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame
To still its restless yearnings! Die alone!
Midst all your pomps and trophies--die alone!
[_Going out, he suddenly returns._
Did she not call on me to succour her?
Kneel to you--plead for life? The Voice of Blood
Follow you to your grave!
[_Exit._
_Rai._ (_with emotion._) Alas! my brother!
The time hath been, when in the face of Death
I have bid him leave me, and he would not!
(_Turning to the Knights._) Knights!
The Soldan marches for Jerusalem--
We’ll meet him on the way.
ACT IV.
Scene I.--_Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emir._
Melech, Sadi, _Soldiers_.
_Mel._ Yes! he I mean--Rainier de Chatillon!
Go, send swift riders o’er the mountains forth,
And through the deserts, to proclaim the price
I set upon his life!
_Sadi._ Thou gav’st the word
Before; it hath been done--they are gone forth.
_Mel._ Would that my soul could wing them!
Didst thou heed
To say his _life_? I’ll have my own revenge!
Yes! I would _save_ him from another’s hand!
Thou said’st he must be brought alive?
_Sadi._ I heard
Thy will, and I obey’d.
_Mel._ He slew my son--
That was in battle--but to shed _her_ blood!
My child Moraima’s! Could he see and strike her?
A Christian see her face, too! From my house
The crown is gone! Who brought the tale?
_Sadi._ A slave
Of your late son’s, escaped.
_Mel._ Have I a son
Left? speak, the slave of which? Kaled is gone--
And Octar gone--both, both are fallen--
Both my young stately trees, and she my flower--
No hand but mine shall be upon him, none!--
[_A sound of festive music without._
What mean they there?
[_An attendant enters._
_Att._ Tidings of joy, my chief!
_Mel._ Joy!--is the Christian taken?
Moraima _enters, and throws herself into his arms_.
_Mor._ Father! Father!
I did not think this world had yet so much
Of aught like happiness!
_Mel._ My own fair child!
Is it on _thee_ I look indeed, my child?
[_Turning to attendants._
Away, there!--gaze not on us! Do I hold
_Thee_ in my arms! They told me thou wert slain.
Rainier de Chatillon, they said----
_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) Oh, no!
Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my father.
_Mel._ He! why, his brother Aymer still refused
A monarch’s ransom for thee!
_Mor._ (_with a momentary delight._) Did he thus?
[_Suddenly checking herself._
--Yes! I knew well! Oh! do not speak of him!
_Mel._ What! hath he wrong’d thee? Thou hast suffer’d much
Amongst these Christians! Thou art changed, my child.
There’s a dim shadow in thine eye, where once----
But they shall pay me back for all thy tears
With their best blood.
_Mor._ (_alarmed._) Father! not so, not so!
They still were gentle with me. But I sat
And watch’d beside my dying brother’s couch
Through many days: and I have wept since then--
Wept much.
_Mel._ Thy dying brother’s couch!--yes, thou
Wert ever true and kind.
_Mor._ (_covering her face._) Oh! praise me not!
Look gently on me, or I sink to earth;
Not thus!
_Mel._ No praise! thou’rt faint, my child, and worn:
The length of way hath----
_Mor._ (_eagerly._) Yes! the way was long,
The desert’s wind breath’d o’er me. Could I rest?
_Mel._ Yes! thou shalt rest within thy father’s tent.
Follow me, gentle child! Thou look’st so changed.
_Mor._ (_hurriedly._) The weary way,--the desert’s burning wind----
[_Laying her hand on him as she goes out._
Think thou no evil of those Christians, father!--
They were still kind.
Scene II.--_Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, with a Desert
beyond._--_Military Music._
Rainier de Chatillon--_Knights and Soldiers_.
_Rai._ They speak of truce?
_The Knights._ Even so. Of truce between
The Soldan and our King.
_Rai._ Let him who fears
Lest the close helm should wear his locks away,
Cry “truce,” and cast it off. I have no will
To change mine armour for a masquer’s robe,
And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there!
Warriors and brethren! hear. I own no truce--
I hold my life but as a weapon now
Against the infidel! He shall not reap
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray
To his false gods--no! save by trembling stealth,
Whilst I can grasp a sword! Wherefore, noble friends,
Think not of truce with me!--but think to quaff
Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds
Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back,
[_He throws a spear on the ground before them._
Ye that are weary of your armour’s load:
Pass o’er the spear, away!
_They all shout._ A Chatillon!
We’ll follow thee--all! all!
_Rai._ A soldier’s thanks!
[_Turns away from them agitated._
There’s one face gone, and that a brother’s!
(_Aloud._) War!--
War to the Paynim--war! March and set up
On our stronghold the banner of the Cross,
Never to sink!
[_Trumpets sound. They march on, winding through
the rocks with military music._
_Enter_ Gaston, _an aged vassal of_ Rainier’s, _as an armed
follower_--Rainier _addresses him_.
You come at last! And she--where left you her?
The Paynim maid?
_Gas._ I found her guides, my lord,
Of her own race, and left her on the way
To reach her father’s tents.
_Rai._ Speak low!--the tale
Must rest with us. It must be thought she _died_.
I can trust _you_.
_Gas._ Your father trusted me.
_Rai._ He did, he did!--my father! You have been
Long absent, and you bring a troubled eye
Back with you. Gaston! heard you aught of _him_?
_Gas._ Whom means my lord?
_Rai._ (_impatiently._) Old man, you know too well--
Aymer, my brother.
_Gas._ I have seen him.
_Rai._ How!
Seen him! Speak on.
_Gas._ Another than my chief
Should have my life before the shameful tale!
_Rai._ Speak quickly.
_Gas._ In the desert, as I journey’d back,
A band of Arabs met me on the way,
And I became their captive. Till last night--
_Rai._ Go on! Last night?
_Gas._ They slumber’d by their fires--
_I_ could not sleep; when one--I thought him one
O’ the tribe at first--came up and loosed my bonds,
And led me from the shadow of the tents,
Pointing my way in silence.
_Rai._ Well, and he--
You thought him one o’ the tribe.
_Gas._ Ay, till we stood
In the clear moonlight forth;--and then, my lord----
_Rai._ You dare not say ’twas Aymer?
_Gas._ Woe and shame!
It was, it was!
_Rai._ In their vile garb too?
_Gas._ Yes,
Turban’d and robed like them.
_Rai._ What!--did he speak?
_Gas._ No word, but waved his hand,
Forbidding speech to me.
_Rai._ Tell me no more!--
Lost, lost--for ever lost! He that was rear’d
Under my father’s roof with me, and grew
Up by my side to glory!--lost! Is this
My work?--who dares to call it mine? And yet,
Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul
In its deep anguish----What! he wears their garb
I’ the face of heaven? You saw the turban on him?
You should have struck him to the earth, and so
Put out our shame for ever!
_Gas._ Lift my sword
Against your father’s son!
_Rai._ My father’s son!
Ay, and so loved!--that yearning love for _him_
Was the last thing death conquer’d! See’st thou there?
[_The banner of the Cross is raised on the fortress._
The very banner he redeem’d for us
I’ the fight at Cairo! No! by yon bright sign,
He shall not perish! This way--follow me--
I’ll tell thee of a thought.
(_Suddenly stopping him._) Take heed, old man!
Thou hast a fearful secret in thy grasp:
Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks.
But no! thou lovest our name!--I’ll trust thee, Gaston!
[_Exeunt._
Scene III.--_An Arab Encampment round a few palm-trees in the
Desert--Watch-fires in the background.--Night._
_Several Arabs enter with_ Aymer.
_Arab Chief._ Thou hast fought bravely, stranger;
Now, come on
To share the spoil.
_Aym._ I reck not of it. Go,
Leave me to rest.
_Arab._ Well, thou hast earn’d thy rest
With a red sabre. Be it as thou wilt.
[_They go out.--He throws himself under a palm-tree._
_Aym._ This were an hour--if they would answer us.
--They from whose viewless world no answer comes--
To hear their whispering voices. Would they but
Speak once, and say they loved!
If I could hear thy thrilling voice once more,
It would be well with me. Moraima! speak!
Rainier _enters disguised as a dervise_.
Moraima, speak! No! the dead cannot love!
_Rai._ What doth the stranger here!--is there not mirth
Around the watch-fires yonder?
_Aym._ Mirth!--away!--
I’ve naught to do with mirth. Begone!
_Rai._ They tell
Wild tales by that red light; would’st thou not hear
Of Eastern marvels?
_Aym._ Hence! I heed them not.
_Rai._ Nay, then hear _me_!
_Aym._ _Thee!_
_Rai._ Yes, I know a tale
Wilder than theirs.
_Aym._ (_raising himself in surprise._) Thou know’st!--
_Rai._ (_without minding, continues._) A tale of one
Who flung in madness to the reckless deep
A gem beyond all price.
_Aym._ _My_ day is closed.
What is aught human unto me?
_Rai._ Yet mark!
His name was of the noblest--dost thou heed?--
Even in a land of princely chivalry;
Brightness was on it--but he cast it down.
_Aym._ I will not hear--speak’st _thou_ of chivalry?
_Rai._ Yes! I have been upon thy native hills.
There’s a gray cliff juts proudly from their woods,
Crown’d with baronial towers--rememberest thou?
And there’s a chapel by the moaning sea--
Thou know’st it well--tall pines wave over it,
Darkening the heavy banners, and the tombs.
Is not the cross upon thy fathers’ tombs!--
Christian! what dost thou _here_?
_Aym._ (_starting up indignantly._) Man! who art thou
Thy voice disturbs my soul. Speak! I will know
Thy right to question _me_.
_Rai._ (_throwing off his disguise,
stands before him in the full dress of a Crusader._)
My birth-right!--look!
_Aym._ Brother! (_Retreating from him with horror._)
--Her blood is on your hands!--keep back!
_Rai._ (_scornfully._) Nay, keep the Paynim’s garb from touching mine.
Answer me _thence_!--what dost thou here?
_Aym._ You shrink
From your own work!--you, that have made me thus!
Wherefore are you here? Are you not afraid
To stand beneath the awful midnight sky,
And you a murderer? Leave me.
_Rai._ I lift up
No murderer’s brow to heaven!
_Aym._ You _dare_ speak thus!--
Do not the bright stars, with their searching rays,
Strike through your guilty soul? Oh, no!--tis well,
Passing well! Murder! Make the earth’s harvests grow
With Paynim blood!--_Heaven_ wills it! The free air,
The sunshine--I forgot--they were not made
For infidels. Blot out the race from day!
Who talks of _murder_? Murder! when you die
Claim your soul’s place of happiness i’ the name
Of that good deed!
(_In a tone of deep feeling._)
If you had loved a flower
I would not have destroy’d it!
_Rai._ (_with emotion._) Brother!
_Aym._ (_impetuously._) No!--
No brother now. She knelt to you in vain;
And that hath set a gulf--a boundless gulf--
Between our souls. Your very face is changed--
There’s a red cloud shadowing it: your forehead wears
The marks of blood--_her_ blood!
(_In a triumphant tone._)
But you prevail not! You have made the dead
The mighty--the victorious! Yes! you thought
To dash her image into fragments down,
And you have given it power--such deep sad power,
I see naught else on earth!
_Rai._ (_aside._) I dare not say she lives.
(_To_ Aymer, _holding up the cross of his sword_.)
You see not _this_!
Once by our father’s grave I ask’d, and here,
I’ the silence of the waste, I ask once more--
Have you abjured your faith?
_Aym._ Why are you come
To torture me? No, no! I have not. No!
But you have sent the torrent through my soul,
And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up
Things that were part of it--inborn feelings, thoughts--
I know not what I cling to!
_Rai._ Aymer! yet
Heaven hath not closed its gates! Return, return,
Before the shadow of the palm-tree fades
I’ the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time.
Return,
My brother! By our early days--the love
That nurtured us!--the holy dust of those
That sleep i’ the tomb!--sleep! no, they cannot sleep!
Doth the night bring no voices from the dead
Back on your soul?
_Aym._ (_turning from him._) Yes--_hers_!
_Rai._ (_indignantly turning off._) Why should I strive?
Why doth it cost me these deep throes to fling
A weed off? [_Checking himself._
Brother, hath the stranger come
Between our hearts for ever? Yet return--
Win back your fame, my brother!
_Aym._ Fame again!
Leave me the desert!--leave it me! I hate
Your false world’s glittering draperies, that press down
Th’ o’erlabour’d heart! They have crush’d mine. Your vain
And hollow-sounding words are wasted now:
You should adjure me by the name of _him_
That slew his son’s young bride!--our ancestor--
_That_ were a spell! Fame! fame!--your hand hath rent
The veil from off your world! To speak of fame,
When the soul is parch’d like mine! Away!
I have join’d these men because they war with man,
And all his hollow pomp! Will you go hence?
(_Fiercely._) Why do I talk thus with a _murderer_? Ay,
This is the desert, where _true_ words may rise
Up unto heaven i’ the stillness! Leave it me!--
The free wild desert!
_Arab Chief enters._
_Arab._ Stranger, we have shared
The spoil, forgetting not----A Christian here!
Ho! sons of Kedar!--’tis De Chatillon!
This way!--surround him! There’s an Emir’s wealth
Set on his life! Come on!
[_Several Arabs rush in and surround_ Rainier, _who, after vainly
endeavouring to force his way through them, is made prisoner_.
_Rai._ And he stands there
To see me bought and sold! Death, death!--not chains!
[Aymer, _who has stood for a moment as if bewildered, rushes forward,
and strikes down one of the Arabs_.
_Aym._ Off from my brother, infidel!
[_The others hurry_ Rainier _away_.
(_Recollecting himself._) Why, then, heaven
Is just! So! now I see it! Blood for blood!
[_Again rushing forward._
No! he shall feel _remorse_! I’ll rescue him,
And make him weep for her!
[_Exit._
ACT V.
Scene I.--_A Hall in the Fortress occupied by_ De Chatillon’s
_followers_.
_Knights listening to a Troubadour._
_Her._ No more soft strains of love. Good Vidal, sing
The imprison’d warrior’s lay. There’s a proud tone
Of lofty sadness in it.
Troubadour _sings_.
’Twas a trumpet’s pealing sound!
And the knight look’d down from the Paynim’s tower,
And a Christian host in its pride and power
Through the pass beneath him wound.
“Cease awhile, clarion! clarion, wild and shrill.
Cease! let them hear the captive’s voice--be still!
“I knew ’twas a trumpet’s note!
And I see my brethren’s lances gleam,
And their pennons wave by the mountain-stream,
And their plumes to the glad wind float.
“Cease awhile, clarion! &c.
“I am here with my heavy chain!
And I look on a torrent sweeping by,
And an eagle rushing to the sky,
And a host to its battle-plain!
Cease awhile, clarion! &c.
“Must I pine in my fetters here?
With the wild wave’s foam, and the free bird’s flight,
And the tall spears glancing on my sight,
And the trumpet in mine ear?
Cease awhile, clarion!” &c.[289]
Aymer _enters hurriedly_.
_Aym._ Silence, thou minstrel! silence!
_Her._ Aymer, here!
And in that garb! Seize on the renegade!
Knights he must die!
_Aym._ (_scornfully._) Die! die!--the fearful threat!
To be thrust out of this same blessed world,
Your world--all yours! (_Fiercely._) But I will _not_ be made
A thing to circle with your _pomps_ of death,
Your chains, and guards, and scaffolds! Back! I’ll die
As the free lion dies!
[_Drawing his sabre._
_Her._ What seek’st thou here?
_Aym._ Naught but to give your Christian swords a deed
Worthier than----Where’s your chief? in the Paynim’s bonds!
Made the wild Arabs’ prize! Ay, heaven is just!
If ye will rescue him, then follow me:
I know the way they bore him!
_Her._ Follow thee!
Recreant! deserter of thy house and faith!
To think true knights would follow _thee_ again!
’Tis all some snare--away!
_Aym._ Some snare! Heaven! heaven!
Is my name sunk to this? Must men first crush
My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made?
--Why, let him perish!--blood for blood!--must earth
Cry out in vain? Wine, wine! we’ll revel here!
On, minstrel, with thy song!
Troubadour _continues the song_.
“They are gone--they have all pass’d by!
They in whose wars I had borne my part,
They that I loved with a brother’s heart,
They have left me here to die!
Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound, for the captive’s dream of hope is past!”
_Aym._ (_starting up._) That was the lay he loved in our boyish days--
And he must die forsaken! No, by heaven!
He shall not! Follow me! I say your chief
Is bought and sold! Is there no generous trust
Left in your souls? De Foix, I saved your life
At Ascalon! Du Mornay, you and I
On Jaffa’s wall together set our breasts
Against a thousand spears! What! have I fought
Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents,
And ye can think----
[_Dashing off his turban._
Look on my burning brow!
Read if there’s falsehood branded on it--read
The marks of treachery there!
_Knights, (gathering round him.)_ No, no! come on!
To the rescue! lead us on! we’ll trust thee still!
_Aym._ Follow, then!--this way. If I die for him,
_There_ will be vengeance! He shall think of me
To his last hour!
[_Exeunt._
[289] “She preferred in music whatever was national and melancholy; and
her strains adapted for singing were, of course, framed to the tones
most congenial to the temperament of her own mind. How successfully wed
to the magic of sweet sound many of her verses have been by her sister,
no lover of music need to be reminded. The ‘Roman Girl’s Song’ is full
of a solemn classic beauty; and, in one of her letters, it is said that
of ‘The Captive Knight’ Sir Walter Scott never was weary. Indeed, it
seems in his mind to have been the song of Chivalry, representative
of the English; as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish;
the Cancionella Española of the Spanish; and the Rhine Song of the
Germans.”--_Biographical Sketch by_ Delta, 1836.
Of all Mrs Hemans’s lyrics set to music, ‘The Captive Knight’ has been
the most popular, and deservedly so. It has indeed stirred many a heart
“like the sound of a trumpet.”--_Chorley’s Memorials._
Scene II.--_A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech._
Melech, Sadi.
_Mel._ It must be that these sounds and sights of war
Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek
Fades hourly in my sight! What other cause--
None, none! She must go hence! Choose from thy band
The bravest, Sadi! and the longest tried,
And I will send my child----
_Voice without._ Where is your chief?
De Chatillon _enters, guarded by Arab and Turkish soldiers_.
_Arab Chief._ The sons of Kedar’s tribe have brought to the son
Of the Prophet’s house a prisoner!
_Mel._ (_half drawing his sword._) Chatillon!
That slew my boy! Thanks for the avenger’s hour!
Sadi, their guerdon--give it them--the gold!
And me the vengeance!
(_Looking at_ Rainier, _who holds the upper fragment of his sword, and
seems lost in thought_.)
This is he
That slew my first-born!
_Rai._ (_to himself._) Surely there leap’d up
A brother’s heart within him! Yes, he struck
To the earth a Paynim----
_Mel._ (_raising his voice._) Christian! thou hast been
Our nation’s deadliest foe!
_Rai._ (_looking up and smiling proudly._) ’Tis joy to hear
I have not lived in vain!
_Mel._ Thou bear’st thyself
With a conqueror’s mien! What is thy hope from me?
_Rai._ A soldier’s death.
_Mel._ (_hastily._) Then thou wouldst _fear_ a slave’s?
_Rai._ Fear! As if man’s own spirit had not power
To make his death a triumph! Waste not words;
Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel!
I slew thy son! [_Looking at his broken sword._
Ay, there’s the red mark here!
_Mel._ (_approaching him._)
Thou darest to tell me this!
[_A tumult heard without._
_Voices without._ A Chatillon!
_Rai._ My brother’s voice! _He is saved!_
_Mel._ (_calling._) What, ho! my guards!
Aymer _enters with the knights, fighting their way through_ Melech’s
_soldiers, who are driven before them_.
_Aym._ On with the war-cry of our ancient house:
For the Cross--De Chatillon!
_Knights._ For the Cross--De Chatillon!
[Rainier _attempts to break from his guards_. Sadi _enters with more
soldiers to the assistance of_ Melech. Aymer _and the knights are
overpowered_. Aymer _is wounded and falls_.
_Mel._ Bring fetters--bind the captives!
_Rai._ Lost--all lost!
No! he is saved!
(_Breaking from his guards, he goes up to_ Aymer.)
Brother, my brother! hast thou pardon’d me
That which I did to save thee? Speak! forgive!
_Aym._ (_turning from him._)
Thou see’st I die for thee! She is avenged!
_Rai._ I am no murderer! Hear me! turn to me!
We are parting by the grave!
Moraima _enters veiled, and goes up to_ Melech.
_Mor._ Father! Oh! look not sternly on thy child.
I came to plead. They said thou hast condemn’d
A Christian knight to die----
_Mel._ Hence--to thy tent!
Away--begone!
_Aym._ (_attempting to rise._) Moraima! hath her spirit come
To make death beautiful? Moraima! speak.
_Mor._ It was his voice! Aymer!
[_She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil._
_Aym._ Thou liv’st--thou liv’st!
I knew thou couldst not die! Look on me still
Thou livest! and makest this world so full of joy--
But I depart!
_Mel._ (_approaching her._) Moraima! hence! Is this
A place for thee?
_Mor._ Away! away!
There is no place but this for me on earth!
Where should I go? There is no place but this!
My soul is bound to it!
_Mel._ (_to the guards._) Back, slaves! and look not on her!
[_They retreat to the background._
’Twas for this
She droop’d to the earth.
_Aym._ Moraima, fare thee well!
Think on me! I have loved thee! I take hence
That deep love with my soul! for well I know
It must be deathless!
_Mor._ Oh! thou hast not known
What _woman’s_ love is! Aymer, Aymer, stay!
If I could die for thee! My heart is grown
So strong in its despair!
_Rai._ (_turning from them._) And all the past
Forgotten!--our young days! His last thoughts _hers_!
The Infidel’s!
_Aym._ (_with a violent effort turning his head round._)
Thou art no murderer! Peace
Between us--peace, my brother! In our deaths
We shall be join’d once more!
_Rai._ (_holding the cross of the sword before him._)
Look yet on this!
_Aym._ If thou hadst only told me that she lived!
--But our hearts meet at last!
[_Presses the cross to his lips._
Moraima! save my brother! Look on me! Joy--there is joy in death!
[_He dies on_ Rainier’s _arm_.
_Mor._ Speak--speak once more! Aymer! how is it that I call on thee,
And that thou answer’st not? Have we not loved? Death! death!--and this
is--death! _Rai._ So thou art gone, Aymer! I never thought to weep
again-- But now--farewell! Thou wert the bravest knight That e’er laid
lance in rest--and thou didst wear The noblest form that ever woman’s
eye Dwelt on with love; and till that fatal dream Came o’er thee!
Aymer! Aymer! thou wert still The most true-hearted brother! There thou
art Whose breast was once my shield! I never thought That foes should
see me weep! but there thou art, Aymer, my brother!----
_Mor._ (_suddenly rising._) With his last, last breath He bade me save
his brother!
(_Falling at Melech’s feet_.) Father, spare The Christian--spare him!
_Mel._ For _thy_ sake spare _him_ That slew thy father’s son!--Shame to
thy race!
(_To the soldiers in the background._)
Soldiers! come nearer with your levell’d spears! Yet nearer!--gird him
in! My boy’s young blood Is on his sword. Christian, abjure thy faith,
Or die: thine hour is come!
_Rai._ (_turning and throwing himself on the weapons of the
soldiers._) Thou hast mine answer, Infidel!
[_Calling aloud to the knights as he falls back._
Knights of France! Herman! De Foix! Du Mornay! be ye strong! _Your_
hour will come!---- Must the old war-cry cease?
[_Half raising himself, and waving the cross triumphantly._
For the Cross--De Chatillon!
[_He dies._
(_The curtain falls._)
ANNOTATION ON “DE CHATILLON.”
[“The merits of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ are more of a descriptive
than of a strictly dramatic kind; and abounding as it does with fine
passages of narrative beauty, and with striking scenes and situations,
it is not only not adapted for representation, but, on the contrary,
the characters are developed by painting much more than by incident.
Withal, it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not
rhetorical but diffuse.
“From the previous writings of the same author, and until the
appearance of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ it seemed to be the prevalent
opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs Hemans was not of a
dramatic cast--that it expatiated too much in the development of
sentiment, too much in the luxuriancy of description, to be ever
brought under the trammels essentially necessary for the success of
scenic dialogue.
“The merits of ‘The Vespers’ are great, and have been acknowledged to
be so, not only by the highest of contemporary literary authorities,
but by the still more unequivocal testimony of theatrical applause.
What ‘has been, has been,’ and we wish not to detract one iota from
praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the
perusal of ‘De Chatillon,’ (although that poem is probably not quite
in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by
its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion,
that the most successful path of Mrs Hemans did not lead her towards
the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered;
and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters
of Rainier--so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, and now by
public duty--and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where
inclination is opposed to principle--that, by the cultivation of this
species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate
of the author of ‘De Chatillon,’ that tragedy, noble as it is, which
must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all
probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts.
“Mrs Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident
that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this
class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what
has been conventionally termed the dramatic poem--from the ‘Historic
Scenes’ to ‘Sebastian’ and ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ but ‘The Vespers
of Palermo’ and ‘De Chatillon’ can alone be said to be her legitimate
dramas.
“The last, however, must be ranked first, by many degrees of
comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and
poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in
a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many
modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of
dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality
amid scenes allied with romance--brevity and effect, in situations
strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of
the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is
exhibited a knowledge of nature’s workings, at once minute, faithful,
and affecting.”--_MS. Critique by_ Δ.]
THE FOREST SANCTUARY.
“Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled and suffer’d bonds.” _Remorse; a Tragedy._
[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts,
as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the
religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century,
takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story
is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has
afforded him an asylum.]
I.
The voices of my home!--I hear them still!
They have been with me through the dreamy night--
The blessed household voices, wont to fill
My heart’s clear depths with unalloy’d delight!
I hear them still, unchanged: though some from earth
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth--
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright--
Have died in others; yet to me they come
Singing of boyhood back--the voices of my home!
II.
They call me through this hush of woods reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn;
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born.
Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst
On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst,
E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say--
Oh! for the dove’s swift wings, that I might flee away,
III.
And find mine ark! Yet whither? I must bear
A yearning heart within me to the grave.
I am of those o’er whom a breath of air--
Just darkening in its course the lake’s bright wave,
And sighing through the feathery canes--hath power
To call up shadows, in the silent hour,
From the dim past, as from a wizard’s cave!
So must it be! These skies above me spread:
Are they my own soft skies?--Ye rest not here, my dead!
IV.
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear;
Save one! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o’er _one_ gentle head. Ye rest not here!--
’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear;
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.
V.
Peace!--I will dash these fond regrets to earth,
Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain
From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth,
And lineage, and once home,--my native Spain!
My own bright land--my fathers’ land--my child’s!
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds?
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain--
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze;
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe--thy gifts are these!
VI.
A blighted name! I hear the winds of morn--
Their sounds are not of this! I hear the shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver
Their sounds are not of this!--the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur’d by the joyous river!
What part hath mortal name, where God alone
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?
VII.
Is it not much that I may worship Him
With naught my spirit’s breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn’d at last to know _His_ voice
From man’s? I will rejoice!--my soaring soul
Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day,
And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!
VIII.
And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise;
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast,
When I have check’d its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise!
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer,
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?
IX.
Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?
Within thy fathers’ halls thou wilt not dwell,
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior’s joy,
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves?
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel,
As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne,
Casting in falsehood’s mould th’ indignant brow of scorn.
X.
This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!
I have not sorrow’d, struggled, lived in vain.
Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade
The flood’s voice, and the wind’s, by swells pervade;
Hear me! ’Tis well to die, and not complain;
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must speak,
E’en in the desert’s ear to pour itself, or break!
XI.
I see an oak before me:[290] it hath been
The crown’d one of the woods; and might have flung
Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green;
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung,
From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing,
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing,
Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among.
Alas! alas! what is it that I see?
An image of man’s mind, land of my sires, with thee!
XII.
Yet art thou lovely! Song is on thy hills:
O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain!
Your sounds are on the rocks:--that I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!
And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place
With the old tuneful names of Spain’s heroic race.
XIII.
But there was silence one bright, golden day,
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone,
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,
And from the fields the peasant’s voice was gone;
And the red grapes untrodden strew’d the ground;
And the free flocks, untended, roam’d around.
Where was the pastor?--where the pipe’s wild tone?
Music and mirth were hush’d the hills among,
While to the city’s gates each hamlet pour’d its throng.
XIV.
Silence upon the mountains! But within
The city’s gate a rush, a press, a swell
Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win;
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell,
A dead pause following each--like that which parts
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts
Fast in the hush of fear--knell after knell;
And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder-rain
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane!
XV.
What pageant’s hour approach’d? The sullen gate
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state,
Came forth, led slowly o’er its threshold-stone?
They that had learn’d, in cells of secret gloom,
How sunshine is forgotten! They to whom
The very features of mankind were grown
Things that bewilder’d! O’er that dazzled sight
They lifted their wan hands, and cower’d before the light!
XVI.
To this, man brings his brother! Some were there,
Who, with their desolation, had entwined
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind
The breastplate on for fight; but brow and cheek
Seem’d _theirs_ a torturing panoply to speak!
And there were some, from whom the very mind
Had been wrung out; they smiled--oh, startling smile,
Whence man’s high soul is fled! Where doth it sleep the while?
XVII.
But onward moved the melancholy train,
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die.
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain--
Heaven’s offering from the land of chivalry!
Through thousands, thousands of their race they moved--
Oh, how unlike all others!--the beloved,
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye
Grew fix’d before them, while a people’s breath
Was hush’d, and its one soul bound in the thought of death!
XVIII.
It might be that, amidst the countless throng,
There swell’d some heart with pity’s weight oppress’d:
For the wide stream of human love is strong;
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast
Childhood is rear’d, and at whose knee the sigh
Of its first prayer is breathed--she, too, was nigh.
But life is dear, and the free footstep bless’d,
And home a sunny place, where each may fill
Some eye with glistening smiles,--and therefore all were still.
XIX.
All still,--youth, courage, strength!--a winter laid,
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind!
Still, as at noon a southern forest’s shade,
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind,
Still, as a frozen torrent! But the wave
Soon leaps to foaming freedom; they, the brave,
Endured--they saw the martyr’s place assign’d
In the red flames--whence is the withering spell
That numbs each human pulse? They saw, and thought it well.
XX.
And I, too, thought it well! That very morn
From a far land I came, yet round me clung
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe
I watch’d the fearful rites; and if there sprung
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up,
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt’s own poison-cup.
XXI.
But I was waken’d as the dreamers waken,
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,
And they must battle till their blood is shed
On their own threshold floor. A path for light
Through my torn breast was shatter’d by the might
Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom’s tread
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain,
Making the blighted place all green with life again.
XXII.
Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass
Of cloud o’ersweeping, without wind, the sky,
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass,
And mark’d its victims with a tearless eye.
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each to reveal some secret of man’s thought,
On the sharp edge of sad mortality;
Till in his place came one--oh! could it be?
My friend, my heart’s first friend!--and did I gaze on thee!
XXIII.
On thee! with whom in boyhood I had play’d,
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams;
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid
Bare, as to heaven’s, its glowing world of dreams;
And by whose side midst warriors I had stood,
And in whose helm was brought--oh, earn’d with blood!--
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams
Smote on my fever’d brow! Ay, years had pass’d,
Severing our paths, brave friend!--and _thus_ we met at last!
XXIV.
I see it still--the lofty mien thou borest!
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power--
The very look that once thou brightly worest,
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
Midst the white Andes--even as mountain deer,
Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower
We rent our way, a tempest of despair!
And thou--hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!
XXV.
I call the fond wish back--for thou hast perish’d
More nobly far, my Alvar!--making known
The might of truth;[291] and be thy memory cherish’d
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne
Have pour’d their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,
Filling man’s heart and home with records of the dead.
XXVI.
Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread sight
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies,
But the scarce-own’d unwhisper’d thought of night,
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies;
_Thou_ know’st--whose eye through shade and depth can see,
That this man’s crime was but to worship thee,
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice,
The call’d of yore--wont by the Saviour’s side
On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide.
XXVII.
For the strong spirit will at times awake,
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode;
And, born of thee, she may not always take
Earth’s accents for the oracles of God;
And even for this--O dust, whose mask is power!
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour!
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod,
And therefore thou destroyest!--where were flown
Our hopes, if man were left to man’s decree alone!
XXVIII.
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw
A sudden freshness back on vanish’d days,
Like water-drops on some dim picture’s hue;
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood
Where banners floated, and my heart’s quick blood
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,
And he--his sword was like a brother’s worn,
That watches through the field his mother’s youngest born.
XXIX.
But a lance met me in that day’s career--
Senseless I lay amidst the o’ersweeping fight;
Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear,
That scene on memory flash’d!--the shivery light,
Moonlight, on broken shields--the plain of slaughter,
The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water--
And Alvar bending o’er me--from the night
Covering me with his mantle. All the past
Flow’d back; my soul’s far chords all answer’d to the blast.
XXX.
Till, in that rush of visions, I became
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound,
Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame,
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound,
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things!
Troubled even thus I stood, but chain’d and bound
On that familiar form mine eye to keep:
Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!
XXXI.
He pass’d me--and what next? I look’d on two,
Following his footsteps to the same dread place,
For the same guilt--his sisters![292] Well I knew
The beauty on those brows, though each young face
Was changed--so deeply changed!--a dungeon’s air
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear.
And ye, O daughters of a lofty race,
Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!--flowers
So cherish’d! were ye then but rear’d for those dark hours?
XXXII.