The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Felicia Hemans

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Title: The Poems of Felicia Hemans

Author: Mrs. Hemans

Release date: November 21, 2021 [eBook #66785]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Tim Lindell, SF2001, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS ***
Cover

POEMS

OF

FELICIA HEMANS

MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE.

[Pg ii]


[Pg iii]

Felicia Hemans

THE POEMS
OF
FELICIA HEMANS.

COMPLETE COPYRIGHT EDITION.


WILLIAM P. NIMMO,
LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND;
AND EDINBURGH.

1875.


[Pg v]

CONTENTS

JUVENILE POEMS.
Page
On my Mother’s Birthday. Written at the age of eight1
A Prayer. Written at the age of nineib.
Address to the Deity. Written at the age of elevenib.
Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven2
To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the age of elevenib.
Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelveib.
Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen3
Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteenib.
Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteenib.
England and Spain; or, Valour and Patriotism. Written at the age of fourteen4
 
THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c.
The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend10
To my Mother11
To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, after the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore and the battle of Corunnaib.
To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal12
Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smithib.
The Ruin and its Flowers13
Christmas Carol14
The Domestic Affections15
To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway19
Epitaph on Mr W——, a celebrated Mineralogist20
Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogistib.
Prologue to The Poor Gentleman. As intended to be performed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at Clonmel21
 
THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY22
 
MODERN GREECE28
Critical Annotations42
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS
AND OTHER POETS.
Sonnet 7043
Sonnet 282 From Psalm 137ib.
Part of Eclogue 1544
Sonnet 27144
Sonnet 186ib.
Sonnet 10844
Sonnet 23 To a Lady who died at Sea45
Sonnet 19ib.
“Que estranho caso de amor!”ib.
Sonnet 58ib.
Sonnet 178ib.
Sonnet 8046
Sonnet 239 From Psalm 137ib.
Sonnet 128ib.
“Polomeu apartamento”ib.
Sonnet 20547
Sonnet 133ib.
Sonnet 181ib.
Sonnet 278ib.
“Mi nueve y dulce querella”ib.
 
Metastasio.—“Dunque si sfoga in pianto”ib.
— “Al furor d’avversa Sorte”48
— “Quella onda che ruina”ib.
—“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie”ib.
—“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine”ib.
—“Parlagli d’un periglio”ib.
—“Sprezza il furor del vento”ib.
—“Sol può dir che sia contento”ib.
—“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”49
Vincenzo da Filicaja.—“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte”ib.
Pastorini.—“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio”ib.
Lope de Vega.—“Estese el cortesano”ib.
Francisco Manuel.—On ascending a Hill leading to a Conventib.
Della Casa.—Venice50
Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio.—“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso”ib.
Quevedo.—Rome buried in her own Ruinsib.
El conde Juan de Tarsis.—“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos”ib.
Torquato Tasso.—“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa”ib.
Bernardo Tasso.—“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole”51
Petrarch.—“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura”ib.
— “Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde”ib.
Pietro Bembo.—“O Muerte! que sueles ser”ib.
Francesco Lorenzini.—“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai”ib.
Gesner.—Morning Song52
German Song.—“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen”ib.
Chaulieu.—“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau”ib.
Garcilaso de Vega.—“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera”52[Pg vi]
Lorenzo de Medici.—Violets53
Pindemonte.—On the Hebe of Canovaib.
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore54
Dirge of a Childib.
Invocation55
To the Memory of General Sir E—D P—K—Mib.
To the Memory of Sir H—Y E—LL—S, who fell in the battle of Waterloo56
Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the Spanish patriot Minaib.
The Aged Indian,ib.
Evening amongst the Alps57
Dirge of the Highland Chief in “Waverley”ib.
The Crusaders’ War-Song58
The Death of Clanronaldib.
To the Eye59
The Hero’s Death,ib.
Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotteib.
 
WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.63
Advertisement by the Author, &c.ib.
 
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
The Abencerrage67
The Widow of Crescentius85
The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra93
Alaric in Italy95
The Wife of Asdrubal97
Heliodorus in the Temple98
Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi’s “Républiques Italiennes”99
The Troubadour and Richard Cœur-de-Lion101
The Death of Conradin103
Critical Annotations105
 
THE SCEPTIC106
Critical Annotations113
 
SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION114
 
ITALIAN LITERATURE.
The Basvigliana of Monti118
The Alcestis of Alfieri121
Il Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandro Manzoni125
Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti133
 
PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.
Vincenzo da Filicaja138
Carlo Maria Maggiib.
Alessandro Marchettiib.
Alessandro Pegolottiib.
Francesco Maria de Conti.—The Shore of Africaib.
——
Jeu-d’Esprit on the word “Barb”139
The Fever-Dreamib.
 
DARTMOOR141
 
WELSH MELODIES.
The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas145
Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romansib.
The Green Isles of Ocean146
The Sea-Song of Gafranib.
The Hirlas Hornib.
The Hall of Cynddylan147
The Lament of Llywarch Henib.
Grufydd’s Feast148
The Cambrian in Americaib.
Taliesin’s Prophecyib.
Owen Glyndwr’s War-Song149
Prince Madoc’s Farewellib.
Caswallon’s Triumph150
Howel’s Songib.
The Mountain Firesib.
Eryri Wen151
Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I.ib.
The Dying Bard’s Prophecy152
The Fair Isle. For the melody called the “Welsh Ground”ib.
The Rock of Cader Idrisib.
 
THE VESPERS OF PALERMO153
Critical Annotations186
——
Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third187
 
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
The Maremma191
A Tale of the Secret Tribunal194
The Caravan in the Deserts210
Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage212
A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment213
Belshazzar’s Feast219
The Last Constantine221
Annotations on the Last Constantine234
The League of the Alps; or, the Meeting of the Field of Grütliib.
 
SONGS OF THE CID.
The Cid’s Departure into Exile238
The Cid’s Deathbedib.
The Cid’s Funeral Procession239
The Cid’s Rising241
 
GREEK SONGS.
The Storm of Delphi241
The Bowl of Liberty242
The Voice of Scio243
The Spartans’ Marchib.
The Urn and Sword244
The Myrtle Boughib.
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
On a Flower from the Field of Grütli244
On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil245
The Chieftain’s Sonib.
A Fragmentib.
England’s Dead246
The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 22, 1822246[Pg vii]
The Voice of Spring247
Elysium249
The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue250
The Tombs of Platæa251
The View from Castriib.
The Festal Hour252
Song of the Battle of Morgarten253
Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and his army in Africa. Translated from the Spanish of Herrera254
 
SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL256
 
THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA262
Advertisement by the Author,ib.
Critical Annotations292
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote293
Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck294
The Cross of the Southib.
The Sleeper of Marathon295
To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthdayib.
Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Sameib.
To the Same, on the Death of her Mother296
From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vegaib.
From the Italian of Sannazaroib.
Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. Translated from Camoens297
A Dirge298
 
TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE
To Venus298
To his Attendantib.
To Delius299
To the Fountain of Bandusiaib.
To Faunusib.
 
DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS300
Critical Annotations315
 
THE FOREST SANCTUARY316
Critical Annotations336
 
LAYS OF MANY LANDS.
Moorish Bridal-Song338
The Bird’s Releaseib.
The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend339
Valkyriur Song340
The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition341
Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle342
The Messenger Bird343
Answer to The Messenger Bird, by an American Quaker Ladynote, ib.
The Stranger in Louisianaib.
The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition344
The Bended Bow345
He never smiled again346
Cœur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Fatherib.
The Vassal’s Lament for the Fallen Tree347
The Wild Huntsman348
Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of La Motte Fouqué348
The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition349
Ancient Greek Song of Exileib.
Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologueib.
Greek Parting Song351
The Suliote Mother352
The Farewell to the Dead353
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
I go, Sweet Friends!354
Angel Visitsib.
Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the Rhineib.
To one of the Author’s children on his Birthday355
On a Similar Occasionib.
Christ Stilling the Tempestib.
Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers356
Monumental Inscriptionib.
The Sound of the Seaib.
The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey’s statue of Lady Louisa Russell357
A Dirgeib.
Scene in a Dalecarlian Mineib.
English Soldier’s Song of Memory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!”358
Haunted Groundib.
The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the Memoirs of John Hunter359
Stanzas to the Memory of * * *360
The Vaudois Valleysib.
Song of the Spanish Wanderer361
The Contadina. Written for a Pictureib.
Troubadour Songib.
The Treasures of the Deepib.
Bring Flowers362
The Crusader’s Return363
Thekla’s Song; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the German of Schiller364
The Revellersib.
The Conqueror’s Sleep365
Our Lady’s Wellib.
The Parting of Summer366
The Songs of our Fathersib.
The World in the Open Air367
Kindred Heartsib.
The Traveller at the Source of the Nile368
Casabianca369
The Dial of Flowersib.
Our Daily Paths370
The Cross in the Wilderness371
Last Rites372
The Hebrew Motherib.
The Wreck373
The Trumpet374
Evening Prayer at a Girls’ Schoolib.
The Hour of Death375
The Lost Pleiadib.
The Cliffs of Dover376
The Graves of Martyrsib.
The Hour of Prayer377
The Voice of Home to the Prodigalib.
The Wakening378
The Breeze from Shoreib.
The Dying Improvisatore379[Pg viii]
Music of Yesterdayib.
The Forsaken Hearth380
The Dreamerib.
The Wings of the Dove381
Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure382
The Boon of Memoryib.
Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon383
 
RECORDS OF WOMAN.
Arabella Stuart385
The Bride of the Greek Isle388
The Bride’s Farewell389
The Switzer’s Wife391
Properzia Rossi392
Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death394
Imeldaib.
Edith. A Tale of the Woods396
The Indian City398
The Peasant Girl of the Rhone401
Indian Woman’s Death-Song402
Joan of Arc in Rheims403
Pauline404
Juana405
The American Forest Girl406
Costanza407
Madeline. A Domestic Tale408
The Queen of Prussia’s Tomb409
The Memorial Pillar410
The Grave of a Poetess411
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Homes of England412
The Sicilian Captiveib.
Ivan the Czar413
Carolan’s Prophecy414
The Lady of the Castle. From the “Portrait Gallery,” an unfinished poem416
The Mourner for the Barmecides417
The Spanish Chapel418
The Kaiser’s Feast419
Tasso and his Sister420
Ulla; or, The Adjuration421
To Wordsworth422
A Monarch’s Death-bed423
To the Memory of Heberib.
The Adopted Childib.
Invocation424
Körner and his Sisterib.
The Death-Day of Körner425
An Hour of Romance427
A Voyager’s Dream of Landib.
The Effigies428
The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England429
The Spirit’s Mysteriesib.
The Departed430
The Palm-Treeib.
The Child’s Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of Chantrey’s431
The Sunbeamib.
Breathings of Spring432
The Illuminated Cityib.
The Spells of Home433
Roman Girl’s Songib.
The Distant Ship434
The Birds of Passageib.
The Graves of a Household435
Mozart’s Requiemib.
The Image in Lava436
Christmas Carol437
A Father Reading the Bibleib.
The Meeting of the Brothersib.
The Last Wish438
Fairy Favours439
Critical Annotations440
 
SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
A Spirit’s Return442
The Lady of Provence446
The Coronation of Inez de Castro448
Italian Girl’s Hymn to the Virgin449
To a Departed Spiritib.
The Chamois Hunter’s Love450
The Indian with his Dead Childib.
Song of Emigration451
The King of Arragon’s Lament for his Brother452
The Return453
The Vaudois Wifeib.
The Guerilla Leader’s Vow454
Thekla at her Lover’s Grave455
The Sisters of Scioib.
Bernardo del Carpio456
The Tomb of Madame Langhans457
The Exile’s Dirgeib.
The Dreaming Child458
The Charmed Pictureib.
Parting Words459
The Message to the Deadib.
The Two Homes460
The Soldier’s Death-bed461
The Image in the Heartib.
The Land of Dreams462
Woman on the Field of Battleib.
The Deserted House463
The Stranger’s Heart464
To a Remembered Pictureib.
Come Home465
The Fountain of Oblivionib.
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Bridal-Day466
The Ancestral Song467
The Magic Glass468
Corinne at the Capitol469
The Ruinib.
The Minster470
The Song of Night471
The Storm-Painter in his Dungeonib.
The Two Voices472
The Parting Ship473
The Last Tree of the Forestib.
The Streams474
The Voice of the Wind475
The Vigil of Arms476
The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbeyib.
Nature’s Farewell477
The Beings of the Mindib.
The Lyre’s Lament478
Tasso’s Coronation479[Pg ix]
The Better Landib.
The Wounded Eagle480
Sadness and Mirthib.
The Nightingale’s Death-Song481
The Diverib.
The Requiem of Genius482
Triumphant Music483
Second-Sightib.
The Sea-Bird flying inland484
The Sleeperib.
The Mirror in the Deserted Hallib.
To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet485
The Star of the Mineib.
Washington’s Statue. Sent from England to Americaib.
A Thought of Home at Sea486
To the Memory of a Sister-in-Lawib.
To an Orphanib.
Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother487
Where is the Sea? Song of the Greek Islander in Exileib.
To my own Portraitib.
No More488
Passing Away489
The Anglerib.
Death and the Warrior490
Song. For an air by Hummelib.
To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl, who died in the cause and lamented by the people of Greeceib.
The Broken Chain491
The Shadow of a Flowerib.
Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skullib.
The Bell at Sea492
The Subterranean Streamib.
The Silent Multitude493
The Antique Sepulchreib.
Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants494
The Memory of the Deadib.
He walked with God495
The Rod of Aaronib.
The Voice of Godib.
The Fountain of Marah496
The Penitent’s Offeringib.
The Sculptured Childrenib.
Woman and Fame497
A Thought of the Future498
The Voice of Musicib.
The Angel’s Greeting499
A Farewell to Walesib.
Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on receiving from her some Flowers when confined by illnessib.
A Parting Song500
We return no moreib.
To a Wandering Female Singer501
Lights and Shadesib.
The Palmerib.
The Child’s First Grief502
To the New-Bornib.
The Death-Song of Alcestisib.
The Home of Love503
Books and Flowers504
For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels505
The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a picture of Eastlake’s506
The Child’s Return from the Woodlands506
The Faith of Love507
The Sister’s Dream,ib.
A Farewell to Abbotsford508
O’Connor’s Childib.
The Prayer for Life509
The Welcome to Deathib.
The Victor510
Lines written for the Album at Rosannaib.
The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene of a recent Shipwreck511
The Haunted Houseib.
The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps512
To the Mountain-Winds514
The Procession515
The Broken Luteib.
The Burial in the Desert516
To a Picture of the Madonna517
A Thought of the Rose518
Dreams of Heavenib.
The Wish 519
Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the county of Kilkennyib.
Epitaph520
Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiescoib.
To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitaristib.
O ye Hours!ib.
The Freed Bird521
Marguerite of Franceib.
The Wanderer523
The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotlandib.
To Caroline524
The Flower of the Desertib.
Critical Annotationsib.
 
HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD.
Introductory Verses528
The Rainbow529
The Sunib.
The Riversib.
The Stars530
The Oceanib.
The Thunder-storm531
The Birdsib.
The Skylark. Child’s Morning Hymn532
The Nightingale. Child’s Evening Hymnib.
The Northern Spring533
Paraphrase of Psalm 148ib.
 
NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC.
 
NATIONAL LYRICS.
The Themes of Song534
Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!”ib.
A Song of Delos535
Ancient Greek Chant of Victory536
Naples. A Song of the Syrenib.
The Fall of D’Assas. A Ballad of France537
The Burial of William the Conquerorib.
 
SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT.
Near thee! still near thee!538
Oh! Droop thou notib.
 
SONGS OF SPAIN.[Pg x]
Ancient Battle-Song539
The Zegri Maidib.
The Rio Verde Songib.
Seek by the Silvery Darro540
Spanish Evening Hymnib.
Bird that art Singing on Ebro’s Side!ib.
Moorish Gathering-Songib.
The Song of Mina’s Soldiers541
Mother! Oh, sing me to restib.
There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvallesib.
 
SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.
And I too in Arcadia541
The Wandering Wind542
Ye are not miss’d, fair Flowers!ib.
The Willow Songib.
Leave me not yet543
The Orange Boughib.
The Stream set Freeib.
The Summer’s Callib.
Oh! Skylark, for thy Wing!544
 
SONGS OF CAPTIVITY.
Introduction545
The Brother’s Dirgeib.
The Alpine Hornib.
O ye Voices!ib.
I Dream of all things Free546
Far o’er the Seaib.
The Invocationib.
The Song of Hopeib.
 
MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS.
The Call to Battle547
Mignon’s Song. Translated from Goetheib.
The Sisters. A Ballad548
The Last Song of Sappho549
Dirgeib.
A Song of the Rose550
Night-Blowing Flowers551
The Wanderer and the Night-Flowersib.
Echo-Songib.
The Muffled Drum552
The Swan and the Skylarkib.
The Curfew-Song of England553
Genius Singing to Love554
Music at a Deathbedib.
Marshal Schwerin’s Grave555
The Fallen Lime-Treeib.
The Bird at Sea556
The Dying Girl and Flowersib.
The Ivy-Song557
The Music of St Patrick’sib.
Keene; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son Far Away558
The Lyre and Flower559
Sister! since I met thee lastib.
The Lonely Birdib.
Dirge at Seaib.
Pilgrim’s Song to the Evening Star560
The Meeting of the Shipsib.
Come Awayib.
Fair Helen of Kirkconnel561
Music from Shoreib.
Look on me with thy cloudless eyes561
If thou hast crush’d a flower562
Brightly hast thou fledib.
The Bed of Heathib.
Fairy Songib.
What Woke the Buried Sound563
Sing to me, Gondolier!ib.
Look on me thus no moreib.
O’er the far blue Mountainsib.
O thou Breeze of Spring!ib.
Come to me, Dreams of Heaven!564
Good-Nightib.
Let her Departib.
How can that Love so deep, so lone565
Water-Lilies. A Fairy Songib.
The Broken Flowerib.
I would we had not met againib.
Fairies’ Recallib.
The Rock beside the Sea566
O ye Voices gone!ib.
By a Mountain-Stream at restib.
Is there some Spirit sighingib.
The Name of England567
Old Norway. A Mountain War-songib.
Come to me, Gentle Sleep!ib.
 
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.
Preface568
The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen Maryib.
Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness572
Cathedral Hymn574
Wood Walk and Hymn576
Prayer of the Lonely Student577
The Traveller’s Evening Song579
Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forestsib.
Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard581
The Child Reading the Bible583
A Poet’s Dying Hymnib.
The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott585
The Prayer in the Wilderness586
Prisoners’ Evening Service. A Scene of the French Revolution587
Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Persecution588
Prayer at Sea after Victory589
The Indian’s Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moravian Missionary590
Evening Song of the Weary592
The Day of Flowersib.
Hymn of the Traveller’s Household on his Return—in the Olden Time594
The Painter’s Last Work595
A Prayer of Affection596
Mother’s Litany by the Sick-bed of a Childib.
Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody by Felton597
 
SONNETS.
 
FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE.
Invocationib.
Invocation continuedib.
The Song of Miriam598
Ruth598[Pg xi]
The Vigil of Rizpahib.
The Reply of the Shunamite Womanib.
The Annunciationib.
The Song of the Virgin599
The Penitent anointing Christ’s Feetib.
Mary at the Feet of Christib.
The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarusib.
The Memorial of Mary599
The Women of Jerusalem at the Crossib.
Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre600
Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrectionib.
 
SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.
The Sacred Harp600
To a Family Bibleib.
Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Pictureib.
Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers601
On a Remembered Picture of Christ—an Ecce Homo by Leonardo da Vinciib.
The Children whom Jesus Blessedib.
Mountain Sanctuariesib.
The Lilies of the Fieldib.
The Birds of the Air602
The Raising of the Widow’s Sonib.
The Olive Treeib.
The Darkness of the Crucifixionib.
Places of Worshipib.
Old Church in an English Park603
A Church in North Walesib.
Louise Scheplerib.
To the Sameib.
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Two Monuments604
The Cottage Girlib.
The Battle-Field605
A Penitent’s Returnib.
A Thought of Paradise606
Let us Departib.
On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross—painted by Velasquez607
Communings with Thoughtib.
The Water-Lily608
The Song of Penitence. Unfinished609
Troubadour Songib.
The English Boyib.
To the Blue Anemone610
 
SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE.
Scenes from “Tasso”611
Scenes from “Iphigenia.” A Fragment616
 
RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834.
A Vernal Thought617
To the Skyib.
On Records of Immature Geniusib.
On Watching the Flight of a Skylark618
A Thought of the Seaib.
Distant Sound of the Sea at Eveningib.
The River Clwyd in North Walesib.
Orchard-Blossoms619
To a Distant Sceneib.
A Remembrance of Grasmereib.
Thoughts connected with Treesib.
The Sameib.
On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood620
A Thought at Sunsetib.
Images of Patriarchal Lifeib.
Attraction of the Eastib.
To an Aged Friend620
A Happy Hour621
Foliageib.
A Prayerib.
Prayer continuedib.
Memorial of a Conversation622
 
RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834.
The Return to Poetry622
To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his “Prigione”ib.
To the Same releasedib.
On a Scene in the Dargle623
On the Datura Arboreaib.
On Reading Coleridge’s Epitaphib.
Design and Performanceib.
Hope of Future Communion with Natureib.
Dreams of the Dead624
The Poetry of the Psalmsib.
Despondency and Aspirationib.
The Huguenot’s Farewell626
Antique Greek Lament627
 
THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.
Intellectual Powers627
Sickness like Nightib.
On Retzsch’s Design of the Angel of Deathib.
Remembrance of Natureib.
Flight of the Spiritib.
Flowersib.
Recovery629
Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few days before her deathib.
——
Appendix630
Index642
Index to first lines647

[Pg xii]

CHRONOLOGY
OF
MRS HEMANS’ LIFE AND WORKS

1793.

Felicia Dorothea Browne, born at Liverpool, Sept 25.

1800, (æt. 7.)

Removes with family from Liverpool to Gwrych, near Abergele, Denbighshire.—Shortly afterwards composes Lines on her Mother’s Birthday.

1804, (11.)

Spends winter in London.—Writes thence letter in rhyme to brother and sister in Wales.

1808, (15.)

Collection of poems printed in 4to.—England and Spain written.—Becomes acquainted with Captain Hemans.

1809, (16.)

Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire.—Pursues her studies in French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.—Acquires the elements of German; and shows a taste for drawing and music.

1812, (19.)

Domestic Affections and other poems published.—Marries Captain Hemans.—Takes up residence at Daventry, Northamptonshire.

1813, (20.)

Son Arthur born.—Returns to Bronwylfa.

1816, (23.)

Publishes Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy; also Modern Greece.

1818, (25.)

Makes Translations from Camoens and others.—Publishes Stanzas on the Death of Princess Charlotte, (Blackwood’s Magazine, April.)

1819, (26.)

Tales and Historic Scenes published.—Gains prize for best poem on the Meeting of Wallace and Bruce.—Captain Hemans takes up residence in Italy.—Family consists of five sons.

1820, (27.)

Publishes poem of Sceptic.—Becomes acquainted with Bishop Heber and his brother Richard.—Corresponds with Mr Gifford.—Contributes papers on Foreign Literature to Edinburgh Magazine.—Publishes Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third.—Visits Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool, (October.)

1821, (28.)

Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by Royal Society of Literature.—Corresponds with Rev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly.—Writes Vespers of Palermo.—Extends her German studies. Writes Welsh Melodies.

[Pg xiii]

1822, (29.)

Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written;—also dramatic fragment of Don Sebastian.

1823, (30.)

Contributes to Thomas Campbell’s New Monthly Magazine.—Voice of Spring written, (March.)—Siege of Valencia published, along with Last Constantine and Belshazzar’s Feast.—Vespers of Palermo performed at Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.)

1824, (31.)

Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which unfortunately lost.—Writes Lays of Many Lands.—Removes with family from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon.

1825, (32.)

Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, The Hour of Death, Graves of a Household, The Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her best lyrics written.

1826, (33.)

The Forest Sanctuary published, together with Lays of Many Lands.—Commences correspondence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S., who republishes her works there.

1827, (34.)

Mrs Hemans loses her mother (11th January.)—Writes Hymns for Childhood, which are first published in America.—Corresponds with Joanna Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline Bowles, Mary Howitt, and M. J. Jewsbury.—Writes Körner to his Sister, Homes of England, An Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many other lyrics.—Health becomes impaired.

1828, (35.)

Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, and collected Miscellanies, (May.)—Contributes regularly to Blackwood’s Magazine.—Visits Wavertree Lodge early in summer.—Removes to village of Wavertree with family in September.

1829, (36.)

Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering Female Singer, The Child’s First Grief, The Better Land, and Miscellanies.—Voyages to Scotland, (June,) and visits Mr Henry M’Kenzie, Rev. Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Captain[Pg xiv] Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other distinguished literati.—Returns to England, (Sept.)—A Spirit’s Return composed.

1830, (37.)

Songs of the Affections published.—Visits the Lakes and Mr Wordsworth.—Domiciles during part of summer at Dove’s Nest, near Ambleside.—Revisits Scotland, (Aug.)—Returns by Dublin and Holyhead to Wales.

1831, (38.)

State of health delicate.—Quits England for last time, (April,) and proceeds to Dublin.—Visits the Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and Woodstock.—Returns to Dublin, (Aug.)—Writes various lyrics.

1832, (39.)

Health continues greatly impaired.—Writes Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs of Spain, and Songs of a Guardian Spirit.

1833, (40.)

Feels recruited during spring.—Writes Songs of Captivity, Songs for Summer Hours, and many of Scenes and Hymns of Life.—Composes Sonnets Devotional and Memorial.—Commences translation of Scenes and Passages from German Authors, (December.)

1834, (41.)

Hymns for Childhood published (March;) also National Lyrics and Songs for Music.—Paper on Tasso, published in New Monthly Magazine, (May.)—Writes Fragment of Paper on Iphigenia.—Records of Spring 1834 written, (April, May, June.)—Is seized with fever; during convalescence retires into county of Wicklow.—Returns to Dublin in autumn, and has attack of ague.—Composes Records of Autumn 1834.—Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and Nov.)—The Huguenot’s Farewell and Antique Greek Lament, (Nov.)—Thoughts during Sickness written, (Nov. and Dec.)—Retires during convalescence to Redesdale, a country-seat of the Archbishop of Dublin.

1835, (42.)

Returns to Dublin, (March.)—Debility gradually increases.—Corresponds regarding Sir Robert Peel’s appointment of her son Henry.—Dictates Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.)—Departs this life, (16th May.)—Remains interred in vault beneath St Anne’s Church, Dublin.

[Pg 1]


THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
MRS HEMANS


JUVENILE POEMS

ON MY MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT.

Clad in all their brightest green,
This day the verdant fields are seen;
The tuneful birds begin their lay,
To celebrate thy natal day.
The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.
The sky is blue, the day serene,
And only pleasure now is seen;
The rose, the pink, the tulip gay,
Combine to bless thy natal day.

A PRAYER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE.

O God! my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side.
Thus cheerfully through life I’ll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot—
Happy, though in the meanest cot.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.”
O Author of the rich luxuriant year!
Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear:
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e’en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise!
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,—heaven’s immortal King!
Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire—
Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.
[Pg 2]
Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre,
And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!”
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given,
Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven.

[1] A sister whom the author had lost.

SHAKSPEARE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own—a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree—where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.—Memoir of Mrs Hemans by her Sister, p. 6, 7.]

I love to rove o’er history’s page,
Recall the hero and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled:
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet’s pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired,
The bosom’s energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier;
To love the merry moonlit scene,
With fairy elves in valleys green;
Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the “native woodnotes wild”
Of him, the Muse’s favourite child!
Of him whose magic lays impart
Each various feeling to the heart!

TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite rural haunts and amusements—the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme.—Mem. p. 8, 9.]

Happy soon we’ll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we’ll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn;
Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale;
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers;
And sport away the light-wing’d hours.
Soon we’ll run the agile race;
Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;—
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We’ll hand in hand delighted rove;
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide;
Or raise again the caroll’d lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings;
Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade:
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea——
Happy, happy shall we be!

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,
I pour the genuine numbers free from art—
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth;
For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart.
Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,
To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief;
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,
With fond endearments to impart relief:
Be mine thy warm affection to repay
With duteous love in thy declining hours;
My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers,
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way:
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile—
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile.

[Pg 3]

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest
May hover round the virtuous man’s repose;
And oft in visions animate his breast,
And scenes of bright beatitude disclose.
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control,
May bid his sorrow and emotion cease,
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul,
And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace.
Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief
May charm the bosom of a weeping friend,
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief,
And pensive pleasure with devotion blend;
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint,
The airy lay of some departed saint.

RURAL WALKS.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours
In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers;
For every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.
And much I love to hail the vernal morn,
When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn;
And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray,
To cull the tender rosebuds in my way;
And seek in every wild secluded dell,
The weeping cowslip and the azure bell;
With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew,
To form the gay festoon of varied hue.
And oft I seek the cultivated green,
The fertile meadow, and the village scene;
Where rosy children sport around the cot,
Or gather woodbine from the garden spot.
And there I wander by the cheerful rill,
That murmurs near the osiers and the mill;
To view the smiling peasants turn the hay,
And listen to their pleasing festive lay.
I love to loiter in the spreading grove,
Or in the mountain scenery to rove;
Where summits rise in awful grace around,
With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d;
Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled,
“And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild:
And there I view the mouldering tower sublime,
Array’d in all the blending shades of Time.
The airy upland and the woodland green,
The valley, and romantic mountain scene;
The lowly hermitage, or fair domain,
The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane;
“And every spot in sylvan beauty drest,
And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.”

SONNET.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,[2] and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils attendant upon the career of an author;—though it may here be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.]

I love to hail the mild and balmy hour
When evening spreads around her twilight veil.
When dews descend on every languid flower,
And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale.
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide,
While o’er the wave the breezes lightly play;
To hear the waters murmur as they glide,
To mark the fading smile of closing day.
There let me linger, blest in visions dear,
Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas;
While melting sounds decay on fancy’s ear,
Of airy music floating on the breeze.
For still when evening sheds the genial dews,
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse.

[2] The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows:

—“We hear that these poems are the ‘genuine productions of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,’ and we do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have ‘children dear,’ yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention. Many of Miss Browne’s compositions are extremely jejune. However, though Miss Browne’s poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the ‘Reflections in a ruined Castle,’ and the poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ‘Patriotism’ contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing, we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before the oak.”—Monthly Review, 1809.

[Pg 4]

ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.

——“His sword the brave man draws,
And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”—Pope.

[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, “The Cid Ruy Diaz,” the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled “England and Spain,” which was published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it.—Memoir, p. 10, 11.]

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined
To sway, with iron sceptre, o’er mankind;
Long has Oppression worn th’ imperial robe,
And Rapine’s sword has wasted half the globe!
O’er Europe’s cultured realms, and climes afar,
Triumphant Gaul has pour’d the tide of war:
To her fair Austria veil’d the standard bright;
Ausonia’s lovely plains have own’d her might;
While Prussia’s eagle, never taught to yield,
Forsook her towering height on Jena’s field!
O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade
Have seen thy country vanquish’d and betray’d,
How had thy soul indignant mourn’d her shame,
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish’d fame!
When Valour wept lamented Brunswick’s doom,
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb;
When Prussia, drooping o’er her hero’s grave,
Invoked his spirit to descend and save;
Then set her glories—then expired her sun,
And fraud achieved e’en more than conquest won!
O’er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay,
Has desolation spread her ample sway;
Thy blast, O Ruin! on tremendous wings,
Has proudly swept o’er empires, nations, kings.
Thus the wild hurricane’s impetuous force
With dark destruction marks its whelming course,
Despoils the woodland’s pomp, the blooming plain,
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train!
—Rise, Freedom, rise! and, breaking from thy trance,
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance!
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause,
And call thy champions to defend thy laws!
How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain?
How long shall despots and usurpers reign?
Is honour’s lofty soul for ever fled!
Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead?
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell,
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell?
Yes, Freedom! yes! thy sons, a noble band,
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand;
Once more, ’tis thine, invincible to wield
The beamy spear and adamantine shield!
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows,
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes;
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer’d fires,
Thy look sublime the warrior’s heart inspires;
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right,
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight,
Lo! Britain’s generous host their aid supply,
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die;
And Glory smiles to see Iberia’s name
Enroll’d with Albion’s in the book of fame!
Illustrious names! still, still united beam,
Be still the hero’s boast, the poet’s theme:
So, when two radiant gems together shine,
And in one wreath their lucid light combine;
Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays,
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze.
Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend!
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend!
As Memnon’s harp (so ancient fables say)
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray,
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own,
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone;
Call from the sun, her burning throne on high,
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye;
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire,
And breathe the soul of rapture o’er the lyre!
Hail, Albion! hail, thou land of freedom’s birth!
Pride of the main, and Phœnix of the earth!
Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell,
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel!
[Pg 5]
Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave,
Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave;
In classic elegance and arts divine,
To rival Athens’ fairest palm is thine;
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly,
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky,
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time!
Hail, Albion, hail! to thee has fate denied
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan’s pride,
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast,
And all the wealth of Montezuma’s coast:
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine,
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine;
No light Arabian gales their wings expand,
To waft Sabæan incense o’er the land;
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills,
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils;
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows,
And far from thee the scented cassia blows:
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne,
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own;
From Lapland’s shore to Afric’s fervid reign,
She bids thy ensigns float above the main;
Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale,
And shows to other worlds her daring sail:
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee,
Queen of the trident! empress of the sea!
For this thy noble sons have spread alarms,
And bade the zones resound with Britain’s arms!
Calpè’s proud rock, and Syria’s palmy shore,
Have heard and trembled at their battle’s roar;
The sacred waves of fertilising Nile
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle;
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war
Has roll’d o’er Vincent’s cape and Trafalgar!
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder’s sound,
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown’d—
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain,
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main!
The milder emblems of the virtues calm—
The poet’s verdant bay, the sage’s palm—
These in thy laurel’s blooming foliage twine,
And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine:
Not Mincio’s banks, nor Meles’ classic tide,
Are hallow’d more than Avon’s haunted side;
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme
Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber’s stream.
Bright in the annals of th’ impartial page,
Britannia’s heroes live from age to age!
From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race,
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase,
Free from all cares for luxury or gain,
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain;
To these Augustan days, when social arts
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts;
From doubtful Arthur—hero of romance,
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance—
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield,
The gallant victors of Vimeira’s field;
Still have her warriors borne th’ unfading crown
And made the British flag the ensign of renown.
Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime!
Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time!
Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight,
On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might!
Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered,
By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d!
Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud,
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d!
Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view
Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true!
Behold the land, ennobled by your fame,
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name:
And, as the pyramid indignant rears
Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years;
See her secure in pride of virtue tower,
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power!
Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire,
Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!”
While Lusitania hails, with just applause,
The brave defenders of her injured cause;
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise,
And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies!
And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell,
Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell!
Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide,
Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d;
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight,
And the blue distance melted into light—
The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate
To fly for refuge in a foreign state—
They, soon returning o’er the western main,
Ere long may view their clime beloved again:
And as the blazing pillar led the host
Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast,
So may Britannia guide the noble band
O’er the wild ocean to their native land.
O glorious isle!—O sovereign of the waves!
Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!”
[Pg 6]
See them once more, with ardent hearts advance,
And rend the laurels of insulting France;
To brave Castile their potent aid supply,
And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high!
Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast?
Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway,
And call each wayward passion to obey?
Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire,
To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre;
Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine,
The patriot’s name to ages might consign?
Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme,
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam!
Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring,
And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string!
Could she the bosom energies control,
And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul!
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given,
Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven!
Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain,
For her—the humblest of the woodland train;
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise!
Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows
To pour confusion on oppressive foes;
Intrepid spirits, hail! ’tis yours to feel
The hero’s fire, the freeman’s godlike zeal!
Not to secure dominion’s boundless reign,
Ye wave the flag of conquest o’er the slain;
No cruel rapine leads you to the war,
Nor mad ambition, whirl’d in crimson car.
No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end,
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend!
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear
The floating standard, and the lofty spear!
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword,
Fired by the image of the maid adored!
His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid,
The father’s hand unsheaths the glittering blade!
For each, for all, for ev’ry sacred right,
The daring patriot mingles in the fight!
And e’en if love or friendship fail to warm,
His country’s name alone can nerve his dauntless arm!
He bleeds! he falls! his deathbed is the field!
His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield!
His closing eyes the beam of valour speak,
The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek;
Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes,
Then for his country breathes a prayer—and dies!
Oh! ever hallow’d be his verdant grave—
There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave!
Thou, lovely Spring! bestow, to grace his tomb,
Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom;
There let the tears of heaven descend in balm,
There let the poet consecrate his palm!
Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground,
And shades of sainted heroes watch around!
’Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell,
Thy chief, O Thebes! at Mantinea fell;
Smiled undismay’d within the arms of death,
While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath!
O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul!
Thou source of energies beyond control!
Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed,
Whose sons unconquer’d fight, undaunted bleed,—
Inspiring Liberty! thy worshipp’d name
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame;
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high,
Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony.
More blest with thee to tread perennial snows,
Where ne’er a flower expands, a zephyr blows;
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain,
In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign;
Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove
The green savannas and the spicy grove;
Scent the rich balm of India’s perfumed gales,
In citron-woods and aromatic vales:
For oh! fair Liberty, when thou art near,
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear!
Where’er thy smile its magic power bestows,
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows;
The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives,
And every chord to swelling transport lives;
There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace;
With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms,
And calls from stone expression’s breathing forms.
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o’erflows its bound,
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round,
Bid Ceres laugh o’er waste and sterile sands,
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands.
Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies!
To thee shall Britain’s grateful incense rise.
Ne’er, goddess! ne’er forsake thy favourite isle,
Still be thy Albion brighten’d with thy smile!
Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose,
While proudly triumph’d thine insulting foes;
[Pg 7]
Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo’s light,
Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight:
Once more we see thy kindling soul return,
Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn;
Lo! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives,
Lo! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives!
Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band!
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand.
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day
Stream’d o’er the smiling land in long array,
Though tyrant Asia pour’d unnumber’d foes,
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose;—
For every state in sacred union stood,
Strong to repel invasion’s whelming flood;
Each heart was glowing in the general cause,
Each hand prepared to guard their hallow’d laws;
Athenian valour join’d Laconia’s might,
And but contended to be first in fight;
From rank to rank the warm contagion ran,
And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van.
Then Persia’s monarch mourn’d his glories lost,
As wild confusion wing’d his flying host;
Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung,
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung!
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record
The high achievements of the conquering sword.
Thus, brave Castilians! thus may bright renown
And fair success your valiant efforts crown!
Genius of chivalry! whose early days
Tradition still recounts in artless lays;
Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls—
The floating banners and the lofty halls,
The gallant feats thy festivals display’d,
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade;
Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail,
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale:
Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d,
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d;
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime;
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore,
Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore.
Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies,
Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs;
Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung,
The choral voice of mirth and music rung;
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone,
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan:
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away,
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay.
Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone,
Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown;
Genius of chivalry! thy noble train,
Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain!
Fair truth, array’d in robes of spotless white,
Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light;
Warm emulation, with aspiring aim,
Still darting forward to the wreath of fame;
And purest love, that waves his torch divine,
At awful honour’s consecrated shrine;
Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance;
And generous courage, resting on his lance;
And loyalty, by perils unsubdued;
Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude;
And patriot energy, with heart of flame—
These, in Iberia’s sons are yet the same!
These from remotest days their souls have fired,
“Nerved every arm,” and every breast inspired!
When Moorish bands their suffering land possess’d,
And fierce oppression rear’d her giant crest,
The wealthy caliphs on Cordova’s throne
In eastern gems and purple splendour shone;
Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied
With stately Bagdat’s oriental pride;
Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array’d,
Where arts and luxury their charms display’d;
’Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar’s costly towers,
Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers;
There all Arabian fiction e’er could tell
Of potent genii or of wizard spell—
All that a poet’s dream could picture bright,
One sweet Elysium, charm’d the wondering sight!
Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand,
It seem’d an Eden from Armida’s wand!
Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state,
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate!
When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear,
Stem retribution frowning on his spear;
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight,
O’erwhelm’d with shame, confess’d the Christian’s might.
In later times the gallant Cid arose,
Burning with zeal against his country’s foes;
His victor-arm Alphonso’s throne maintain’d,
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain’d!
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse,
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse!
High in the temple of recording fame,
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo’s name!
Victorious chief! whose valour still defied
The arms of Gaul, and bow’d her crested pride;
[Pg 8]
With splendid trophies graced his sovereign’s throne,
And bade Granada’s realms his prowess own.
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain!
In mighty Ferdinand’s illustrious reign;
’Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail,
Unfurl’d his flag before the eastern gale;
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before.
Fair science guided o’er the liquid realm,
Sweet hope, exulting, steer’d the daring helm;
While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye,
Courageous enterprise still hover’d nigh:
The hoary genius of th’ Atlantic main
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign—
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued,
The throne, the world of awful solitude.
And e’en when shipwreck seem’d to rear his form,
And dark destruction menaced in the storm;
In every shape when giant-peril rose,
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose;
O’er ev’ry heart when terror sway’d alone,
And hope forsook each bosom but his own:
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell’d,
His glorious track the gallant sailor held;
Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave,
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave.
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep,
With dauntless prow explored th’ untravell’d deep;
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses’ watchful sight
View’d ev’ry star and planetary light.
Sublime Columbus! when, at length descried,
The long-sought land arose above the tide,
How every heart with exultation glow’d,
How from each eye the tear of transport flow’d!
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew
When Canaan’s fertile plains appear’d in view.
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze,
Then martial music floated o’er the seas;
Their waving streamers to the sun display’d,
In all the pride of warlike pomp array’d.
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band
Hail’d the glad shore, and bless’d the stranger land;
Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair,
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air:
Then crowded round its free and simple race,
Amazement pictured wild on every face;
Who deem’d that beings of celestial birth,
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth.
Then first another world, another sky,
Beheld Iberia’s banner blaze on high!
Still prouder glories beam on history’s page,
Imperial Charles! to mark thy prosperous age
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright,
When Science pour’d her mild, refulgent light;
When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe
Creative Sculpture claim’d the living wreath;
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers,
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers;
When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine,
The clouds that veil’d religion’s hallow’d shrine
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower
High on the pyramid of fame and power;
Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes,
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose.
Thus on proud Lebanon’s exalted brow,
The cedar, frowning o’er the plains below,
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend,
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend!
When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain,
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train;
When, after many a toil and danger past,
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last;
That morning saw her glittering host combine,
And form in close array the threat’ning line;
Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm,
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm;
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play,
Their armour flashing to the beam of day;
Their gen’rous chargers panting, spurn the ground,
Roused by the trumpet’s animating sound;
And heard in air their warlike music float,
The martial pipe, the drum’s inspiring note!
Pale set the sun—the shades of evening fell,
The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell;
And the same day beheld their warriors dead,
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled!
Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire,
Bright, blazing, dreadful—only to expire!
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might,
Iberia’s planet shed meridian light!
Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day,
Castilian spirit bore the prize away—
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain,
And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane!
And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame,
Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame;
Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow,
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe;
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear,
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear!
[Pg 9]
Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown,
The living amaranths of bright renown!
Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause,
Due to the champions of their country’s cause!
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves,
The joy when conscience whispers and approves!
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high,
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty;
When every hand is dauntless and prepared
The sacred charter of mankind to guard;
When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite,
Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right,
Bid ancient enmities for ever cease,
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace.
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band,
Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand?
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless?
Can victory fail to crown them with success?
Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain,
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain!
Despot of France! destroyer of mankind!
What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind!
Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed,
When soothing visions fly thine aching head;
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm,
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm;
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise,
And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes;
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear,
“Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!”
It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray—
Soon will its parting lustre fade away;
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light,
And veil thy splendours in eternal night!
Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul
With awful terrors and with dread control,
Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand,
And summons all her visionary band;
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead,
And whispers, peace and happiness are fled;
E’en at the time of silence and of rest,
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast;
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale?
Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail?
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke?
Bereave a nation of its rights revered,
Of all to morals sacred and endear’d?
And shall they tamely liberty resign,
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine?
Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind,
In chains of adamant, the noble mind?
Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear—
Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career!
No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain
The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain.
Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine,
Then bid thy legions all their power combine!
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command,
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand,
E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn,
E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn!
Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field,
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield!
Still prompt the injured to defend and save,
Appal the despot, and assist the brave;
Who now intrepid lift the generous blade,
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid!
Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name,
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame;
Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead,
By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled;
By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain,
By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain;
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won,
Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son!
By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime,
Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime;
Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise
A deathless monument to future days!
Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise,
Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies!
Transcend the fairest names in history’s page,
The brightest actions of a former age;
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore,
And bid oppression fall—to rise no more!
Then soon returning to your native isle,
May love and beauty hail you with their smile;
For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath,
And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe!
Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage?
Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage?
When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign,
Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again?
Not till the despot’s dread career is closed,
And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed!
Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign!
Fair blue-eyed seraph! balmy power divine!
Descend once more! thy hallow’d blessings bring,
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing!
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train,
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain:
[Pg 10]
Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way,
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray.
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky!
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye;
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send,
Thy myrtle-sceptre o’er the globe extend:
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind,
Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind;
Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire,
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre.
Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice—
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice,
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng,
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song!
Then shall the shepherd’s flute, the woodland reed,
The martial clarion and the drum succeed;
Again shall bloom Arcadia’s fairest flowers,
And music warble in Idalian bowers.
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death,
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath;
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain,
Where the wild combat redden’d o’er the plain.
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid!
Return, return, in vest of light array’d!
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air:
With accents milder than Æolian lays,
When o’er the harp the fanning zephyr plays,
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest,
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast!
O Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep!
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep!
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind’s force,
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course;
Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme!
Robed in perfection! crown’d with glory’s beam!
Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove,
To bear the sacred olive from above;
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time,
The festal harmony of nature’s prime!
Bid truth and justice once again appear,
And spread their sunshine o’er this mundane sphere;
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom,
Transcendant light their hallow’d fane illume;
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease,
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace;
Brothers once more, let men her empire own,
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne,
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed
Eternal haloes round her sainted head!

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS.

[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled The Domestic Affections, and other Poems, was given to the world—the last that was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne; for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquaintance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych; and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so entirely to depend.—Memoir, p. 24.]

THE SILVER LOCKS.

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND.

Though youth may boast the curls that flow
In sunny waves of auburn glow;
As graceful on thy hoary head
Has Time the robe of honour spread,
And there, oh! softly, softly shed
His wreath of snow!
As frost-work on the trees display’d
When weeping Flora leaves the shade,
E’en more than Flora, charms the sight;
E’en so thy locks of purest white
Survive, in age’s frost-work bright,
Youth’s vernal rose decay’d!
To grace the nymph whose tresses play
Light on the sportive breeze of May,
Let other bards the garland twine,
Where sweets of every hue combine;
Those locks revered, that silvery shine,
Invite my lay!
Less white the summer-cloud sublime,
Less white the winter’s fringing rime;
Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem
(A Poet’s blest immortal theme)
Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam
Of reverend Time!
Long may the graceful honours smile,
Like moss on some declining pile;
O much revered! may filial care
Around thee, duteous, long repair,
Thy joys with tender bliss to share,
Thy pains beguile!
[Pg 11]
Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave!
Long, long, your much-loved beauty save!
May bliss your latest evening crown,
Disarm life’s winter of its frown,
And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down
In gladness to the grave!
And as the parting beams of day
On mountain-snows reflected play,
And tints of roseate lustre shed;
Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head,
May joy, with evening planet, shed
His mildest ray!
August 18, 1809.

TO MY MOTHER.

If e’er from human bliss or woe
I feel the sympathetic glow;
If e’er my heart has learn’d to know
The generous wish or prayer;
Who sow’d the germ with tender hand?
Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?—
My mother’s fostering care.
And if one flower of charms refined
May grace the garden of my mind,
’Twas she who nursed it there:
She loved to cherish and adorn
Each blossom of the soil;
To banish every weed and thorn
That oft opposed her toil!
And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim
The palm, the living palm of fame,
The glowing wreath of praise;
If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores
That Fortune on her favourite pours;
’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine,
Round thee with streaming rays might shine,
And gild thy sun-bright days!
Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power
Might then irradiate every hour;
For these, my mother! well I know,
On thee no raptures could bestow;—
But could thy bounty, warm and kind,
Be, like thy wishes, unconfined,
And fall as manna from the skies,
And bid a train of blessings rise,
Diffusing joy and peace;
The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright,
For thee would beam with softer light
Than all the diamond’s crystal rays,
Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze;
And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart
To bid one bosom-grief depart,
One tear, one sorrow cease!
Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless,
Bestow the power to cheer distress;
Make thee its minister below,
To light the cloudy path of woe;
To visit the deserted cell,
Where indigence is doom’d to dwell;
To raise, when drooping to the earth,
The blossoms of neglected worth;
And round, with liberal hand, dispense
The sunshine of beneficence!
But ah! if Fate should still deny
Delights like these, too rich and high;
If grief and pain thy steps assail,
In life’s remote and wintry vale;
Then, as the wild Æolian lyre
Complains with soft entrancing number,
When the lone storm awakes the wire,
And bids enchantment cease to slumber;
So filial love, with soothing voice,
E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice;
E’en then shall sweeter, milder sound,
When sorrow’s tempest raves around;
While dark misfortune’s gales destroy,
The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy!

TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER,

ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours,
Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way;
Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers,
Whose fragrance shall never decay!
And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies,
With artless delight, that no words can bespeak;
With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes,
With a smile and a glow on her cheek!
From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield,
From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest;
Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field,
To the vale of retirement and rest.
Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice,
Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain;
[Pg 12]
For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice
To meet thee, my Brother! again.
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true,
Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d,
How often would fancy present to my view
The horrors that waited thee round!
How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer,
That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm;
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care,
In the heat of the combat’s alarm!
How sad and how often descended the tear,
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!)
How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear
I might never behold thee again!
But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er,
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose;
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more,
And my bosom with tenderness glows.
And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth,
Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away;
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth,
Shall never, oh! never decay!
No time can impair it, no change can destroy,
Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share;
It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy,
And beam through the cloud of despair!

TO MY ELDEST BROTHER.

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.)

How many a day, in various hues array’d,
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade,
How many an hour, on silent wing is past,
O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last!
Since then has childhood ripen’d into youth,
And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth;
Her splendid fabrics melting into air,
As sage experience waved the wand of care!
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh,
And the tear trembles in affection’s eye!
When shall we meet again?—with glowing ray
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day;
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear,
And sings benignly still—that day is near!
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice,
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice;
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore
Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more;
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear,
To faith still true, affection still sincere!
Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot,
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot!
And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour,
Though all around th’ impending storm should lower.
Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host,
Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast,
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried,
Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,)
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray
To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away?
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam,
And paint the greeting that awaits at home?
Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue,
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew;
In softer tints delighting to retrace
Each tender image and each well-known face?
Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those
Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows.
Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours,
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers!
Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast,
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest!
But though our tenderness can but bestow
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe,
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame,
In storms, in sunshine, far and near—the same!
Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart,
And, firm and vital, but with life depart!
Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH.

O thou! whose pure, exalted mind,
Lives in this record, fair and bright;
[Pg 13]
O thou! whose blameless life combined
Soft female charms, and grace refined,
With science and with light!
Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d
Beyond this vale of tears—
Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored
The lore of years!
Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en here,
The wing of towering thought was thine;
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless’d ethereal soul
Now kindle in her noontide ray,
And hail, unfetter’d by control,
The Fount of Day!
E’en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes,
Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise—
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendant, pure, and clear!
E’en now, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal’d,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal’d!
If here the lore of distant time,
And learning’s flowers, were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime,
To light’s unclouded throne!
Perhaps e’en now thy kindling glance
Each orb of living fire explores,
Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse,
Admires—adores!
Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain!
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning’s brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection’s day!

[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.—Poems, vol. ii. p. 140-9.]

THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS.

Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom
On this lone tower, this ivied wall,
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall.
Though doom’d, remote from careless eye,
To smile, to flourish, and to die
In solitude sublime,
Oh! ever may the spring renew,
Your balmy scent and glowing hue,
To deck the robe of time!
Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air,
Though wasted on its wing unknown!
Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair,
Neglected and alone!
These flowers that long withstood the blast,
These mossy towers, are mouldering fast,
While Flora’s children stay—
To mantle o’er the lonely pile,
To gild Destruction with a smile,
And beautify Decay!
Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing,
Neglected in luxuriance glowing;
From the dark ruins frowning near,
Your charms in brighter tints appear,
And richer blush assume;
You smile with softer beauty crown’d,
Whilst all is desolate around,
Like sunshine on a tomb!
Thou hoary pile, majestic still,
Memento of departed fame!
While roving o’er the moss-clad hill,
I ponder on thine ancient name!
Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep,
That here, so oft, have shone supreme;
While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep
That vanish’d is the golden dream!
Where are the banners, waving proud,
To kiss the summer-gale of even—
All purple as the morning-cloud,
All streaming to the winds of heaven?
Where is the harp, by rapture strung
To melting song or martial story?
Where are the lays the minstrel sung
To loveliness or glory?
[Pg 14]
Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls,
To thee no festal measure calls;
No music through the desert halls,
Awakes thee to rejoice!
How still thy sleep! as death profound—
As if, within this lonely round,
A step—a note—a whisper’d sound
Had ne’er aroused thy voice!
Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying,
Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing;
But ne’er again shall harp or song,
These dark deserted courts along,
Disturb thy calm repose.
The harp is broke, the song is fled,
The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead;
And never shall thy tones repeat
Or lofty strain or carol sweet
With plaintive close!
Proud Castle! though the days are flown
When once thy towers in glory shone;
When music through thy turrets rung,
When banners o’er thy ramparts hung,
Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone,
Stern Desolation rear his throne;
And Silence, deep and awful, reign
Where echo’d once the choral strain;
Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here,
The Muse will hail thee with a tear;
Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams,
And through the fringing ivy streams,
And softens every shade sublime,
And mellows every tint of Time—
Oh! here shall Contemplation love,
Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove;
And bending o’er some mossy tomb,
Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom,
Shall weep for Glory’s transient day
And Grandeur’s evanescent ray;
And listening to the swelling blast,
Shall wake the Spirit of the Past—
Call up the forms of ages fled,
Of warriors and of minstrels dead,
Who sought the field, who struck the lyre,
With all Ambition’s kindling fire!
Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe
Soft odours on this desert air;
Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath,
And fringe these towers with garlands fair!
Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom
Unheeded on this ivied wall!
Lend to the gale a rich perfume,
And grace the ruin in its fall!
Thus round Misfortune’s holy head,
Would Pity wreaths of honour spread;
Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile,
She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile!

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime,
Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal;
And, hailing this auspicious time,
Kneel, Adoration! kneel!

CHORUS.

For lo! the day, th’ immortal day,
When Mercy’s full, benignant ray
Chased every gathering cloud away,
And pour’d the noon of light!
Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing,
While from thine eye the tear is flowing,
Pure, warm, and bright!
’Twas on this day—oh, love divine!—
The Orient Star’s effulgence rose;
Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign
Shall never, never close!

CHORUS.

Messiah! be thy name adored,
Eternal, high, redeeming Lord!
By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d—
Emanuel! Prince of Peace!
This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling,
Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling,
Bade discord cease!
Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice,
Children of heaven and sons of earth!
Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice,
To bless the Saviour’s birth!

CHORUS.

Devotion! light thy purest fire!
Transport! on cherub wing aspire!
Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre,
Strike every thrilling chord!
While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling,
We own thy grace, reviving, healing,
Redeemer! Lord!

[Pg 15]

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS.

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given,
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven?
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse
Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues?
Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know?
Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne,
When kneeling myriads call the world his own?
Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers?
Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine,
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine;
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way,
Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day?
No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined,
Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind;
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties,
On earth so sweet—so perfect in the skies!
Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade,
The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale,
Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale!
Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road,
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode
Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose.
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky,
The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye,
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear,
While viewless angels wave their pinions near;
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll,
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole,
While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball,
And thrones and empires in destruction fall;
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave,
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave,
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest,
Her empire Home!—her throne, Affection’s breast!
For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms,
And softer sunshine every scene illumes.
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze,
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas;
When Summer, waving her creative wand,
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand;
Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace,
O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace;
Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign,
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain;
While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright,
Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light!
Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime,
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime,
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high,
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky!
And high through darkness rears his giant-form,
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm!
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more,
And the wild surges foam along the shore,
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene,
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green!
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade—
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade!
Clear through the day, her light around thee glows,
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose!
—Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band!
Where pure and bright the social ardours rise,
Concentring all their holiest energies!—
When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame,
And every power deserts the sinking frame,
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores!
Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs;
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!
Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love,
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar—
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee!
When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die,
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh;
Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign,
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main;
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep,
Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep!
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound,
All heaven—and sea—and solitude—around!
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm,
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm,
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined,
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind,
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career,
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear!
Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave,
And Danger frowns—the monarch of the wave!
[Pg 16]
Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel,
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell!
Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge,
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge?
Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er,
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more!
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife,
The struggling agony for death or life,
E’en then thy mind, embittering every pain,
Retraced the image so beloved—in vain!
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true,
Life’s parting sigh—the murmur of adieu!
Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface,
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase?
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy
The loved impression of domestic joy?
Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast,
In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest,
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray
O’er the long march through Desolation’s way;
Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain,
Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain,
To that loved Home where pure affection glows,
That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose!
When all is hush’d—the rage of combat past,
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast;
When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er,
And many an eye is closed to wake no more;
Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground,
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!)
While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep,
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep!
E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray
The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway;
He sees fond transport light each beaming face,
Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace!
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart,
“Hail, weary soldier!—never more to part!”
And lo! at last, released from every toil,
He comes!—the wanderer views his native soil!
Then the bright raptures words can never speak
Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek!
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer
Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care;
Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year,
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear;
In that blest moment, all the past forget—
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret!
And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms,
Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms!
How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note
For woodland-sounds in summer air that float!
Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam,
And breathe his native gales, that whisper—‘Home!’
Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties,
Charms of existence! angel sympathies!
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen!
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene,
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers;
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar,
While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice,
And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;—
Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright,
Flows the full current of serene delight!
On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores,
Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars!
Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire,
Meridian glory—on her throne of fire!
Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze;
But soon, descending from his height sublime.
Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime,
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest,
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest!
Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere,
And proudly waving in his gifted hand,
O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand,
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays!
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend,
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend,
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught,
Dilate the noblest energies of thought;)
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined,
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind,
At length he flies, to that serene retreat,
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet;
Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart
The softer pleasures of the social heart!
Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn,
From every tie by fate relentless torn;
[Pg 17]
See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle,
Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile,
Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand,
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand!
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main,
And weep—and pray—and linger—but in vain!
Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade,
Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d,
He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude,
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude!
And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone
The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan!
All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound,
As if some viewless power, presiding round,
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath,
Had spread for ages the repose of death!
Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep,
Lives but to watch—and watches but to weep!
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise,
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies!
Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore,
Banish’d from being—to return no more;
There must he die!—within that circling wave,
That lonely isle—his prison and his grave!
Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows,
With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes!
Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild,
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled;
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign,
And bind existence in eternal chain!
Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom!
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb!
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair!
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray;
Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight;
Ah! not for this—far, far beyond relief,
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief;
But that no friend of kindred heart is there,
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share;
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage
The stormy trials of thy lingering age;
No smile of tenderness, with angel power,
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour;
For this alone, despair, a withering guest,
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast!
Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime,
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime;
Where winter triumphs, through the polar night,
In all his wild magnificence of might;
E’en there, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour
The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore!
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced,
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced,
Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow,
E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow!
The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign,
With mystic power could tranquillise the main;
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep,
And peace and silence brood upon the deep!
And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose
The stormy tide of passions and of woes;
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease,
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace!
Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien,
Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene!
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face,
That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care,
Those waving locks were silver’d by despair!
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm,
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm!
He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam
In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home,
Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave,
Where joy—and hope—and fortune—found a grave!
’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land,
And roll triumphant on their blasted way,
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay!
Unequal combat raged on many a plain,
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain!
Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled,
Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head!
Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die!
Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d
Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d,
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom,
Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb!
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife,
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life,
Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile,
E’en then could temper, with divine relief,
The wild delirium of unbounded grief;
[Pg 18]
And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart!
And now, though time, subduing every trace,
Has mellow’d all, he never can erase;
Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow,
Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe!
Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone,
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,)
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh,
To chase the image that awakes the sigh!
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise
To brighter visions of celestial days!
And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar
On eagle-plume—to wonder and adore;
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last,
Unite their kindred souls—and smile on all the past!
Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties,
Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies!
Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours,
Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom,
Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb!
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved,
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved.
Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease
In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze;
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay,
Life’s closing lesson—in its dawning day;
Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime,
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time;
There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye,
There, from her child, the mother learns to die;
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace
Of lingering sickness in the faded face;
Through the sad night, when every hope is fled,
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed;
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare
The spoiler’s hand—the blight of death is there!
He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame,
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame;
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray—
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away!
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart;
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part!
’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er,
And life shall throb with agony no more;
While o’er the wasted form, the features pale,
Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil.
Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere
Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career,
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes,
And hush thy sighs—an angel of repose!
But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest,
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast?
And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier,
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear?
Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d,
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d!
And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile,
With flattering promise, to enchant awhile?
And are ye vanish’d, never to return,
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn?
Will no bright hour departed joys restore?
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more?
Behold no more the soul-illumined face,
The expressive smile, the animated grace!
Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb,
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom?
Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care,
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair;
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn,
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn;
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews,
The full perfection of immortal hues;
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies,
By death released, the parent spirit flies;
There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long,
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng,
And guide her pinion on exulting flight,
Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light.
Ye gentle spirits of departed friends!
If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends;
If, with benignant care, ye linger near,
To guard the objects in existence dear;
If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view
The tender sorrows, to your memory true;
Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep,
While for your loss affection wakes to weep;
While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies,
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs;
Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near,
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear;
With secret spells her wounded mind compose,
And chase the faithful tear—for you that flows:
Be near—when moonlight spreads the charm you loved
O’er scenes where once your earthly footstep roved.
[Pg 19]
Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew,
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you,
And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers,
And pauses oft, recalling former hours;
Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale,
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale;
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell,
Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell;
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul
With soft enchantments and divine control!
Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest,
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest;
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise,
Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes;
Efface the memory of your last farewell—
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell;
The sweet communion of the past renew,
Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue.
Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour,
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power;
Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream,
Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam;
Then waft the vision of unclouded light,
A burst of glory, on her closing sight;
Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain,
To hush the final agonies of pain;
With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume,
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom!
Oh! still be near, when, darting into day,
Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay;
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high
O’er many a world, ascending to the sky;
There let your presence, once her earthly joy,
Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy,
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more.
Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime,
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time;
Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire,
Shall beam on glories never to expire;
Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust,
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust,
Those mild affections, whose consoling light
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night,
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow,
Exalting rapture—not assuaging woe!

TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY.

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna Baillie’s play of Ethwald was always pleasingly associated with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty,

“The minstrel was infirm and old;”

but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.]

Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring
Life, rapture, soul, from every string;
And wake, like bards of former time,
The spirit of the harp sublime;—
Oh! still prolong the varying strain!
Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again!
[Pg 20]
Thine is the charm, suspending care,
The heavenly swell, the dying close,
The cadence melting into air,
That lulls each passion to repose;
While transport, lost in silence near,
Breathes all her language in a tear.
Exult, O Cambria!—now no more
With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore:
What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow
And Mona’s woods be silent now,
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain
Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign.
For Genius, with divine control,
Wakes the bold chord neglected long,
And pours Expression’s glowing soul
O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song;
And Inspiration, hovering round,
Swells the full energies of sound.
Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone,
Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire,
And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan,
That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre:
As if some sylph, with viewless wing,
Were sighing o’er the magic string.
Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will!
And oh! while rapture hails the lay,
Far distant be the closing day,
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep,
And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep!

[3] Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances, he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any view to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others; and the innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded himself, as in a manner consecrated, by being made the depositary of a direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit.


EPITAPH ON MR W——,

A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST.[4]

Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list—
Here lies a famous Mineralogist.
Famous indeed! such traces of his power,
He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr,
Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks,
His works resemble those of earthquake shocks;
And future ages very much may wonder
What mighty giant rent the hills asunder,
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er
Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there.
His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue,
With him, good reader, here lie buried too—
Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain,
He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain.
We knew, so great the fuss he made about them,
Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them;
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones,
We paved his grave with all his favourite stones.
His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side;
Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified:
His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses,
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes:
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!—
His very coffin-plate is made of granite.
Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest:
Weep not for him! but envied be his doom,
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room:
And, O ye rocks!—schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be,
Ye varied strata!—names too hard for me—
Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe
By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low.
Ne’er on your spoils again shall W—— riot.
Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet—
He sleeps—no longer planning hostile actions,
As cold as any of his petrifactions;
Enshrined in specimens of every hue,
Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you.

[4] “Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing, [Lines to Mr. Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place, three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they were never intended for publication, but were merely a jeu d’esprit of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological researches.”—Memoir, p. 20.


EPITAPH

ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST.

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er,
A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before.
Released from toil, it slumbers by the side
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried;
No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife
He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life:
Now laying siege to some old limestone wall,
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees,
Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize;
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes,
He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies,
[Pg 21]
And bring down lumps so precious, and so many,
I’m sure they almost would have made—a penny!
Think, when such deeds as these were daily done,
What fearful risks this hammer must have run.
And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine:
Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot,
Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott!
Then should its name with his be closely link’d,
And live till every mineral were extinct.
Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field—
Bid W——’s hammer match Achilles’ shield:
As for my muse, the chaos of her brain,
I search for specimens of wit in vain;
Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer,
And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer;
Remembering well, “what perils do environ”
Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.”

PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLEMAN,

AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL.[5]

Enter Captain George Browne, in the character of Corporal Foss.

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here,
Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear;
Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause,
That Poverty’s no title to applause.
Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote,
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat?
Who, in a world where all is bought and sold,
Minds a man’s worth—except his worth in gold?
Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner!
Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner!
Away with Poverty! let none receive her,
She bears contagion as a plague or fever;
“Bony, and gaunt, and grim”—like jaundiced eyes,
Discolouring all within her sphere that lies.
“Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too!
Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous!
In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is,
With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses,
How shall they dare at such a bar appear?
What are their tactics and manœuvres here?
While thoughts like these come rushing o’er our mind,
Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find!
Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish’d name
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame,
And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle!
View our weak efforts with approving smile!
School’d in rough camps, and still disdaining art,
Ill can the soldier act a borrow’d part;
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age,
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage;
His theatre is found in every land,
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band:
Place him in danger’s front—he recks not where—
Be your own Wellington his prompter there,
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien,
He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene.
Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round,
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound,
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile;
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear,
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here.
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies,
No stage effect of glittering pageantries:
No, to your kindness he must look alone
To realise the hope he dares not own;
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye,
His wish to please may claim indemnity.
And why despair, indulgence when we crave
From Erin’s sons, the generous and the brave?
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought,
Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught;
Still has the stranger, in their social isle,
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile,
And well their hearts can share, though unexpress’d,
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier’s breast.

[5] These verses were written about the same time as the preceding humorous epitaphs.

[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile compositions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity—for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to have commenced before the publication of the section which immediately follows.

In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras—the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the romantic, which commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.]


[Pg 22]

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.

[“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory.”—Eustace’s Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.]

“Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte
Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai
Funesta dote d’infiniti guai,
Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte;
Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.”
Filicaja.
Land of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains;
Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile
Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!
Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.
Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave,
Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave,
Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high—
Those magic strains of love and chivalry!
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove,
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d.
And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might
Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight—
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind;
Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight
O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height;
Who bade once more the wild heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high
Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry.
Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past,
One strife remain’d—the mightest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour
Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power:
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood;
Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone,
Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone.
O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb,
Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified;
Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run,
A prouder sepulchre—the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name,
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown
That ask no urn to blazon their renown!
There shall the bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead;
[Pg 23]
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave!
Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze some name to glory dear;
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane,
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell
Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair
To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there.
And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame,
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.
Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored;
Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe,
And bid the stranger for awhile forget
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.
Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought,
Embodied visions of ascending thought!
Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced
In tints that vindicate adoring taste!
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown,
Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne;
Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d,
Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind;
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore
One beam of splendour to your native shore,
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume,
As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb.
Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy—
Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand,
As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone;
Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale,
E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale,
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends,
But its proud name with song eternal blends!
Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream
Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme;
Where every marble deeds of fame records,
Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords;
And the deep tones of inspiration swell
From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell;
Where heroes slumber on their battle plains,
Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes,
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot;
There was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast;
And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.
Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,
Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued,
Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude.
Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!
As one who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heighten’d by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe,
While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow,
With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored
As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored—
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o’er the dead.
Athens of Italy! once more are thine
Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine.
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,
And forms august as natives of the sky
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty—
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.
Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance—
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake,
And daring Intellect his bondage break—
[Pg 24]
Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose,
And snatch’d the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound
With power electric through the realms around;
O high in thought, magnificent in soul!
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th’ enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind
Seems in the marble’s breathing mould enshrined;
Still with ascendant power the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.
There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love’s radiant goddess, idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion’s vow,
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light
Flash’d o’er the sculptor’s intellectual sight,
How many a glimpse, reveal’d to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!
Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye
On forms instinct with bright divinity,
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart,
Embrace the full magnificence of Art;
From scenes by Raphael’s gifted hand array’d,
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray’d;
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime,
Seal’d with perfection, “sanctified by time;”
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel
His spirit burn with emulative zeal:
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise,
Imbued at once with nobler energies;
O’er life’s dim scenes on rapid pinions soar,
And worlds of visionary grace explore,
Till his bold hand give glory’s daydream birth,
And with new wonders charm admiring earth.
Venice exult! and o’er thy moonlight seas
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze!
What though long fled those years of martial fame
That shed romantic lustre o’er thy name;
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play,
And the wild waves another Queen obey;
Though quench’d the spirit of thine ancient race,
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace;
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast,
And gild the wreck of years for ever past.
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian’s dyes,
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies,
And scenes that glow in colouring’s richest bloom
With life’s warm flush Palladian halls illume.
From thy rich dome again th’ unrivall’d steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.
Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem—but form’d to bear
Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air;
To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet,
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet;
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray,
The flame that wakes creations into day.
Creatures of fire and ether! wing’d with light,
To track the regions of the Infinite!
From purer elements whose life was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn
What years, on years in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone
Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo’s voice—the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save
A few bright traces of the wise and brave;
How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,
Towering o’er earth majestic and alone,
Fortress of power—has flourish’d and is gone!
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne,
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn,
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun,
Consummate still in every grace remain,
As o’er their heads had ages roll’d in vain!
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight
O’er countless monuments of earthly might!
While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain,
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign.
’Midst the blue deep, who rear’d her island throne,
And called th’ infinitude of waves her own;
[Pg 25]
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea,
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!
And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl’d
Once cast its shadow o’er a vassal world,
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown;
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time
Immortal records of their glorious prime;
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among,
Swell’d the high raptures of heroic song;
Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head
From the cold altars of th’ illustrious dead,
And once again with fond delight survey
The proud memorials of thy noblest day.
Lo! where thy sons, O Rome! a godlike train,
In imaged majesty return again!
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august
O’er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul,
Still o’er thy children seem to claim control;
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim’s glance,
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance,
And bid the past, to fancy’s ardent eyes,
From time’s dim sepulchre in glory rise.
Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims;
Oh! with your images could fate restore
Your own high spirit to your sons once more;
Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return
That bade your hearts with freedom’s ardours burn;
Then from the sacred ashes of the first,
Might a new Rome in phœnix grandeur burst!
With one bright glance dispel th’ horizon’s gloom,
With one loud call wake empire from the tomb;
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown,
Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown,
Unchain her eagle’s wing, and guide his flight
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light!
Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o’er;
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more.
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days,
Who fix’d on thee the world’s adoring gaze;
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high,
More blest, ere darkness quench’d its beam, to die!
Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers,
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way,
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay!
Oh! what can realms in fame’s full zenith boast
To match the relics of thy splendour lost!
By Tiber’s waves, on each illustrious hill,
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still;
For there has Art survived an empire’s doom,
And rear’d her throne o’er Latium’s trophied tomb:
She from the dust recalls the brave and free,
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!
Oh! ne’er again may War, with lightning-stroke,
Rend its last honours from the shatter’d oak!
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine,
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.
Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire.
In all the grandeur of celestial ire,
Once more thine own, th’ immortal Archer’s form
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm!
Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame
A living temple of ethereal flame?
Lord of the daystar! how may words portray
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray?
Whate’er the soul could dream, the hand could trace,
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace;
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright,
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight
Each bold idea, borrow’d from the sky,
To vest th’ embodied form of Deity;
All, all in thee, ennobled and refined,
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined!
Son of Elysium! years and ages gone
Have bow’d in speechless homage at thy throne,
And days unborn, and nations yet to be,
Shall gaze, absorb’d in ecstasy, on thee!
And thou, triumphant wreck,[6] e’en yet sublime,
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time:
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught
From thee its fervours of diviner thought!
Where He, th’ inspired One, whose gigantic mind
Lived in some sphere to him alone assign’d;
Who from the past, the future, and th’ unseen
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien:
Unrivall’d Angelo on thee would gaze,
Till his full soul imbibed perfection’s blaze!
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair?
[Pg 26]
Emblem of Rome! from power’s meridian hurl’d,
Yet claiming still the homage of the world.
What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced
The work of wonder, idolised by taste?
Oh! worthy still of some divine abode,
Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God![7]
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream,
’Tis thine, by fate unconquer’d, to dispense
From every part some ray of excellence!
E’en yet, inform’d with essence from on high,
Thine is no trace of frail mortality!
Within that frame a purer being glows,
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows;
Fill’d with immortal life each muscle swells,
In every line supernal grandeur dwells,
Consummate work! the noblest and the last
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past:[8]
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still,
Her mantle flow’d o’er many a classic hill,
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed,
A hero’s image to the world bequeathed;
Enshrined in thee th’ imperishable ray
Of high-soul’d Genius, foster’d by her sway,
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn,
What lofty dreams were hers—who never shall return!
And mark yon group, transfix’d with many a throe,
Seal’d with the image of eternal woe:
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest,
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast,
And the stern combat picture to mankind
Of suffering nature and enduring mind.
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense;
Though fix’d on him, his children’s suppliant eyes
Implore the aid avenging fate denies;
Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife,
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life,
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll’d
Midst the dread circles of the venom’d fold;
Yet the strong spirit lives—and not a cry
Shall own the might of Nature’s agony!
That furrow’d brow unconquer’d soul reveals,
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals,
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath,
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death![9]
Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art!
With speechless horror to congeal the heart,
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain;
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power
May brave the pangs of fate’s severest hour.
Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze
On scenes where painting all her skill displays:
Landscapes, by colouring dress’d in richer dyes,
More mellow’d sunshine, more unclouded skies,
Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given,
Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven.
Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil’s might,
Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light;
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound,
Explored the worlds above, below, around,
Children of Italy! who stand alone
And unapproach’d, midst regions all your own;
What scenes, what beings bless’d your favour’d sight,
Severely grand, unutterably bright!
[Pg 27]
Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye
Could meet the noontide of eternity,
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll’d,
On all that Fancy trembles to behold.
Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed
As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled:
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare,
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair;
These o’er the walls your magic skill array’d,
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade,
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower,
And breathe and move, the records of your power.
Inspired of heaven! what heighten’d pomp ye cast
O’er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome—
Round many a work that bids the world believe
What Grecian Art could image and achieve,
Again, creative minds, your visions throw
Life’s chasten’d warmth and Beauty’s mellowest glow.
And when the Morn’s bright beams and mantling dyes
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume with purple smile
The Parian altar and the pillar’d aisle,
Then, as the full or soften’d radiance falls
On angel-groups that hover o’er the walls,
Well may those temples, where your hand has shed
Light o’er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance there,
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown,
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!
Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy’s erring theme!
Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream!
Frail, powerless idols of departed time,
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime!
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign’d
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow’d,
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow’d.
To her ’twas given in fancy to explore
The land of miracles, the holiest shore;
That realm where first the Light of Life was sent,
The loved, the punish’d, of th’ Omnipotent!
O’er Judah’s hills her thoughts inspired would stray,
Through Jordan’s valleys trace their lonely way;
By Siloa’s brook, or Almotana’s deep,[10]
Chain’d in dead silence, and unbroken sleep;
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell
Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d,
Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d,
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
“Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale.
There dwelt her spirit—there her hand portray’d,
Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest.
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul return’d to animate the dead;
Whom the waves own’d—and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;
To Him she gave her meditative hours,
Hallow’d her thoughts, and sanctified her powers.
O’er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw,
As all around the Godhead’s presence knew,
And robed the Holy One’s benignant mien
In beaming mercy, majesty serene.
Oh! mark where Raphael’s pure and perfect line
Portrays that form ineffably divine!
Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour’s head;[11]
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued
With all the fulness of beatitude,
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight
Sinks overpower’d by that excess of light!
Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art,
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart!
To bid the soul exultingly possess,
Of all her powers, a heighten’d consciousness;
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day,
The last of life, the first of freedom’s ray;
To realise, in some unclouded sphere,
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here!
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky,
Faint effluence of “the Dayspring from on high!”

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:—“Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again.... I shall take Felicia Hemans’s Restoration, &c., with me—it is a good poem—very.”]

[6] The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists.

[7] “Quoique cette statue d’Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d’une manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef-d’œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mystères de l’art, se la représentent dans toute sa beauté. L’Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé un corps idéal audessus de la nature * * * Cet Hercule paroît donc ici tel qu’il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de l’humanité, il obtint l’immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux. Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles.”—Winckelmann, Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens, torn. ii. p. 248.

[8] “Le Torso d’Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que l’art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l’histoire ne fait mention d’aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu’aux temps du Triumvirat Romain.”—Winckelmann, ibid. tom. ii. p. 250.

[9] “It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued.”—Alison’s Essays, vol. ii. p. 400.

“Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l’image d’un homme qui tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l’esprit. Tandis que l’excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s’élève avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également contrainte par le silence que la force de l’âme impose à la douleur qu’elle voudrait étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard.”—-Winckelmann, Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 214.

[10] Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea.

[11] The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave.


[Pg 28]

MODERN GREECE.

“O Greece! thou sapient nurse of finer arts,
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore,
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone,
In these hast led the way, in these excell’d,
Crown’d with the laurel of assenting Time.”
Thomson’s Liberty.

I.

Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime,
Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains!
And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks of time,
The print of Glory’s parting step retains;
Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot,
Musing on years gone by in brightness there,
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot,
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear;
As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye
Of sea and heaven hath track’d the blue infinity?

II.

Is there who views with cold unalter’d mien,
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught,
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene,
Where Freedom triumph’d, or where Wisdom taught?
Souls that too deeply feel! oh, envy not
The sullen calm your fate hath never known:
Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot
Genius ne’er pierced, nor Fancy’s sunbeam shone,
Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory’s trace,
Glow with the generous flames of every age and race.

III.

But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued
With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined
In the calm school of silent solitude;
Pour’d on his ear, midst groves and glens retired,
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime,
All that hath lived, while empires have expired,
To float for ever on the winds of time;
And on his soul indelibly portray’d
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade.

IV.

Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown,
A sanctuary of beauty and of light?
There he may dwell in regions all his own,
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright.
For him the scenes of old renown possess
Romantic charms, all veil’d from other eyes;
There every form of nature’s loveliness
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies;
As music’s voice, in some lone mountain dell,
From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo’s swell.

V.

For him Italia’s brilliant skies illume
The bard’s lone haunts, the warrior’s combat-plains,
And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom
Round Doric Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12]
But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore
He feels the fervours of his spirit rise;
Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies;
And lingers still around the well-known coast,
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost.

VI.

By seas that flow in brightness as they lave
Thy rocks, th’ enthusiast rapt in thought may stray,
While roves his eye o’er that deserted wave,
Once the proud scene of battle’s dread array.
—O ye blue waters! ye, of old that bore
The free, the conquering, hymn’d by choral strains,
How sleep ye now around the silent shore,
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains!
How are the mighty vanish’d in their pride!
E’en as their barks have left no traces on your tide.

VII.

Hush’d are the Pæans whose exulting tone
Swell’d o’er that tide[13]—the sons of battle sleep—
[Pg 29]
The wind’s wild sigh, the halcyon’s voice alone
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep.
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues
Of morn’s rich firmament, serenely bright,
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse
With all their purple mellowness of light,
Oh! who could view the scene, so calmly fair,
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there?

VIII.

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow,
’Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh;
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow,
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky;
—Yet o’er the low, dark dwellings of the dead,
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile,
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread
In green luxuriance o’er the ruin’d pile;
And mantling woodbine veil the wither’d tree;—
And thus it is, fair land! forsaken Greece, with thee.

IX.

For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm,
Are but as heaven’s warm radiance on the tomb,
The rose’s blush that masks the canker-worm.
And thou art desolate—thy morn hath pass’d!
So dazzling in the splendour of its sway,
That the dark shades the night hath o’er thee cast
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay.
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair,
Thy fate hath been unmatch’d—in glory and despair.

X.

For thee, lost land! the hero’s blood hath flow’d,
The high in soul have brightly lived and died;
For thee the light of soaring genius glow’d
O’er the fair arts it form’d and glorified.
Thine were the minds whose energies sublime
So distanced ages in their lightning-race,
The task they left the sons of later time
Was but to follow their illumined trace.
—Now, bow’d to earth, thy children, to be free,
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee.

XI.

Lo! to the scenes of fiction’s wildest tales,
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,[14]
To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales,
Whose incense mounts to Asia’s vivid skies.
There shall he rest?—Alas! his hopes in vain
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm:
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain,
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm;
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes,
Where patriarchs reign’d of old in pastoral repose.

XII.

Where Syria’s mountains rise, or Yemen’s groves,
Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave,
Life to his eye, as wearily it roves,
Wears but two forms—the tyrant and the slave!
There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde
Where sweeps the sand-storm o’er the burning wild;
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword
O’er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled;
And the vale’s bosom, and the desert’s gloom,
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb.

XIII.

But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave,
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,[15]
The lost descendant of the immortal brave?
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades
That o’er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast,
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last?
Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene,
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne’er hath been.

XIV.

There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast
Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams,
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress’d
In tints like those that float o’er poet’s dreams;
[Pg 30]
Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam,
Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores,
The exiled Greek hath fix’d his sylvan home:
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman’s feet.

XV.

The forests are around him in their pride,
The green savannas, and the mighty waves;
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o’er the tide,[16]
That images the fairy worlds it laves,
And stillness, and luxuriance. O’er his head
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers,
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread,
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers;
And from those green arcades a thousand tones
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature’s temple moans.

XVI.

And there, no traces left by brighter days
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief;
Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze,
The lone memorial of an Indian chief.
There man not yet hath mark’d the boundless plain
With marble records of his fame and power;
The forest is his everlasting fane,
The palm his monument, the rock his tower:
Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree
Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.

XVII.

But doth the exile’s heart serenely there
In sunshine dwell?—Ah! when was exile blest?
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air,
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest?
—There is a heart-sick weariness of mood,
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow,
And shrines itself in mental solitude,
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe.
That coldly smiles midst pleasure’s brightest ray,
As the chill glacier’s peak reflects the flush of day.

XVIII.

Such grief is theirs, who, fix’d on foreign shore,
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales,
As pines the seaman, midst the ocean’s roar,
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales.
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee,
Loved Greece! all sunk and blighted as thou art
Though thought and step in western wilds be free,
Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart:
The deserts spread between, the billows foam,
Thou, distant and in chains, are yet his spirit’s home.

XIX.

In vain for him the gay liannes entwine,
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes,
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine,
As eve’s last blush is dying on the lakes.
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while,
Or breathes the freshness of Cithæron’s height,
Or dreams how softly Athens’ towers would smile,
Or Sunium’s ruins, in the fading light;
On Corinth’s cliff what sunset hues may sleep,
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th’ Ægean deep!

XX.

What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine?
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!)
E’en to the stranger’s roving eye, they shine
Soft as a vision of remember’d joy.
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day,
A passing wanderer o’er each Attic hill,
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay,
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still;
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore,
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more.

XXI.

Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine
That Fancy visits with Devotion’s zeal,
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine,
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel
Amidst the tombs of heroes—for the brave
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil,
Foremost in honour’s phalanx, died to save
The land redeem’d and hallow’d by their toil;
And there is language in thy lightest gale,
That o’er the plains they won seems murmuring yet their tale.

[Pg 31]

XXII.

And he, whose heart is weary of the strife
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life,
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days,
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems
With proud remembrances that cannot die.
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams,
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by;
And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish’d years.

XXIII.

Through that deep solitude be his to stray,
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past,
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way
Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast.
Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same—
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:[17]
Years, that have changed thy river’s classic name,[18]
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime;
And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves,
In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves.

XXIV.

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers,
Where the rich arbute’s coral berries glow,[19]
Or midst th’ exuberance of thy forest bowers,
Casting deep shadows o’er the current’s flow,
Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess,
As rock and stream some glancing light have caught,
And gaze, till Nature’s mighty forms impress
His soul with deep sublimity of thought;
And linger oft, recalling many a tale,
That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whispering through thy dale.

XXV.

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old
From Delphi’s chasm the mystic vapour rose,
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold
By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and snows.
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust,
And silence now the hallow’d haunt possess,
Still is the scene of ancient rites august,
Magnificent in mountain loneliness;
Still inspiration hovel’s o’er the ground,
Where Greece her councils held,[20] her Pythian victors crown’d.

XXVI.

Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood,
When by the waves that break on Œta’s shore,
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood!
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea’s plain,
Bloom the wild laurels o’er the warlike dead,[21]
Or lone Platæa’s ruins yet remain
To mark the battle-field of ages fled:
Still o’er such scenes presides a sacred power,
Though Fiction’s gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower.

[Pg 32]

XXVII.

Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell
Where mortal worth has hallow’d grove or stream,
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell;
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control
In the wood’s murmur, in the zephyr’s sigh,
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul,
And a high power, to Nature’s majesty!
And who can rove o’er Grecian shores, nor feel,
Soft o’er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal?

XXVIII.

Yet many a sad reality is there,
That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil.
Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air,
But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale;
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws
Delusive quiet o’er full many a scene—
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose
That follows where the earthquake’s track hath been;
Or solemn calm on Ocean’s breast that lies,
When sinks the storm, and death has hush’d the seamen’s cries.

XXIX.

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl’d
By Fate’s rude tempest from its radiant sphere,
Doom’d to resign the homage of a world,
For Pity’s deepest sigh and saddest tear?
Oh! hast thou watch’d the awful wreck of mind
That weareth still a glory in decay?
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind—
Thought, science, genius—to the storm a prey;
And o’er the blasted tree, the wither’d ground,
Despair’s wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish round?

XXX.

So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought,
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime:
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought,
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime.
There the proud monuments of Valour’s name,
The mighty works Ambition piled on high,
The rich remains by Art bequeath’d to Fame—
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry,
Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish’d there!

XXXI.

There, while around lie mingling in the dust
The column’s graceful shaft, with weeds o’er grown,
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust.
The warrior’s urn, the altar’s mossy stone—
Amidst the loneliness of shatter’d fanes,
Still matchless monuments of other years—
O’er cypress groves or solitary plains,
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears:
As on some captive city’s ruin’d wall
The victor’s banner waves, exulting o’er its fall.

XXXII.

Still, where that column of the mosque aspires,
Landmark of slavery, towering o’er the waste,
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres
And o’er the blooms of fancy and of taste
Spreads the chill blight;—as in that orient isle
Where the dark upas taints the gale around,[22]
Within its precincts not a flower may smile,
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground;
Nor wild birds’ music float on zephyr’s breath,
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death.

XXXIII.

Far other influence pour’d the Crescent’s light
O’er conquer’d realms, in ages pass’d away;
Full and alone it beam’d, intensely bright,
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay.
Then rose th’ Alhambra, with its founts and shades,
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers:
Its sculptured lions,[23] richly wrought arcades,
Aërial pillars, and enchanted towers;
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale
Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale.

XXXIV.

Then foster’d genius lent each caliph’s throne
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne’er attain;
[Pg 33]
And stars unnumber’d o’er the orient shone,
Bright as that Pleïad, sphered in Mecca’s fane.[24]
From Bagdat’s palaces the choral strains
Rose and re-echoed to the desert’s bound,
And Science, woo’d on Egypt’s burning plains,
Rear’d her majestic head with glory crown’d;
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore
From Syria’s palmy groves to Andalusia’s shore.

XXXV.

Those years have past in radiance—they have past,
As sinks the daystar in the tropic main;
His parting beams no soft reflection cast,
They burn—are quench’d—and deepest shadows reign.
And Fame and Science have not left a trace
In the vast regions of the Moslem’s power,—
Regions, to intellect a desert space,
A wild without a fountain or a flower,
Where towers Oppression midst the deepening glooms,
As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the tombs.

XXXVI.

Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia pour’d
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium’s wall;
When Europe sheath’d, in apathy, her sword,
And heard unmoved the fated city’s call.
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line
Of spears and banners round a falling throne;
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine![25]
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone.
Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain—
Thine empire’s proud exchange the grave, and not the chain!

XXXVII.

Hush’d is Byzantium—’tis the dead of night—
The closing night of that imperial race![26]
And all is vigil—but the eye of light
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace:
There is a murmuring stillness on the train
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die;
And to the cross, in fair Sophia’s fane,
For the last time is raised Devotion’s eye;
And, in his heart while faith’s bright visions rise,
There kneels the high-soul’d prince, the summon’d of the skies.

XXXVIII.

Day breaks in light and glory—’tis the hour
Of conflict and of fate—the war-note calls—
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls.
Far over Marmora’s waves th’ artillery’s peal
Proclaims an empire’s doom in every note;
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel,
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float;
From camp and wave rush on the Crescent’s host,
And the Seven Towers[27] are scaled, and all is won and lost.

XXXIX.

Then, Greece! the tempest rose that burst on thee,
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage!
Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free,
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age?
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows,
And bright the memory of thy days of pride,
In mountain might though Corinth’s fortress rose,
On, unresisted, roll’d th’ invading tide!
Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower,
If Freedom guard them not with Mind’s unconquer’d power.

XL.

Where were th’ avengers then, whose viewless might
Preserved inviolate their awful fane,[28]
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi’s height,
In martial splendour pour’d the Persian’s train?
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers,
Arm’d with the elements, to vengeance wake,
Call the dread storms to darken round their towers,
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break;
[Pg 34]
Till far around, with deep and fearful clang,
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang.

XLI.

Where was the spirit of the victor-throng
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander’s tide,
Whose names are bright in everlasting song,
The lords of war, the praised, the deified?
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays,
Who from the dead at Marathon arose[29]
All arm’d; and beaming on the Athenians’ gaze,
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes?
Or they whose forms to Alaric’s awe-struck eye,[30]
Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply?

XLII.

Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth![31]
High demigods of ancient days! ye slept:
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth
When o’er your land the victor Moslem swept.
No patriot then the sons of freedom led,
In mountain pass devotedly to die;
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled,
And the high soul’s unconquer’d buoyancy;
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains,
Warriors! your children knelt to wear the stranger’s chains.

XLIII.

Now have your trophies vanish’d, and your homes
Are moulder’d from the earth, while scarce remain
E’en the faint traces of the ancient tombs
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain.
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown,
The lyres are hush’d that swell’d your fame afar,
The halls that echo’d to their sounds are gone,
Perish’d the conquering weapons of your war;[32]
And if a mossy stone your names retain,
’Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.

XLIV.

Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands,
That with those names tradition hallows yet,
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands
Linger in solemn thought and hush’d regret.
And still have legends mark’d the lonely spot
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies;
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot,
Hovering around, to fancy’s vision rise.
Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again,
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory’s reign.

XLV.

Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway
O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains,
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey,
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains:
Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth,
And many a chief of old illustrious line,
Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth
To kindle those that now in bondage pine?
No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath,
And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death.

XLVI.

Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there,
How rich in charms were that romantic clime,
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair,
And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime!
Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign,
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies,
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain—
Meet home for those retired divinities
That love, where nought of earth may e’er intrude,
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude.

XLVII.

There in rude grandeur daringly ascends
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height;
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends,
Frowning o’er vales in woodland verdure bright.
Wild and august in consecrated pride,
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers,
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide
The rock-built palace of immortal powers;
[Pg 35]
Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose,
Amidst th’ eternal pomp of forests and of snows.

XLVIII.

Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem
The chosen haunts where Freedom’s foot would roam;
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream,
And make the rocky fastnesses her home.
And in the rushing of the mountain flood,
In the wild eagle’s solitary cry,
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood,
There is a voice of stern sublimity,
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude.

XLIX.

But from those hills the radiance of her smile
Hath vanish’d long, her step hath fled afar;
O’er Suli’s frowning rocks she paused a while,[33]
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war.
And brightly glow’d her ardent spirit there,
Still brightest midst privation: o’er distress
It cast romantic splendour, and despair
But fann’d that beacon of the wilderness;
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell.

L.

Dark children of the hills! ’twas then ye wrought
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand;
As midst your craggy citadels ye fought,
And women mingled with your warrior band.
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood[34]
High o’er the river’s darkly-rolling wave,
And hurl’d, in dread delirium, to the flood
Her free-born infant, ne’er to be a slave.
For all was lost—all, save the power to die
The wild indignant death of savage liberty.

LI.

Now is that strife a tale of vanish’d days,
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie;
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays,
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high.
And the dread struggle’s fearful memory still
O’er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws;
Sheds darker shadows o’er the frowning hill,
More solemn quiet o’er the glen’s repose;
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan,
And the hoarse river’s voice a murmur not its own.

LII.

For stillness now—the stillness of the dead—
Hath wrapt that conflict’s lone and awful scene;
And man’s forsaken homes, in ruin spread,
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been.
And there, o’er wastes magnificently rude,
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain?
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued,
Where Freedom’s banner may be rear’d again:
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame,
The children of her sons inherit but their name.

LIII.

Go, seek proud Sparta’s monuments and fanes!
In scatter’d fragments o’er the vale they lie;
Of all they were not e’en enough remains
To lend their fall a mournful majesty.[35]
Birth-place of those whose names we first revered
In song and story—temple of the free!
O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear’d,
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee?
Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind,
And e’en in ruin claim’d the wonder of mankind.

LIV.

For thine were spirits cast in other mould
Than all beside—and proved by ruder test;
They stood alone—the proud, the firm, the bold,
With the same seal indelibly imprest.
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind,
One image stamp’d the rough, colossal race,
In rugged grandeur frowning o’er mankind,
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace;
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower,
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower.

LV.

Such were thy sons—their life a battle-day!
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die!
Closed is that task, and they have passed away
Like softer beings train’d to aims less high.
[Pg 36]
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell,
True to their shields, the champions of thy cause,
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws![36]
O lofty mother of heroic worth,
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth?

LVI.

Hadst thou but perish’d with the free, nor known
A second race, when glory’s noon went by,
Then had thy name in single brightness shone
A watchword on the helm of liberty!
Thou shouldst have pass’d with all the light of fame,
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains.
But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame,
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes;
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors’ graves,
Hast drain’d the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves.

LVII.

Now all is o’er—for thee alike are flown
Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud;
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud.
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low;
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled;
O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow,
And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread;
And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound,
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.

LVIII.

Taÿgetus still lifts his awful brow
High o’er the mouldering city of the dead,
Sternly sublime; while o’er his robe of snow
Heaven’s floating tints their warm suffusions spread.
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads
By tombs and ruins o’er the silent plain;
While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds
Rise as of old, when hail’d by classic strain;
There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,[37]
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o’er Sparta’s grave.

LIX.

Oh, thus it is with man! A tree, a flower,
While nations perish, still renews its race,
And o’er the fallen records of his power
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace.
The laurel shoots when those have pass’d away,
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free;
The rose is flourishing o’er beauty’s clay,
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be;
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled,
And all that round us blooms is blooming o’er the dead.

LX.

And still the olive spreads its foliage round
Morea’s fallen sanctuaries and towers.
Once its green boughs Minerva’s votaries crown’d,
Deem’d a meet offering for celestial powers.
The suppliant’s hand its holy branches bore;[38]
They waved around the Olympic victor’s head;
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore,
Its leaves the Spartan’s honour’d bier o’erspread.
Those rites have vanish’d—but o’er vale and hill
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow’d still.[39]

LXI.

Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high?
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train,
The long procession’s awful pageantry?
Quench’d is the torch of Ceres[40]—all around
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign;
There never more shall choral hymns resound
O’er the hush’d earth and solitary main,
[Pg 37]
Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows,
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose.

LXII.

And oh, ye secret and terrific powers!
Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt,
How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers,
Where Superstition trembled as she knelt!
Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made
The elements your voice, the wind and wave;
Spirits! whose influence darken’d many a shade,
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave!
How long your power the awe-struck nations sway’d,
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey’d!

LXIII.

And say, what marvel, in those early days,
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not,
If man around him cast a fearful gaze,
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot?
Awful is nature in her savage forms,
Her solemn voice commanding in its might,
And mystery then was in the rush of storms,
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night;
And mortals heard Fate’s language in the blast,
And rear’d your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past!

LXIV.

Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh
But with prophetic sound—a waving tree,
A meteor flashing o’er the summer sky,
A bird’s wild flight reveal’d the things to be.
All spoke of unseen natures, and convey’d
Their inspiration; still they hover’d round,
Hallow’d the temple, whisper’d through the shade,
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound;
Of them the fount, the forest, murmur’d still,
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill.

LXV.

Now is the train of Superstition flown!
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more;
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone,
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore.
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia’s cave,
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep;
Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,[41]
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep.
Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime!
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time!

LXVI.

Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams;
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard,
Her vales, that foster’d Art’s divinest dreams!
But that bright spirit o’er the land that shone,
And all around pervading influence pour’d,
That lent the harp of Æschylus its tone,
And proudly hallow’d Lacedæmon’s sword,
And guided Phidias o’er the yielding stone,
With them its ardours lived—with them its light is flown.

LXVII.

Thebes, Corinth, Argos!—ye renown’d of old,
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name?
How soon the tale of ages may be told!
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame,
The work of centuries. We gaze on you,
O cities! once the glorious and the free,
The lofty tales that charm’d our youth renew,
And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be?
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb,
And find the mosque alone—a record of their doom!

LXVIII.

How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour’d,
Fair Elis! o’er thy consecrated vales?[42]
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword,
And banners floated on the balmy gales.
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude,
As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas;
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude,
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze.
Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke:
Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow’d beneath the yoke.

LXIX.

And through Arcadia’s wild and lone retreats
Far other sounds have echo’d than the strain
[Pg 38]
Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats,
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain!
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys,
On his green banks renew’d, the classic dance,
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays,
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance;
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell
Midst Pan’s deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell.

LXX.

But thou, fair Attica! whose rocky bound
All art and nature’s richest gifts enshrined,
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind;
Who, as the summit of some Alpine height
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day,
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light,[43]
And smile the longest in its lingering ray;
Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem
The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.

LXXI.

Let Fancy’s vivid hues awhile prevail—
Wake at her call—be all thou wert once more!
Hark! hymns of triumph swell on every gale—
Lo! bright processions move along thy shore;
Again thy temples, midst the olive-shade,
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise;
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade,
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies;
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien,
In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright scene.

LXXII.

Again renew’d by Thought’s creative spells,
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers:
Within, around, the light of glory dwells
On art’s fair fabrics, wisdom’s holy bowers.
There marble fanes in finish’d grace ascend,
The pencil’s world of life and beauty glows;
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend,
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes;
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride,
The sage’s blest retreats, by calm Ilissus’ tide.

LXXIII.

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave,
Raised by the magic of Morgana’s wand,[44]
On summer seas that undulating lave
Romantic Sicily’s Arcadian strand;
That pictured scene of airy colonnades,
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest,
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades,
Gleaming and floating on the ocean’s breast;
Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears,
As Fancy’s eye pervades the veiling cloud of years.

LXXIV.

Still be that cloud withdrawn—oh! mark on high,
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced,
That fane, august in perfect symmetry,
The purest model of Athenian taste.
Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise
In simple dignity, thy marble’s hue
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies,
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue;
And art o’er all thy light proportions throws
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose.

LXXV.

And lovely o’er thee sleeps the sunny glow,
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign,
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain.
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold
Each latent grace, developing in light;
Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold,
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright;
And seem indeed whate’er devotion deems,
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams.

[Pg 39]

LXXVI.

But oh! what words the vision may portray,
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine?
There stands thy goddess, robed in war’s array,
Supremely glorious, awfully divine!
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest,
And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought;
And on each heavenly lineament imprest,
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought—
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose—
All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws.

LXXVII.

Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still
Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace,
And in each work of art’s consummate skill
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race:
That spirit, roused by every proud reward
That hope could picture, glory could bestow,
Foster’d by all the sculptor and the bard
Could give of immortality below.
Thus were thy heroes form’d, and o’er their name,
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame.

LXXVIII.

Mark in the throng’d Ceramicus, the train
Of mourners weeping o’er the martyr’d brave:
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain,
Holy the amaranth strew’d upon their grave![45]
And hark! unrivall’d eloquence proclaims
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice!
Hark! Pericles records their honour’d names![46]
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice:
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom?
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb?

LXXIX.

Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth;
Theirs are enshrinèd names, and every heart
Shall bear the blazon’d impress of their worth.
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise,
Their fields of fight shall epic song record;
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies,
Their name shall be their country’s rallying word!
While fane and column rise august to tell
How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell.

LXXX.

City of Theseus! bursting on the mind,
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled!
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind,
Thus hallow’d by the memory of the dead:
Alone in beauty and renown—a scene
Whose tints are drawn from freedom’s loveliest ray.
’Tis but a vision now—yet thou hast been
More than the brightest vision might portray;
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought.

LXXXI.

Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung
To choral melodies and tragic lore;
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung,
The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more.
Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand,
Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill,
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand,
The magic voice of eloquence is still;
Minerva’s veil is rent[47]—her image gone;
Silent the sage’s bower—the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown.

[Pg 40]

LXXXII.

Yet in decay thine exquisite remains
Wondering we view, and silently revere,
As traces left on earth’s forsaken plains
By vanish’d beings of a nobler sphere!
Not all the old magnificence of Rome,
All that dominion there hath left to time—
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome,
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime,
Can bid such reverence o’er the spirit steal,
As aught by thee imprest with beauty’s plastic seal.

LXXXIII.

Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste,
Palmyra rises, desolately grand—
Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced,
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand
In haughty solitude—though sacred Nile
The first-born temples of the world surveys,
And many an awful and stupendous pile
Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays;
City of Pericles! oh who, like thee,
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be?

LXXXIV.

Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear,
Oh, still triumphant in that high career!
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair.
And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown
As to her country,—thou hast been to earth
A cynosure,—and, e’en from victory’s throne,
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth;
And nations, rising to their fame afar,
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star.

LXXXV.

Glory to those whose relics thus arrest
The gaze of ages! Glory to the free!
For they, they only, could have thus imprest
Their mighty image on the years to be!
Empires and cities in oblivion lie,
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,—
To leave on earth renown that cannot die,
Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot.
Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone.

LXXXVI.

Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes
All that attests the brightness of thy prime?
Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies,
And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime!
Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead,
Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts;
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread,
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts.
Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land,
Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand!

LXXXVII.

For them in vain the glowing light may smile
O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed,
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile
Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head.
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil,
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d;
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil
But to destroy what ages have revered—
As if exulting sternly to erase
Whate’er might prove that land had nursed a nobler race.

LXXXVIII.

And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands,
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art,
Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands,
Claim homage still to thee from every heart
Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight,
Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane,
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light,
All that remain’d of forms adored in vain;
A few short years—and, vanish’d from the scene,
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.

LXXXIX.

Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown.
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep
In all their beauty still—and thine is gone!
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered,
And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine.
The dust is round thee of the race that rear’d
Thy walls; and thou—their fate must soon be thine!
[Pg 41]
But when shall earth again exult to see
Visions divine like theirs renew’d in aught like thee?

XC.

Lone are thy pillars now—each passing gale
Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale
Of the bright synod once above them throned.
Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill,
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared:
Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still
That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared;
Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne,
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn.

XCI.

Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains
All that may charm th’ enlighten’d eye of taste,
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns.
As vital fragrance breathes from every part
Of the crush’d myrtle, or the bruisèd rose,
E’en thus th’ essential energy of art
There in each wreck imperishably glows![49]
The soul of Athens lives in every line,
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.

XCII.

Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train,
The holy festival’s triumphal throng,
In fair procession to Minerva’s fane,
With many a sacred symbol, move along.
There every shade of bright existence trace,
The fire of youth, the dignity of age;
The matron’s calm austerity of grace,
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage;
The nymph’s light symmetry, the chief’s proud mien—
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.

XCIII.

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,[50]
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows;
There e’en the steed, withhold expression warm,[51]
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows.
One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole;
Those varied groups the same bright impress bear;
One beam and essence of exalting soul
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair;
And well that pageant of the glorious dead
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.

XCIV.

O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain
The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
Eternalise expression’s fleeting reign,
Arrest warm life in all its energies,
And fix them on the stone—thy glorious lot
Might wake ambition’s envy, and create
Powers half divine: while nations are forgot,
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish’d fate!
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth,
The realms that hail them now scarce claim’d a name on earth.

XCV.

Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere
But once beheld, and never to return?
No—we may hail again thy bright career,
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn!
Though thy least relics, e’en in ruin, bear
A stamp of heaven, that ne’er hath been renew’d—
A light inherent—let not man despair:
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued;
For still is nature fair, and thought divine,
And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.[52]

XCVI.

Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced—
Yet there the germ of future glory lies!
[Pg 42]
Their virtual grandeur could not be erased;
It clothes them still, though veil’d from common eyes.
They once were gods and heroes[53]—and beheld
As the blest guardians of their native scene;
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell’d
With awe that own’d their sovereignty of mien.
Ages have vanish’d since those hearts were cold,
And still those shatter’d forms retain their godlike mould.

XCVII.

Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne
They have look’d down on thousand storms of time;
Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown,
They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime!
Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d.
The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot—
Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard;
But these were destined to a nobler lot!
And they have borne, to light another land,
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand.

XCVIII.

Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine,
In human works thus blending earth and heaven,
O’er nature’s truth had spread that grace divine,
To mortal form immortal grandeur given?
What soul but thine, infusing all its power
In these last monuments of matchless days,
Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower,
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise;
And guide deep Thought to that secluded height
Where excellence is throned in purity of light?

XCIX.

And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame,
Caught from these models, may illume the west?
What British Angelo may rise to fame,[54]
On the free isle what beams of art may rest?
Deem not, O England! that by climes confined,
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray;[55]
Deem not the eternal energies of mind
Sway’d by that sun whose doom is but decay!
Shall thought be foster’d but by skies serene?
No! thou hast power to be what Athens e’er hath been.

C.

But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown,
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind,
O’er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone,
Their soaring flight had left a world behind!
And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone,
Or each pure grace of Raphael’s pencil caught,
Leaving no record of its power, is gone!
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast,
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost

CI.

Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone!
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won!
Fame dwells around thee—Genius is thine own;
Call his rich blooms to life—be thou their sun!
So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep,
Should thine e’er be as now are Grecian plains,
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains;
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace,
And cry, “This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!”

[12] “The Pæstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity of blooming twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn.”—Swinburne’s Travels in the Two Sicilies.

[13] In the naval engagements of the Greeks, “it was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a pæan, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo.”—See Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 155.

[14] The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Châteaubriand in his Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem—“Parvenu au dernier degré du malheur, le Moraïte s’arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du Jourdain et dans les déserts de Palmyre.”

[15] In the same work, Châteaubriand also relates his having met with several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the woods of Florida.

[16] “La grâce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scènes de la nature: et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chênes, on voit sur les deux courants latéraux, remonter, le long des rivages des îles flottantes de Pistia et de Nénuphar, dont les roses jaunes s’élèvent comme de petits papillons.”—Description of the Banks of the Mississippi, Chateaubriand’s Atala.

[17] “Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase, vale of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction.... The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it.... To those who have visited St Vincent’s rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon; and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimensions: but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath.”—Holland’s Travels in Albania, &c.

[18] The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria.

[19] “Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm; where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of the stream.... The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality.”—Holland’s Travels in Albania, &c.

[20] The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylæ, and presided at the Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year.

[21] “This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels.”—Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[22] For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin’s Botanic Garden.

[23] “The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order.... But its principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon’s temple.”—Burgoanne’s Travels in Spain.

[24] “Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poëtes Arabiques sont désignés par les écrivains orientaux sous le nom de Pleïade Arabique, et leurs ouvrages étaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque.”—Sismondi, Littérature du Midi.

[25] “The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 226.

[26] See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II.—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 225.

[27] “This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods of the empire.”—Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[28] See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of Delphi.—Mitford’s Greece, vol. i. p. 396-7.

[29] “In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the barbarians.”—Langhorne’s Plutarch, Life of Theseus.

[30] “From Thermopylæ to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable ægis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities of Greece.”—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. v. p. 183.

[31] “Even all the chief ones of the earth.”—Isaiah, xiv.

[32] “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!”—Samuel, book ii. chap. i.

[33] For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland’s Travels in Albania.

[34] “It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy.”—Holland’s Travels, &c.

[35] The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very striking.

[36] The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylæ has been thus translated:—“Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here.”

[37] “In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis.”—Pouqueville’s Travels in the Morea.

[38] It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with wool.

[39] The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with veneration by the people of the Morea.

[40] It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna.—Porter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392.

[41] The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained.—See Holland’s Travels.

[42] Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again when they had passed its boundary.

[43] “We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation.”—Mitford’s Greece, vol. i. p. 35.

[44] Fata Morgana. This remarkable aërial phenomenon, which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne:—

“On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful spectacle: the sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees.”—Swinburne’s Travels in the Two Sicilies.

[45] All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles.—Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 232.

[46] Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great applause; and when he came down from the rostrum the women paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists.—Langhorne’s Plutarch, Life of Pericles.

[47] The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival; and it was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to Minerva.—See Chandler’s Travels, Stuart’s Athens, &c.

[48] The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to Winckelmann, in high preservation.

[49] “In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure,” is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles.

[50] “Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill.”—Canova’s Letter to the Earl of Elgin.

[51] Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse’s head in Lord Elgin’s collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds:—“We feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are insensibly carried on with the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble.”—West’s Second Letter to Lord Elgin.

[52] Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular—because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist.—See the Evidence given in reply to Interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles.

[53] The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, “because there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statues.”—See The Evidence, &c.

[54] “Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?”—West’s Second Letter to Lord Elgin.

[55] In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts.—See Hoare’s Epochs of the Arts, p. 84, 85.

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

Blackwood’s Magazine.—“In our reviews of poetical productions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, ‘The Restoration of the[Pg 43] Works of Art to Italy’—namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. That the author’s fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the reading public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough; and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all.


“But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease to pay; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward.

“Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude.

“With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece.

“The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts may be limited.”

Edinburgh Monthly Review.—“The grand act of retribution—the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre—occasioned Mrs Hemans’ first publication. ‘Modern Greece’ next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her strength.”


TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS.

“Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand’ altri v’aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”—Savioli.

SONNET 70.

“Na metade do ceo subido ardia.”

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam,
The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign,
And for the living fount, the gelid stream,
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain:
Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade,
The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray;
Hush’d were their melodies—and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay:
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain,
To seek the maid who but despised his pain,
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved:
“Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried,
“By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied
An echo’s murmuring voice—“Thou art not loved!

SONNET 282.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.”

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream
I sat, retracing days for ever flown,
While rose thine image on the exile’s dream,
O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone:
When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed,
Thus to their captive spoke—“Why sleep thy lays?
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled,
And all thy triumphs in departed days!
Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm?
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.”
With sighs I answer’d,—“When the cup of woe
Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow,
The mourner’s cure is not to sing—but die.”

[Pg 44]

PART OF ECLOGUE 15.

“Se lá no assento da maior alteza.”

If in thy glorious home above
Thou still recallest earthly love,
If yet retain’d a thought may be
Of him whose heart hath bled for thee;
Remember still how deeply shrined
Thine image in his joyless mind:
Each well-known scene, each former care,
Forgotten—thou alone art there!
Remember that thine eye-beam’s light
Hath fled for ever from his sight,
And, with that vanish’d sunshine, lost
Is every hope he cherish’d most.
Think that his life, from thee apart,
Is all but weariness of heart;
Each stream, whose music once was dear,
Now murmurs discord to his ear.
Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays
Woke him to joy in other days,
Now, in the light of beauty drest,
Brings but new sorrows to his breast.
Through thee, the heavens are dark to him,
The sun’s meridian blaze is dim;
And harsh were e’en the bird of eve,
But that her song still loves to grieve.
All it hath been, his heart forgets,
So alter’d by its long regrets;
Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er,
And joy’s light spirit wakes no more.

SONNET 271.

“A formosura desta fresca serra.”

This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d,
These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright;
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound
Lulls every bosom to serene delight;
Soft on these hills the sun’s declining ray;
This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas;
Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way;
Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze;
And all that Nature’s lavish hands dispense,
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense,
Ne’er in thy absence can delight my breast:
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles:
And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles,
A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.

SONNET 186.

“Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.”

Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light,
Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show;
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright,
Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow;
The rich redundance of that golden hair,
Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day;
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair,
Where now those treasures?—mouldering into clay!
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn,
Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn,
Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight?
Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears!
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres,
But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night!

SONNET 108.

“Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.”

Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide
Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains,
Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide,
Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains.
Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again
Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn,
I have no hope to meliorate my pain,
No dream that whispers—I may yet return!
My frowning destiny, whose watchful care
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair,
Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly,
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh,
And blend my tears with other waves than thine!

[Pg 45]

SONNET 23.

TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA.

“Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao.”

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave,
O fondly loved! my bosom’s dearest care!
Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave,
Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair!
Yes! the wild seas entomb those charms divine,
Dark o’er thy head th’ eternal billows roll;
But while one ray of life or thought is mine,
Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul.
And if the tones of my uncultured song
Have power the sad remembrance to prolong,
Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure;
Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain,
Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain,
While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure.

SONNET 19.

“Alma minha gentil, que te partiste.”

Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere,
How is yon Heaven eternally thine own,
Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here!
Oh! if allow’d in thy divine abode
Of aught on earth an image to retain,
Remember still the fervent love which glow’d
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain.
And if thou deem’d that all my faithful grief,
Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief,
Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies!
Oh! ask of Heaven, which call’d thee soon away,
That I may join thee in those realms of day,
Swiftly as thou hast vanish’d from mine eyes.

“Que estranho caso de amor!”

How strange a fate in love is mine!
How dearly prized the pains I feel!
Pangs, that to rend my soul combine,
With avarice I conceal:
For did the world the tale divine,
My lot would then be deeper woe—
And mine is grief that none must know.
To mortal ears I may not dare
Unfold the cause, the pain I prove;
’Twould plunge in ruin and despair
Or me, or her I love.
My soul delights alone to bear
Her silent, unsuspected woe,
And none shall pity, none shall know.
Thus buried in my bosom’s urn,
Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d,
Let me alone the secret mourn,
In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d.
For whether happiness or woe,
Or life or death its power bestow,
It is what none on earth must know.

SONNET 58.

“Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.”

Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart
Yet long enough protract his votary’s days
To see the lustre from those eyes depart,
The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze;
To see rude Time the living roses blight
That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold,
And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright
To silvery whiteness, from their native gold;
Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove,
And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love,
When tears and penitence will all be vain;
And I shall see thee weep for days gone by,
And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh,
Find amplest vengeance for my former pain.

[56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”—Shakespeare.

SONNET 178.

“Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.”

Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes
Which love for years hath mingled with my fate,
While he the tale forbade me to disclose,
That taught his votaries their deluded state.
[Pg 46]
Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream,
Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal,
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme,
Each grief by love inflicted to reveal:
That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway,
May hear experience breathe a warning lay—
How false his smiles, his promises how vain!
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire,
When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre,
For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane.

SONNET 80.

“Como quando do mar tempestuoso.”

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave,
And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main,
But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave,
Trembles to hear its horrors named again.
How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien
No more shall lure him from the smiles of home!
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene,
Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to roam.
Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight
Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight,
Make the firm vow to shim thee and be free:
But my fond heart, devoted to its chain,
Still draws me back where countless perils reign,
And grief and ruin spread their snares for me.

SONNET 239.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando.”

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears
Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee,
O hallow’d Sion! and the vanish’d years,
When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free:
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung
Mute on the willows of the stranger’s land;
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung,
Our foes demanded from their captive band.
“How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,”
(We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,)
“The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew?
If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil,
Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil!
May my right hand forget its cunning too!

SONNET 128.

“Huma admiravel herva se conhece.”

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour
Still to the sun with fond devotion turns,
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power,
And most expands when most her idol burns:
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep,
His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay;
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep,
Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray.
Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight!
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight,
Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower:
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms,
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes,
Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power.

“Polomeu apartamento.”

Amidst the bitter tears that fell
In anguish at my last farewell,
Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell,
To make that moment bright?
Yet be my judge, each heart! and say,
Which then could most my bosom sway,
Affliction or delight?
It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes,
Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close,
That rapture’s brightest beam arose
In sorrow’s darkest night.
Thus, if my soul survive that hour,
’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power
Of anguish with delight.
For oh! her love, so long unknown,
She then confess’d was all my own,
And in that parting hour alone
Reveal’d it to my sight.
And now what pangs will rend my soul,
Should fortune still, with stern control,
Forbid me this delight!
I know not if my bliss were vain,
For all the force of parting pain
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign,
When exiled from her sight:
Yet now what double woe for me,
Just at the close of eve, to see
The dayspring of delight!

[Pg 47]

SONNET 205.

“Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.”

He who proclaims that Love is light and vain,
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways,
Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain,
Too justly finds him all he thus portrays:
For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind.
Believe not him who dares the tale oppose;
Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind,
One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes.
If Love bring evils, view them all in me!
Here let the world his utmost rigour see,
His utmost power exerted to annoy:
But all his ire is still the ire of love;
And such delight in all his woes I prove,
I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy.

SONNET 133.

“Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.”

Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene,
Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays,
Where hope allured me with perfidious mien,
Witching my soul, in long-departed days;
Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart
Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore,
And, suffering not one image to depart,
Find lengthening distance but endear you more.
Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day,
To distant realms this mortal frame convey,
Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave;
Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true,
On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you,
And still, bright waters! in your current lave.

SONNET 181.

“Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.”

Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude,
Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign,
That not a step shall ever there intrude
Of roving man, or nature’s savage train—
Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear,
Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb,
Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear,
But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom?
That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief
Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief,
In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes.
For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay,
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day,
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose.

SONNET 278.

“Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.”

Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live
In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine,
A thousand joys propitious Love can give
Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine
Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest,
I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power;
No care intruding to disturb my breast,
I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower:
But Fate, such transports eager to destroy,
Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy,
And bade the phantoms of delight begone:
Bade hope and happiness at once depart,
And left but memory to distract my heart,
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown.

“Mi nueve y dulce querella.”

No searching eye can pierce the veil
That o’er my secret love is thrown;
No outward signs reveal its tale,
But to my bosom known.
Thus, like the spark whose vivid light
In the dark flint is hid from sight,
It dwells within, alone.

METASTASIO.

“Dunque si sfoga in pianto.”

In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief
Gives language to its woes;
In tears, its fulness finds relief,
When rapture’s tide o’erflows!
[Pg 48]
Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek
On this terrestrial sphere;
When e’en Delight can only speak,
Like Sorrow—in a tear?

“Al furor d’avversa Sorte.”

He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien,
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude,
Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene,
To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.
In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,
Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art:
Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms
The lofty spirit and enduring heart!

“Quella onda che ruina.”

The torrent wave, that breaks with force
Impetuous down the Alpine height,
Complains and struggles in its course,
But sparkles, as the diamond bright.
The stream in shadowy valley deep
May slumber in its narrow bed;
But silent, in unbroken sleep,
Its lustre and its life are fled.

“Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.”

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand
Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed,
Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d,
And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread:
That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground,
To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne;
Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d,
There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn.
Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower!
Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude,
Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower,
And each rough season’s chill vicissitude,
Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume
Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.”

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread,
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?
Think’st thou that I thy threatening mien shall dread,
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?
Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
My constant soul should triumph unsubdued,
Were the wide universe destruction’s prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,
And drawn fresh energies from every fight.
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel,
With each successive shock the temper’d steel
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

“Parlagli d’un periglio.”

Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?—
Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind!
Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?—
He is a child of wayward mind!
But with a doubt, a jealous fear,
Inspire him once—the task is o’er;
His mind is keen, his sight is clear,
No more an infant, blind no more.

“Sprezza il furor del vento.”

Unbending midst the wintry skies,
Rears the firm oak his vigorous form,
And stem in rugged strength, defies
The rushing of the storm.
Then sever’d from his native shore,
O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear,
Still with those winds he braved before,
He proudly struggles there.

“Sol può dir che sia contento.”

Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts
Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain,
Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts,
When Fate unites them once again.
[Pg 49]
Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear,
Whose language hails that moment bright,
When past afflictions but endear
The presence of delight!

“Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!”

Ah! cease—those fruitless tears restrain!
I go misfortune to defy,
To smile at fate with proud disdain,
To triumph—not to die!
I with fresh laurels go to crown
My closing days at last,
Securing all the bright renown
Acquired in dangers past.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.”

Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced
With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been
A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced
In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien;
Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine!
That those might fear thee more, or love thee less,
Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine,
Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness!
Not then would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide
Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed:
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d,
Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand,
And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand,
Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!

PASTORINI.

“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.”

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold,
My native Genoa! with a tearless eye,
Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold;
But know—I deem rebellious every sigh!
Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey,
Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might!
And in each trace of devastation’s way,
Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight.
Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine!
And on the spoilers high revenge is thine,
While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains.
And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies
To kiss each noble relic, while she cries,
Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!

LOPE DE VEGA.

“Estese el cortesano.”

Let the vain courtier waste his days,
Lured by the charms that wealth displays,
The couch of down, the board of costly fare;
Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand
That waves the sceptre of command,
And rear full many a palace in the air;
Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined,
The glowing sun, the genial wind,
And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d;
And prize far more, in peace and health,
Contented indigence than joyless wealth.
Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend,
At Grandeur’s altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;
Nor mine a fond aspiring thought,
A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught
With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown!
Nectareous draughts and viands pure
Luxuriant nature will insure;
These the clear fount and fertile field
Still to the wearied shepherd yield;
And when repose and visions reign,
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.

FRANCISCO MANUEL.

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT.

“No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!”

Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here,
Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side;
Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear—
To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide.
Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode,
So near the mansions of supreme delight;
Pause not, but tread this consecrated road—
’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height.
[Pg 50]
Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way,
How many a fountain glitters down the hill!
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play,
Bright sunshine guides—and wilt thou linger still?
Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife,
Hope is reality, and time is life.

DELLA CASA.

VENICE.

“Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced,
With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone,
Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste,
Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown.
Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train
Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea;
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,
They sought these island precincts—to be free.
Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose,
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose;
Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast:
Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day,
Let not those virtues languish and decay,
O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest!

IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.

“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.”

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high,
Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight,
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky,
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright!
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile,
That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart,
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while,
And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart.
Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold,
And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold,
To soar with her, and mingle with the blest!
But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies,
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies,
Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest.

QUEVEDO.

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.

“Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!”

Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome?
Vain is thy search—the pomp of Rome is fled;
Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb;
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead.
That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days,
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime;
Each mouldering medal now far less displays
The triumphs won by Latium than by Time.
Tiber alone survives—the passing wave
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave,
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes.
Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past,
That seem’d for years eternal framed to last:
Nought but the wave—a fugitive, remains.

EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS.

“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.”

Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers,
In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn,
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers,
For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn;
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares,
Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane,
As to the port the fearful bark repairs
To shim the midnight perils of the main—
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour,
While on thy soul the beams of glory rise!
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore
With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies,
Oh! how shouldst thou the exulting pæan raise,
Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze!

TORQUATO TASSO.

“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.”

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose
To the mild sunshine only half display’d,
That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose,
And in its veil of verdure sought a shade:
[Pg 51]
Or like Aurora did thy charms appear,
(Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,)
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere,
O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light.
Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade;
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d,
Excel, or equal, thy neglected form.
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower,
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour,
More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.

BERNARDO TASSO.

“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom
Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d,
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom
Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade;
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals,
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows,
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose;
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care,
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee!
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose,
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close,
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

PETRARCH.

“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,
All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind:
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,
First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair!
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze:
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours
Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird;
Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers,
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard;
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies,
I see and hear: though dwelling far above,
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love.
“Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,”
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)
“While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows?
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight,
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light
Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.

“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”

Thou, the stem monarch of dismay,
Whom nature trembles to survey,
O Death! to me, the child of grief,
Thy welcome power would bring relief,
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,
Ah! sure are far less keen than those
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”

Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour;
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form.
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
[Pg 52]
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!

GESNER.

MORNING SONG.

“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright;
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day!
Through the dark woods that fringe the height,
Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water’s glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet Morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell;
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o’er her downy pillow fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o’er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning’s earliest call,
Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale
By the lone waterfall.

GERMAN SONG.

“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well—
His looks the traitor prove.
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
There’s magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See! now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spare not e’en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile—
Oh! trust him not—’tis Love!

CHAULIEU.

“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.
Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And midst my sires repose.
Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn,
Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye—
Fair trees! that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.

GARCILASO DE VEGA.

“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
[Pg 53]
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow;
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time, who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

VIOLETS.

“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow
From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d;
Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales
By guided rivulets or summer gales—
Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!

PINDEMONTE.

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.

“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art—with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace;
While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending,
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending,
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period—such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”

“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,—the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and ‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”—Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains, 1836.

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:—

“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”—Athenæum, Feb. 1831.]


[Pg 54]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE.

O wanderer! would thy heart forget
Each earthly passion and regret,
And would thy wearied spirit rise
To commune with its native skies;
Pause for a while, and deem it sweet
To linger in this calm retreat;
And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense,
Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence.
Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone,
Here Nature’s voice is heard alone:
When the loud storm, in wrathful hour,
Is rushing on its wing of power,
And spirits of the deep awake,
And surges foam, and billows break,
And rocks and ocean-caves around
Reverberate each awful sound—
That mighty voice, with all its dread control,
To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul.
But when no more the sea-winds rave,
When peace is brooding on the wave,
And from earth, air, and ocean rise
No sounds but plaintive melodies;
Soothed by their softly mingling swell,
As daylight bids the world farewell,
The rustling wood, the dying breeze,
The faint low rippling of the seas,
A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast,
A gleam reflected from the realms of rest.
Is thine a heart the world hath stung,
Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung?
Hast thou some grief that none may know,
Some lonely, secret, silent woe?
Or have thy fond affections fled
From earth, to slumber with the dead?—
Oh! pause awhile—the world disown,
And dwell with Nature’s self alone!
And though no more she bids arise
Thy soul’s departed energies,
And though thy joy of life is o’er,
Beyond her magic to restore;
Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal,
And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal.

DIRGE OF A CHILD.

No bitter tears for thee be shed,
Blossom of being! seen and gone!
With flowers alone we strew thy bed,
O blest departed One!
Whose all of life, a rosy ray,
Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away.
Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power
To stain thy cherub-soul and form,
Closed is the soft ephemeral flower
That never felt a storm!
The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath,
All that it knew from birth to death.
Thou wert so like a form of light,
That heaven benignly call’d thee hence,
Ere yet the world could breathe one blight
O’er thy sweet innocence:
And thou, that brighter home to bless,
Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness!
Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d,
Vision of beauty! fair, as brief!
How soon thy brightness had been stain’d
With passion or with grief!
Now not a sullying breath can rise
To dim thy glory in the skies.
We rear no marble o’er thy tomb—
No sculptured image there shall mourn;
Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom
Such dwelling to adorn.
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be
The only emblems meet for thee.
Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine,
Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath;
Each glowing season shall combine
Its incense there to breathe;
And oft, upon the midnight air,
Shall viewless harps be murmuring there.
And oh! sometimes in visions blest,
Sweet spirit! visit our repose;
And bear, from thine own world of rest,
Some balm for human woes!
[Pg 55]
What form more lovely could be given
Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57]

INVOCATION.

Hush’d is the world in night and sleep—
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.
But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.

[57] Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62.

TO THE MEMORY OF
GENERAL SIR E—D P—K—M.[58]

Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret,
Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon,
Oh, who could deem thy star should set
So darkly and so soon!
Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind
Which mark’d and closed thy brief career,
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined,
Lies wither’d on thy bier.
The soldier’s death hath been thy doom,
The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be;
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb
Might Fate have rear’d for thee.
Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief!
In those bright days of glory fled,
When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief
We scarce could mourn the dead.
Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then
Was worthy of a warrior’s grave:
When shall affection weep again
So proudly o’er the brave?
There, on the battle-fields of Spain,
Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene,
Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain,
Meet had thy deathbed been.
[Pg 56]
We mourn not that a hero’s life
Thus in its ardent prime should close;
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife,
But died midst conquer’d foes!
Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame
In that last moment cheer’d thee not)
Left Glory’s isle another name,
That ne’er may be forgot:
And many a tale of triumph won
Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear,
And long may England mourn a son
Without reproach or fear.

[58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”—History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743.

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:—“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”—Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356.

TO THE MEMORY OF
SIR H—Y E—LL—S,

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

“Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”—Ossian.

Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d
On England’s proudest battle-field?
For him, the lion-heart, who died
In victory’s full resistless tide?
Oh, mourn him not!
By deeds like his that field was won,
And Fate could yield to Valour’s son
No brighter lot.
He heard his band’s exulting cry,
He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly;
And envied be his death of fame!
It shed a sunbeam o’er his name
That nought shall dim:
No cloud obscured his glory’s day,
It saw no twilight of decay.
Weep not for him!
And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan,
A hero claims far loftier tone!
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell,
Recording how the mighty fell
In that dread hour,
When England, midst the battle-storm—
The avenging angel—rear’d her form
In tenfold power.
Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise,
Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays;
Since he, the soldier’s guiding star,
The Victor-chief, the lord of war,
Has own’d thy fame:
And oh! like his approving word,
What trophied marble could record
A warrior’s name?

GUERILLA SONG.

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA.

Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale
We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls;
Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale,
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls;
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light,
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight.
We enter’d that home—all was loneliness round,
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave;
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound:
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave!
For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath,
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death.
Oh! forget not that hour—let its image be near,
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest,
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear,
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast,
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine
O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine.

THE AGED INDIAN.

Warriors! my noon of life is past,
The brightness of my spirit flown;
I crouch before the wintry blast,
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone;
The heroes of my youth are fled,
They rest among the warlike dead.
Ye slumberers of the narrow cave!
My kindred chiefs in days of yore!
Ye fill an unremember’d grave,
Your fame, your deeds, are known no more.
[Pg 57]
The records of your wars are gone,
Your names forgot by all but one.
Soon shall that one depart from earth,
To join the brethren of his prime;
Then will the memory of your birth
Sleep with the hidden things of time.
With him, ye sons of former days!
Fades the last glimmering of your praise.
His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame,
Still kindling in the combat’s shock,
Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame,
Sons of the desert and the rock!
Another and another race
Rise to the battle and the chase.
Descendants of the mighty dead!
Fearless of heart, and firm of hand!
Oh, let me join their spirits fled—
Oh! send me to their shadowy land.
Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart—
He shrinks not from the friendly dart.
These feet no more can chase the deer,
The glory of this arm is flown;—
Why should the feeble linger here
When all the pride of life is gone?
Warriors! why still the stroke deny?
Think ye Ontara fears to die?
He fear’d not in his flower of days,
When strong to stem the torrent’s force,
When through the desert’s pathless maze
His way was as an eagle’s course!
When war was sunshine to his sight,
And the wild hurricane delight!
Shall, then, the warrior tremble now?
Now when his envied strength is o’er—
Hung on the pine his idle bow,
His pirogue useless on the shore?
When age hath dimm’d his failing eye,
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die?
Sons of the brave! delay no more—
The spirits of my kindred call.
’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er!
Oh, bid the aged cedar fall!
To join the brethren of his prime,
The mighty of departed time.

EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS.

Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest,
Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow!
What glorious hues, reflected from the west,
Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow!
Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep,
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam;
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream.
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray,
That still at eve its lofty temple knows;
From rock and torrent fade the tints away,
And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose:
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star,
And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar.

DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59]

Son of the mighty and the free!
High-minded leader of the brave!
Was it for lofty chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh! if amidst the valiant slain
The warrior’s bier had been thy lot,
E’en though on red Culloden’s plain,
We then had mourn’d thee not.
[Pg 58]
But darkly closed thy dawn of fame,
That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair;
Vengeance alone may breathe thy name,
The watchword of Despair!
Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power
Hath e’er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark’d thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line!
O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls,
But cannot chase their silent gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb!
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the loved scenes may vainly smile:
Not e’en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle-sound
Is mingling with the torrent’s roar;
Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around:
Thou lead’st the chase no more!
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still,
Those halls where peal’d the choral strain;
They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill,
And all is hush’d again.
No banner from the lonely tower
Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high;
There the tall grass and summer flower
Unmark’d shall spring and die.
No more thy bard for other ear
Shall wake the harp once loved by thine—
Hush’d be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line!

[59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading.

“A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:—

“‘A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to

Your Sincere Admirer.

“The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.”

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “very ingenious young friend of mine” and “your sincere admirer,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “a literary friend of ours,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register—of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.—Vide Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80.

THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG.

Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high—
Lead on to Salem’s towers!
Who would not deem it bliss to die,
Slain in a cause like ours?
The brave who sleep in soil of thine,
Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine!
Souls of the slain in holy war!
Look from your sainted rest.
Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car,
To mingle with the blest;
Tell us how short the death-pang’s power,
How bright the joys of your immortal bower.
Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train!
Pour forth your loftiest lays;
Each heart shall echo to the strain
Breathed in the warrior’s praise.
Bid every string triumphant swell
Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well.
Salem! amidst the fiercest hour,
The wildest rage of fight,
Thy name shall lend our falchions power,
And nerve our hearts with might.
Envied be those for thee that fall,
Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall.
For them no need that sculptured tomb
Should chronicle their fame,
Or pyramid record their doom,
Or deathless verse their name;
It is enough that dust of thine
Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine!
Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high
For combat’s glorious hour;
Soon shall the red-cross banner fly
On Salem’s loftiest tower!
We burn to mingle in the strife,
Where but to die insures eternal life.

THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD.

[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.—See the Quarterly Review article of “Culloden Papers.”]

Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot!
Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell;
But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot,
We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.”
We heard but the battle-word given by the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow,
With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand;
Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now,
For well has thy death been avenged by thy band,
[Pg 59]
When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call,
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave;
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall,
And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave—
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”
Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race!
Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set:
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase,
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet!
Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief,
“To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!”

TO THE EYE.

Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart:
Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And, by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e’en thee to flatter and betray,
Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal.
While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given
But to reflect the purity of heaven,
Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace
Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace!
When Genius lends thee all his living light,
Where the full beams of intellect unite;
When love illumes thee with his varying ray,
Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play;
Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues,
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews;
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well,
Bid some new feeling to existence start
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart.
And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime,
That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time,
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze,
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days,
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high,
Flash through the mist of dim mortality;)
Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams?
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky,
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die!

THE HERO’S DEATH.

Life’s parting beams were in his eye,
Life’s closing accents on his tongue,
When round him, pealing to the sky,
The shout of victory rung!
Then, ere his gallant spirit fled,
A smile so bright illumed his face—
Oh! never, of the light it shed,
Shall memory lose a trace!
His was a death whose rapture high
Transcended all that life could yield;
His warmest prayer was so to die,
On the red battle-field!
And they may feel, who loved him most,
A pride so holy and so pure:
Fate hath no power o’er those who boast
A treasure thus secure!

STANZAS

ON
THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

[“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”—Bossuet.]

I.

Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng,
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright?
[Pg 60]
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light!
And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh?
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry!
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep!
Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d,
And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!

II.

Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread
That awful fiat o’er our senses came!
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled,
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame?
Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled?
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void?
For all is lost—the mother and her child!
Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb
Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come.

III.

Angel of Death! did no presaging sign
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare?
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine,
Danger and fear seem’d past—but thou wert there!
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path
Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes;
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath,
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose:
But thou, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen,
Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene.

IV.

And she is gone!—the royal and the young,
In soul commanding, and in heart benign!
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung,
Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line.
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well
Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain;
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell
Wake from that breast one sympathy again:
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled,
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead.

V.

Oh, many a bright existence we have seen
Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime;
And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been
Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time.
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride,
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier;
And we have wept when soaring genius died,
Check’d in the glory of his mid career!
But here our hopes were centred—all is o’er:
All thought in this absorb’d,—she was—and is no more!

VI.

We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour,
From every word and look blest omens caught;
While that young mind developed all its power,
And rose to energies of loftiest thought.
On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye—
One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair;
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky,
She was our dayspring—all was cloudless there;
And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze,
E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days.

VII.

Now hath one moment darken’d future years,
And changed the track of ages yet to be!—
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears,
Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree!
Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light,
Wisdom should then have temper’d hope’s excess;
And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright,
We might have trembled at its loveliness.
Joy is no earthly flower—nor framed to bear,
In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air.

VIII.

All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise,
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine!
On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze,
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine.
Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw
O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray,
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe!
Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again!
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain?

IX.

Yet there is one who loved thee—and whose soul
With mild affections nature form’d to melt;
His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control
Of many a grief—but this shall be unfelt!
Years have gone by—and given his honour’d head
A diadem of snow; his eye is dim;
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread—
The past, the future, are a dream to him!
[Pg 61]
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60]
He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone!

X.

The Chastener’s hand is on us—we may weep,
But not repine—for many a storm hath pass’d,
And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!
And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain,
Trampling the vine and olive in his path;
While she, that regal daughter of the main,
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath!
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky,
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.

XI.

Her voice hath been th’ awakener—and her name
The gathering-word of nations. In her might,
And all the awful beauty of her fame,
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light.
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood,
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower—
That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood,
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour.
Away, vain dreams of glory!—in the dust
Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!

XII.

Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep,
Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone,
While all the murmurs of existence sleep,
Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone!
Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street,
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart;
And all is still, where countless thousands meet,
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart!
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene,
As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been.

XIII.

The sun goes down in beauty—his farewell,
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright;
And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell,
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight.
They smile and fade—but, when the day is o’er,
What slow procession moves with measured tread?—
Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more,
A solemn train—the mourners and the dead!
While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away.

XIV.

But other light is in that holy pile,
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose;
There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle,
The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws.
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain,
And all around the stamp of woe may bear;
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain,
Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them—is there.
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns,
Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns.

XV.

We mourn—but not thy fate, departed One!
We pity—but the living, not the dead;
A cloud hangs o’er us[61]—“the bright day is done,”
And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled.
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast,
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought—
He, with thine early fond affections blest,
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught;
What but a desert to his eye, that earth,
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?

XVI.

Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense
Strength e’en to feel at once their dread control.
But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power
To grasp the fulness of its agony!
[Pg 62]
Its deathlike torpor vanish’d—and its doom,
To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom.

XVII.

And such his lot whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d.
Years may pass on—and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined.

XVIII.

Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee:
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal,
But all it was—oh! never more shall be.
The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow,
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return,
The faded cheek again with health may glow,
And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn;
But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom,
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb.

XIX.

But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er,
And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run;
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more,
Tells that thy crown—though not on earth—is won.
Thou, of the world so early left, hast known
Nought but the bloom and sunshine—and for thee,
Child of propitious stars! for thee alone,
The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free.
Not long such bliss to mortal could be given:
It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven.

XX.

What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye,
The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last!
And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone,
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.

XXI.

Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down
Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise;
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown
Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies.
Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear,
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain,
And in their hours of loneliness—be near!
Blest was thy lot e’en here—and one faint sigh,
Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63]

[60]

“I saw him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness;
Begirt with his court—and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.

“The time since he walk’d in glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried,
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

“A daughter beloved—a queen—a son—
And a son’s sole child had perish’d;
And sad was each heart, save the only one
By which they were fondest cherish’d.”

—“The Contrast,” written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq.

[61]

“The bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.”—Shakspeare.

[62]

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
Shakspeare.

[63] These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. iii. April 1818.

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW.

“The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;—they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega—names embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated—and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’ which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:—

“No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.—Vide page 55.

[Pg 63]

WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64]

“Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!”

The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d,
Wild Caledonia’s classic ground,
Where the bold sons of other days
Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays,
And fell—but not till Carron’s tide
With Roman blood was darkly dyed.
The morn rose bright—and heard the cry
Sent by exulting hosts on high,
And saw the white-cross banner float
(While rung each clansman’s gathering-note)
O’er the dark plumes and serried spears
Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers;
As, all elate with hope, they stood,
To buy their freedom with their blood.
The sunset shone—to guide the flying,
And beam a farewell to the dying!
The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field,
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d;
Deep slumber—not to pass away
When breaks another morning’s ray,
Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice:
What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath,
May chase the still cold sleep of death?
[Pg 64]
Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid,
Low are her mountain-warriors laid;
They fell, on that proud soil whose mould
Was blent with heroes’ dust of old,
And, guarded by the free and brave,
Yielded the Roman—but a grave!
Nobly they fell; yet with them died
The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride.
Vainly they fell—that martyr host—
All, save the land’s high soul, is lost.
Blest are the slain! they calmly sleep,
Nor hear their bleeding country weep!
The shouts of England’s triumph telling
Reach not their dark and silent dwelling;
And those surviving to bequeath
Their sons the choice of chains or death,
May give the slumberer’s lowly bier
An envying glance—but not a tear.
But thou, the fearless and the free,
Devoted Knight of Ellerslie!
No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow
When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow;
No shade of fear or weak despair
Blends with indignant sorrow there!
The ray which streams on yon red field,
O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield,
Glitters not there alone, to shed
Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead;
But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave
Flows near that deathbed of the brave,
Illuming all the midnight scene,
Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien.
But other beams, O Patriot! shine
In each commanding glance of thine,
And other fight hath fill’d thine eye
With inspiration’s majesty,
Caught from th’ immortal flame divine
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine!
Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won,
The grandeur Freedom lends her son;
Thy bearing a resistless power,
The ruling genius of the hour!
And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride,
Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide,
Whose haughty gesture fain would seek
To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek,
Feels his reluctant mind controll’d
By thine of more heroic mould:
Though struggling all in vain to war
With that high soul’s ascendant star,
He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye,
Would mock the name of Liberty.
Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?—
“Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice!
Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain,
The harvest of the battle-plain,
And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot
Eternity shall cancel not?
Rejoice!—with sounds of wild lament
O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent,
With dying moan and dirge’s wail,
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail!
Rejoice!—while yet exulting cries
From England’s conquering host arise,
And strains of choral triumph tell
Her Royal Slave hath fought too well!
Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest
Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest!
Her shield is cleft, her banner torn,
O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn,
And not a breeze but wafts the sound
Of wailing through the land around.
Yet deem not thou, till life depart,
High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart;
Or courage to the storm inured,
Or stern resolve by woes matured,
Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour,
Less than unconquerable power!
No! though the orbs of heaven expire,
Thine, Freedom! is a quenchless fire;
And woe to him whose might would dare
The energies of thy despair!
No!—when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast
O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast,
Then in my yielding soul shall die
The glorious faith of Liberty!”
“Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!”
With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries,
(Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame,
And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;)
“Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly
England’s red path of victory!
Is not her sword unmatch’d in might?
Her course a torrent in the fight?
The terror of her name gone forth
Wide o’er the regions of the north?
Far hence, midst other heaths and snows,
Must freedom’s footstep now repose.
And thou—in lofty dreams elate,
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate!
’Tis vain—the land is lost and won:
Sheathed be the sword—its task is done.
Where are the chiefs that stood with thee
First in the battles of the free?
[Pg 65]
The firm in heart, in spirit high?—
They sought yon fatal field to die.
Each step of Edward’s conquering host
Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.”
“Vassal of England, yes! a grave
Where sleep the faithful and the brave;
And who the glory would resign
Of death like theirs, for life like thine?
They slumber—and the stranger’s tread
May spurn thy country’s noble dead;
Yet, on the land they loved so well,
Still shall their burning spirit dwell,
Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme,
Their image rise on warrior’s dream,
Their names be inspiration’s breath,
Kindling high hope and scorn of death,
Till bursts, immortal from the tomb,
The flame that shall avenge their doom!
This is no land for chains—away!
O’er softer climes let tyrants sway.
Think’st thou the mountain and the storm
Their hardy sons for bondage form?
Doth our stern wintry blast instil
Submission to a despot’s will?
No! we were cast in other mould
Than theirs by lawless power controll’d;
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy;
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks with their eternal towers.
The soul to struggle and to dare
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.
“Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still?
Oh! wake thee yet—indignant, claim
A nobler fate, a purer fame,
And cast to earth thy fetters riven,
And take thine offer’d crown from heaven.
Wake! in that high majestic lot
May the dark past be all forgot;
And Scotland shall forgive the field
Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d.
E’en I—though on that fatal plain
Lies my heart’s brother with the slain;
Though, reft of his heroic worth,
My spirit dwells alone on earth;
And when all other grief is past,
Must this be cherish’d to the last—
Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne,
With faith unspotted as his own;
Nor in thy noon of fame recall
Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall.”
Still dost thou hear in stern disdain?
Are Freedom’s warning accents vain?
No! royal Bruce! within thy breast
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d.
And thy heart’s noblest feelings live,
Blent in that suppliant word—“Forgive!”
“Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done!
Wallace! thy fairest palm is won;
And, kindling at my country’s shrine,
My soul hath caught a spark from thine.
Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour
Of triumph and exulting power—
Deem not the light of peace could find
A home within my troubled mind.
Conflicts by mortal eye unseen,
Dark, silent, secret, there have been,
Known but to Him whose glance can trace
Thought to its deepest dwelling-place!
—’Tis past—and on my native shore
I tread, a rebel son no more.
Too blest, if yet my lot may be
In glory’s path to follow thee;
If tears, by late repentance pour’d,
May lave the blood-stains from my sword!”
Far other tears, O Wallace! rise
From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes;
Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring,
While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King!
Be every wrong, by memory traced,
In this full tide of joy effaced:
Hail! and rejoice!—thy race shall claim
A heritage of deathless fame,
And Scotland shall arise at length
Majestic in triumphant strength,
An eagle of the rock, that won
A way through tempests to the sun.
Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand,
The prophet-spirit of thy land:
By torrent-wave, in desert vast,
Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d;
Where mountain vapours darkly roll,
That spirit hath possess’d my soul;
And shadowy forms have met mine eye.
The beings of futurity;
And a deep voice of years to be
Hath told that Scotland shall be free!
[Pg 66]
He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings!
From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs!
Far o’er the land he comes to save,
His banners in their glory wave,
And Albyn’s thousand harps awake
On hill and heath, by stream and lake,
To swell the strains that far around
Bid the proud name of Bruce resound!
And I—but wherefore now recall
The whisper’d omens of my fall?
They come not in mysterious gloom—
There is no bondage in the tomb!
O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns,
And earth alone for man hath chains!
What though I perish ere the hour
When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power?
If shed for her, my blood shall stain
The field or scaffold not in vain:
Its voice to efforts more sublime
Shall rouse the spirit of her clime;
And in the noontide of her lot,
My country shall forget me not!”

Art thou forgot? and hath thy worth
Without its glory pass’d from earth?
Rest with the brave, whose names belong
To the high sanctity of song!
Charter’d our reverence to control,
And traced in sunbeams on the soul,
Thine, Wallace! while the heart hath still
One pulse a generous thought can thrill—
While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed
Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed,
Shall brightly live from age to age,
Thy country’s proudest heritage!
Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling,
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling,
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave,
Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave,
And cold the wanderer’s heart must be
That holds no converse there with thee!
Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade
Still are thy grateful rites delay’d;
From lands of old renown, o’erspread
With proud memorials of the dead,
The trophied urn, the breathing bust,
The pillar guarding noble dust,
The shrine where art and genius high
Have labour’d for eternity—
The stranger comes: his eye explores
The wilds of thy majestic shores,
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone
Raised to the hero all thine own.
Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore!
Withhold that guerdon now no more.
On some bold height of awful form,
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm,
Sublimely mingling with the skies,
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise:
Not to record the name that thrills
Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills;
Not to assert, with needless claim,
The bright for ever of its fame;
But, in the ages yet untold,
When ours shall be the days of old,
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride
In him, for thee who lived and died.

“It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.”

[“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable; and one of them is mentioned as being as long as Paradise Lost. At length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scottish public.”—Memoir, p. 31-2.

Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and Bruce, a Vision,” published in Constable’s Magazine for Dec. 1819; and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected Works—Edin. 1822, p. 143-160.

“The Vision” is thus prefaced:—“Though far from entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse but the amor patriæ, and seeks no other praise but what is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’”

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.”

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”—a production entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”—more especially the first and the last—possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of Antæus—he was always in power except when he touched the earth.]

[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:—

“When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie—Ireland her Tighe—England her Hemans.”—Blackwood’s Magazine, vol. v. Sept. 1819.

“Mrs Hemans so soon again!—and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed.

“On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed—a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native—if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family.”—Edin. Monthly Review, vol. ii.

The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds—

——“Next I’d place
Felicia Hemans, second in the race;
I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir
Oft about rubbish, never mention her.
They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding—
Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.”

“Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.”

The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.]


[Pg 67]

TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.]

“Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont il est accablé.—Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu.”

Sismondi.

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls,
Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er;
And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more.
Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by
Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers;
Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high,
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers.
Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows,
Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles,
And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws
O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles.
And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone,
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair,
Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown,
Powerful and viewless, children of the air.
For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground,
There not a sound the deep repose pervades,
Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round,
Through the light domes and graceful colonnades.
Far other tones have swell’d those courts along
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace
The clash of arms, the voice of choral song,
The revels, combats of a vanish’d race.
And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call,
Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold;
Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall
With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old.
——The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height
There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light;
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow,
And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye
That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky.
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower,
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour;
Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep
In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep,
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given
To the rich evening of a southern heaven—
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught
—Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest
The fiery passions of the human breast,
Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound,
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around?
Those are no tumults of a festal throng,
Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song:
The combat rages—’tis the shout of war,
’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar.
Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze;
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands,
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands:
There the strife centres—swords around him wave,
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave;
While echoing domes return the battle-cry,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
And onward rushing, and prevailing still,
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill.
But first and bravest of that gallant train,
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain;
[Pg 68]
In his red hand the sabre glancing bright,
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light,
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds,
His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads;
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high,
“Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!”
Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath
By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path,
And by the thickest harvest of the slain,
And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain:
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries
From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise;
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare,
And where the ground is reddest—he is there.
Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host,
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost.
They perish’d—not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came:
Oh! had they thus expired, a warrior’s tear
Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier.
For thus alone the brave should weep for those
Who brightly pass in glory to repose.
—Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command
Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand,
As, with the flower of all their high-born race,
Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace,
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,
They sought the banquet’s gilded hall—to die.
Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell—the fountain wave
Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son
Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won.
For this young Hamet mingles in the strife,
Leader of battle, prodigal of life,
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset,
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet.
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more,
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er.
But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall,
The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall,
Nor yet the strife hath ceased—though scarce they know,
Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe;
Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay.
Where lurks Abdallah?—midst his yielding train
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain.
He lies not number’d with the valiant dead,
His champions round him have not vainly bled;
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil,
And his last warriors found each effort fail,
In wild despair he fled—a trusted few,
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true;
And o’er the scene of many a martial deed,
The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead.
He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers,
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers
In dew and starlight—there, from grot and cave,
Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave;
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose,
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.
But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again.
Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course
Of him who flies from terror or remorse!
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom,
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb;
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there.
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves;
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise,
Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies;
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head,
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread;
But urges onward, till his weary band,
Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand.
He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes
In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains
In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow,
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow,
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar,
Sounds indistinctly fearful—as of war.
What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high,
O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky?
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form,
Seen midst the redness of the desert storm,
Magnificently dread—above, below,
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.
[Pg 69]
Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air!
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.
Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul,
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control!
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly
For life—such life as makes it bliss to die!
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield.
Thither his steps are bent—yet oft he turns,
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns.
But paler grow the sinking flames at last,
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past;
And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene,
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been.
And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile,
Where grief and terror may repose awhile;
Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high,
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh:
He hails the scene where every care should cease,
And all—except the heart he brings—is peace.
There is deep stillness in those halls of state
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late;
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast
Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70]
Fearful the calm—nor voice, nor step, nor breath
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death:
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound,
Save the wild gush of waters—murmuring round
In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.
O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments—glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead:
O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace
E’en death itself is powerless to efface;
O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness—and soon forgot.
But slowly fade the stars—the night is o’er—
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more;
Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again,
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain.
Yet smiles the day—oh! not for mortal tear
Doth nature deviate from her calm career:
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair,
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share.
O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows,
O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows;
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below,
And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe;
And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom,
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.
Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite
Attends that day of loveliness and light;
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears,
Is gather’d to the brave of other years:
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade
His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid,
Feels every deep resolve and burning thought
Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought;
Yet is the hour afar—and he must brood
O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude.
Tumult and rage are hush’d—another day
In still solemnity hath pass’d away,
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath,
The calm that follows in the tempest’s path.
And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane,
His ravaged city traversing again.
No sound of gladness his approach precedes,
No splendid pageant the procession leads;
Where’er he moves the silent streets along,
Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng.
[Pg 70]
No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye,
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,
And in each look of those whose love hath fled
From all on earth to slumber with the dead,
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown
On the bleak wilderness of life alone—
In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage,
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age,
May well be read a dark and fearful tale
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil,
And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power,
That waits in stillness its appointed hour.
No more the clarion from Granada’s walls,
Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls;
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high,
Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye:
Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread,
And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled.
—Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep—
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep!
Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall,
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er—
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more.
And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive,
Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive,
That race of lineage high, of worth approved,
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved—
Thine Aben-Zurrahs—they no more shall wield
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield:
Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell,
And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam,
Their land the desert, and the grave their home.
Yet there is one shall see that race depart
In deep though silent agony of heart:
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone,
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown,
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear
That smile in which the spirit hath no share—
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow
O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.
Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour,
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower;
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined.
That name in vain stern reason would efface:
Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race!
And yet not hers in bitterness to prove
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love—
Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume,
And make the heart of all delight the tomb,
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight,
And the spring-morn of early genius blight:
Not such her grief—though now she wakes to weep,
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71]
A step treads lightly through the citron-shade,
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d—
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot,
Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot?
’Tis he—but changed that eye, whose glance of fire
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire,
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught,
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought:
Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled,
And in its wild expression may be read
Stem thoughts and fierce resolves—now veil’d in shade,
And now in characters of fire portray’d.
Changed e’en his voice—as thus its mournful tone
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.
“Zayda! my doom is fix’d—another day
And the wrong’d exile shall be far away;
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be,
His home of youth, and, more than all—from thee.
Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot!
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour,
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower;
But I—my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown,
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone.
Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise!
Heroic visions of my early days!
In me the glories of my race must end—
The exile hath no country to defend!
E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er,
Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more,
And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast
Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest.
Yet fear not thou—to thee, in good or ill,
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still!
But when my steps are distant, and my name
Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame;
When Time steals on, in silence to efface
Of early love each pure and sacred trace,
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,—
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth
And all the fervour of affection’s youth?
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play
In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.”
[Pg 71]
“Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind
To grief so long, so silently resign’d!
Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught
The pure and lofty constancy of thought,
Its fleeting trials eager to forget,
Rise with elastic power o’er each regret!
Foster’d in tears, our young affection grew,
And I have learn’d to suffer and be true.
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower,
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;
No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies,
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies!
Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart,
That ne’er to meet in happier days we part.
We part! and e’en this agonising hour,
When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power,
Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye
Seem almost happiness—for thou wert nigh!
Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed,
As days to days all wearily succeed,
When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee!
“But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow
All that of joy my blighted lot can know.
Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave,
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave;
In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil.
So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair,
To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!”
“Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well,
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel;
Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown,
And all its dreams and all its passions known.
Thou shalt not be deceived—for pure as heaven
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given.
I said my heart was changed—and would thy thought
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought,
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes,
Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains;
And such that heart where desolation’s hand
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand!
But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne,
Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone;
And I, in stem devotion at her shrine,
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign.
Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control,
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul;
They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave,
Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave,
Must be avenged! and pity and remorse
In that stem cause are banish’d from my course.
Zayda! thou tremblest—and thy gentle breast
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest;
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour,
Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power,
And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot,
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot.
“But the night wanes—the hours too swiftly fly,
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh;
Yet, loved one! weep not thus—in joy or pain,
Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again!
Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past.
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell,
Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!”
Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone
Thrill’d to her heart—and doth she weep alone?
Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er,
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more?
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair,
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair;
But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower,
To wake once more that calm serene delight,
The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight—
The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour,
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade,
In the rich foliage of the South array’d,
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave
On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave.
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,
To canopy the dead; nor wanting there
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air,
Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream—
Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream.
There sleep the chiefs of old—their combats o’er,
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more.
Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows;
The sons of war at length in peace repose.
No martial note is in the gale that sighs
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom—
As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb.
[Pg 72]
There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread
Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead;
Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone,
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown,
Young Hamet kneels—while thus his vows are pour’d,
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:
—“Spirit of him who first within my mind
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined,
And taught my steps the line of light to trace
Left by the glorious fathers of my race,
Hear thou my voice!—for thine is with me still,
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill,
In the deep calm of midnight they are near,
Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear,
Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’—nor in vain the call,
Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall!
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame,
Within my heart there lives one only aim;
There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone,
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.
I will not weep—revenge, not grief, must be,
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;
But the dark hour of stern delight will come,
And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.
“Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away,
Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day.
Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine
In the proud annals of thy lofty line;
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays
That hold communion with the after-days.
Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won,
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun;
By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d,
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid:
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife,
And to avenge thy death devote my life.
“Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain!
Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain!
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide,
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!”

[65] Zambra, a Moorish dance.

[66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre.

[67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels through Spain.

[68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians.

[69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote 3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.—See Bruce’s Travels.

[70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:—“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.”

[71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”—Shakspeare.

CANTO II.

——“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo
Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.”
Alfieri.
Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain!
Though not for thee with classic shores to vie
In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye;
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows,
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose.
No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore,
And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more.
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?
Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days—
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale;
Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died
When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might
On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72]
Round fair Granada, deepening from afar,
O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war.
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone
O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone;
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced,
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced.
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove,
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above;
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright
With gold, reflecting every tint of light,
And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield
Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field.
There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart:
The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war’s array;
And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death;
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;
[Pg 73]
And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife,
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.
High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold,
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold:
There, imaged on the cross, his form appears
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears—[73]
His form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled,
Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead!
O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high,
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry.
Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore,
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore;
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal,
They come, the gallant children of Castile;
The proud, the calmly dignified:—and there
Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair,
And those who guide the fiery steed of war
From yon rich province of the western star.[74]
But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene,
Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien;
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest,
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75]
Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes,
Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose!
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train,
O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain?
Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired,
Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired?
How art thou changed! still first in every fight,
Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight!
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye,
But not the light that shone in days gone by;
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone,
But not the soul’s expression once thine own,
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?
No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast,
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d.
There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,
And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread
Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76]
While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:—the slaughter’d brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews—but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired,
The wounded sought a shelter—and expired.[77]
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days,
By the bright windings of the stream he strays,
Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene,
All is repose and solitude serene.
There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined,
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind,
The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power,
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour,
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!”
Such his vague musings—but a plaintive sound
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round;
A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise
From life and death’s contending agonies.
He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade?
—A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid.
All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest,
The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast;
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d,
With life’s last force convulsively retain’d;
[Pg 74]
His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken—pillow’d on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d.
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now
The light once throned on that commanding brow;
And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast,
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast.
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene
Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between,
Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace,
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face,
Whose every feature to his soul conveys
Some bitter thought of long-departed days.
“Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last?
Friend of my soul in years for ever past!
Hath fate but led me hither to behold
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,—
Receive thy latest agonising breath,
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death?
Yet let me bear thee hence—while life remains,
E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive;
Hope is not lost—and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.”
Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head;
O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze,
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays;
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain;
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye,
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die;
And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour,
Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.
“Away!” he cries, in accents of command,
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand.
“Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free—
E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee.
’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes
Of him who faithful to his country dies;
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head
Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed.
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er,
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar:
Be thine existence with a blighted name,
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!”
The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek—his eye
Hath lost that beam of parting energy;
Frozen and fix’d it seems—his brow is chill;
One struggle more—that noble heart is still.
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes,
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,
More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart?
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more,
Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises, gathering all its force,
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.
To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene;
Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.
Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands;
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour,
To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower,
When night and peace are brooding o’er the world,
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d.
That hour is come—and, o’er the arms he bears,
A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears:
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends—through paths obscure he pass’d,
And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove:
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts!—not such as hers, who there
Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,
Till his known accents every sense restore—
“My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?”
[Pg 75]
She starts, she turns—the lightning of surprise,
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes;
But that is fleeting—it is past—and how
Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow:
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe—
“Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!”
“Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own?
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone?
I will not deem thee changed—but in thy face,
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace!
It was not thus in other days we met:
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget?
Oh! speak once more—these rising doubts dispel:
One smile of tenderness, and all is well!”
“Not thus we met in other days!—oh, no!
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe!
Those days are past—we ne’er shall meet again
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then.
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway,
Leader of hostile bands! away, away!
On in thy path of triumph and of power,
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.”
“And thou, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot!
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot!
Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft,
Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left;
And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam,
Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream,
Wert all the barrenness of life possest
To wake one soft affection in my breast!
That vision ended—fate hath nought in store
Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more.
Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly,
From the stem pupil of adversity!
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu!
If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?”
“Hamet! oh, wrong me not!—I too could speak
Of sorrows—trace them on my faded cheek,
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form,
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm!
But words were idle—read my sufferings there,
Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair.
“Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,
All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d,
My love had been devotion!—till in death
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath.
But not the chief who leads a lawless band
To crush the altars of his native land;
Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace
Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race;
Not him I loved—but one whose youthful name
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame.
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud
O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud,
I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief
In its own loftiness had found relief;
A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last,
When every meaner woe had long been past.
Yes! let affection weep—no common tear
She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier.
Let nature mourn the dead—a grief like this,
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss!”
“High-minded maid! the time admits not now
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow.
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall,
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall.
Yet this believe—no meaner aim inspires
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires.
No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled,
Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead!
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows,
And in thy love alone hath sought repose.
Zayda! wilt thou his stern accuser be?
False to his country, he is true to thee!
Oh, hear me yet!—if Hamet e’er was dear,
By our first vows, our young affection, hear!
Soon must this fair and royal city fall,
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall;
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow,
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe?
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far
From horrors thronging in the path of war:
Fly, and repose in safety—till the blast
Hath made a desert in its course—and pass’d!”
“Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come
Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom,
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly
To peace and safety?—Woman, too, can die!
And die exulting, though unknown to fame,
In all the stainless beauty of her name!
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear.
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail,
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail.
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour
Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power;
But I have energies that idly slept,
While withering o’er my silent woes I wept;
And now, when hope and happiness are fled,
My soul is firm—for what remains to dread?
[Pg 76]
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair?
“Hamet! farewell—retrace thy path again,
To join thy brethren on the tented plain.
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell!
Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been,
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene!
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there,
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air?
Unheard, in vain they call—their fallen son
Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won,
And to the hatred of the brave and free
Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!”
Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye
Was lighted up with inborn majesty,
While her fair form and youthful features caught
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought,
Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed,
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed,
As on some lofty vision—for she seem’d
One all-inspired—each look with glory beam’d,
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes,
Her soul at once in all its light arose.
Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined
In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind;
And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there
He stood—till wonder yielded to despair.
“The dream is vanish’d—daughter of my foes!
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes.
Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not
Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot!
Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid!
In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d,
Farewell, and be thou blest!—all words were vain
From him who ne’er may view that form again—
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be,
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!”
And is the warrior gone?—doth Zayda hear
His parting footstep, and without a tear?
Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!—yet who can tell
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell?
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul,
Who best each feeling’s agony control.
Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief
Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief;
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow?
The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved,
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved?
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows,
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes;
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn,
Beholding anguish—all unknown to them.
Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes
And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains,
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies;
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave,
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave:
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed—the days of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs—their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell;
For midst thy councils discord still presides,
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides—
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown
Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne,
Without one generous thought, or feeling high,
To teach his soul how kings should live and die.
A voice resounds within Granada’s wall,
The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80]
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught
To reach the source of pure exalted thought?
See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand,
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand!
[Pg 77]
His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye
Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high;
Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow,
And inspiration beams upon his brow;
While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze,
As on some mighty seer of elder days.
“Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d,
The helmets glittering, and the line array’d?
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries;
“Children of conquerors! in your strength arise!
O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear!
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81]
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82]
Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come,
And the red sabre must decide your doom.
Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore,
When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83]
When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84]
And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85]
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d,
The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d?
Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth
Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth?
To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood
Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood;
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil?
“O ye sierras of eternal snow!
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow,
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight—
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race
Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace
With each memorial of the past around,
Each mighty monument of days renown’d?
May this indignant heart ere then be cold,
This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould!
And the last life-drop circling through my veins
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains!
“And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d,
One mighty effort, one deciding field!
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be
In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!”
Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high,
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye;
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought;
And all is hush’d around—as every sense
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence.
But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high;
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around,
And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound.
“Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife,
To fame in death, or liberty in life!”
[Pg 78]
O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d!
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave
Is roused to energies that yet might save—
E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim
Your glorious trial on the field of fame,
Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86]
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more;
And for your children’s portion, but remains
That bitter heritage—the stranger’s chains.

[72] Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada.

[73] “El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado.”—Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.

[74] Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or the west; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks.—See Casiri’s Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana, and Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c.

[75] “Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston.”—Guerras Civiles de Granada.

[76] The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta.

[77] It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field.

[78] “Severe in youthful beauty.”—Milton.

[79] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 76 footnote 2. Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream small particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. When Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made of gold, which had been collected from the Darro.—See Bourgoanne’s and other Travels.

[80] “At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and impassioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws; should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolested with their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred retiring to Barbary.”—See Jacob’s Travel in Spain.

[81] Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of Granada, all of high distinction.

[82] The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards; others had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) and all was jealousy and animosity.

[83] Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. “The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik; and the intrenchments of his camp were the first outline of those fortifications which, in the hands of our countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the nations of Spain.”—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. p. 472, 473.

[84] “In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom; the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead bodies.—‘My brethren,’ said Tarik to his surviving companions, ‘the enemy is before you, the sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.’ Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most important post: their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to consult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three following days.”—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474.

[85] The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle.

CANTO III.

“Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.”
Hippolito Pindemonte.
Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield,
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field;
Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87]
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore,
And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued,
Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude;
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose,
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes!
Rejoice!—for Spain, arising in her strength,
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length,
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain,
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain.
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour,[88]
Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power,
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by,
Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high;
For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal,
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile!
Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands
Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands,
E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain
A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89]
Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound,
By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound,
As through her echoing streets, in dread array,
Beings once mortal held their viewless way—
Voices from worlds we know not—and the tread
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead,
Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save,
And join thy warriors with unearthly might
To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight.
Those days are past—the crescent on thy shore,
O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90]
What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91]
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power!
What the glad shout of each exulting voice?
“Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!”
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes,
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose,
And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance,
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance.
Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry,
At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore,
High masque or solemn festival of yore.
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise
O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies;
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers,
Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers:
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng,
With helmets glittering as they move along,
With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail,
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale;
[Pg 79]
Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far,
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war,
All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues
That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse—
Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw
O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow,
And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave,
Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave.
There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court;
Calm, stern, collected—yet within his breast
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d?
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen,
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien.
Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound
Of the deep anthem floating far around?
The choral voices, to the skies that raise
The full majestic harmony of praise?
Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train,
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain,
Borne on their trophied car—lo! bursting thence
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence!
Onward their slow and stately course they bend
To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend,
Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore,
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more.
They reach those towers—irregularly vast
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92]
They enter—to their wondering sight is given
A genii palace—an Arabian heaven![93]
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair,
Its forms and colour seem alike of air.
Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er,
The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor,
Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues
The calm transparence of its wave suffuse.
There round the court, where Moorish arches bend,
Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend;
Unlike the models of each classic race,
Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace,
But answering well each vision that portrays
Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze:
Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all—a mingling glow
Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below;
Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins
Of precious marble, and the vivid stains
Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade,
In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d.
On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems
Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams,
The royal conquerors pass—while still their sight
On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight.
Here the eye roves through slender colonnades,
O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades;
Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high
The vast sierra mingling with the sky.
There, scattering far around their diamond spray,
Clear streams from founts of alabaster play,
Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought,
Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught,
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene
A wild, romantic, oriental mien:
While many a verse, from eastern bards of old,
Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94]
Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain,
Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign
Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood,
And all be lone—a splendid solitude.
[Pg 80]
Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs,
From mingling voices of exulting throngs;
Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95]
And joyous clarions pealing on the air;
While every hall resounds, “Granada won!
Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96]
’Tis night—from dome and tower, in dazzling maze,
The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97]
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams,
From every lattice tremulously streams,
Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill,
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil;
Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height,
And shines each street an avenue of light;
And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice
Through the long night still summons to rejoice.
Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry,
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours,
Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers;
Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast,
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d,
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet—
Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret.
From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below,
Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene,
Anguish and shame contending in his mien
He who of heroes and of kings the son,
Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won;
Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d,
Wavering alike in council and in field;
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave,
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave.
Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies,
To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98]
Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain
O’er all he never must behold again.
Fair spreads the scene around—for him too fair,
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair.
The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires,
The old majestic palace of his sires,
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves,
Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves;
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light,
All in one moment bursting on his sight,
Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years,
And wake the source of unavailing tears.
—Weep’st thou, Abdallah?—Thou dost well to weep,
O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep!
Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye
Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99]
The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower,
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower.
No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls,
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls;
No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate,
But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate.
There, through each tower and solitary shade,
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid:
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone,
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown;
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows
The stream whose music lull’d her to repose.

[Pg 81]

But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought
Whispers ’twas he that desolation wrought;
He who his country and his faith betray’d,
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid;
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale,
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale:
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined,
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind,
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense,
And seems to murmur—“Thou hast driven her hence!”
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain,
—Where hath lost love been once recall’d again?
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn,
His name can rouse no feeling now—but scorn.
O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart
Wakes to behold the void within—and start!
To feel its own abandonment, and brood
O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude.
The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast
Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest;
The avenger’s task is closed:[100]—he finds too late
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate.
He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside
From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride,
And onward, in its new tumultuous course,
Borne with too rapid and intense a force
To pause one moment in the dread career,
And ask if such could be its native sphere.
Now are those days of wild delirium o’er,
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more;
The feverish energies of passion close,
And his heart sinks in desolate repose,
Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less
From its own deep and utter loneliness.
There is a sound of voices on the air,
A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare,
Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]—there, on high,
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky,
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke,
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke.
O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone,
Severely glorious on her craggy throne;
Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms,
Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,—
Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves,
That hold communion with the torrent-waves;
And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows,
That dwell above in bright and still repose;
To you, in every clime, in every age,
Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage,
Hath Freedom led her sons—untired to keep
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep.
She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights
To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights,
And build her eyrie in defiance proud,
To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud.
Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells,
Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells.
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among,
As at the clarion’s call, her children throng.
She with enduring strength has nerved each frame,
And made each heart the temple of her flame,
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow
Unquenchably, surviving all below.
There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth
More like bright creatures of aërial birth,
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share
The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear,
All undismay’d, privation and distress,
And smile the roses of the wilderness:
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell
In the deep forest or the cavern cell,
And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be,
If now no more the mighty, still the free.
And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed:
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall,
O royal city! and the wreck of all
They loved and hallow’d most:—doth aught remain
For these to prove of happiness or pain?
Life’s cup is drain’d—earth fades before their eye;
Their task is closing—they have but to die.
Ask ye why fled they hither?—that their doom
Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb.
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there,
And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare
And suffer all things—fall’n on evil days,
Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze,
As on the arena where its powers may find
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind.
Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold,
The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d:
[Pg 82]
By day, the huntsmen of the wild—by night,
Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light,
They from their bleak majestic home have caught
A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought,
While all around them bids the soul arise
To blend with nature’s dread sublimities.
—But these are lofty dreams, and must not be
Where tyranny is near:—the bended knee,
The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires,
And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires;
Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down
On regal conquerors, and defy their frown.
What warrior-band is toiling to explore
The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er,
Startling with martial sounds each rude recess,
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness?
These are the sons of Spain!—Your foes are near,
O exiles of the wild sierra! hear!
Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves!
Who leads the invaders on?—his features bear
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair;
Yet his dark brow is haughty—and his eye
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy.
’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief;
He comes in all the sternness of his grief.
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field,
Against his country’s children though he leads
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds:
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly,
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die.
So shall remorse and love the heart release,
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace.
The mountain-echoes are awake—a sound
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around.
Within the steep defile that winds between
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene,
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight.
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen,
Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then;
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers,
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate.
But he—whose spirit, panting for its rest,
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast—
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance
Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance—
Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by,
As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die.
Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes
Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose;
Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak,
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break.
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell
The sons of battle in that narrow dell;
Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d,
And age, the weary, found repose at last;
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil,
Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil.
Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly,
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high;
While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare
Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair.
Yet he, to whom each danger hath become
A dark delight, and every wild a home,
Still urges onward—undismay’d to tread
Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread.
But fear is’ for the happy—they may shrink
From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink;
They to whom earth is paradise—their doom
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb:
Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe,
Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102]
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw
Eternal shadows o’er the glen below;
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way,
He holds his venturous track:—supported now
By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough;
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell.
Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head,
A level span, with emerald verdure spread,
A fairy circle—there the heath-flowers rise,
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies;
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side:
But all is wild beyond—and Hamet’s eye
Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity.
That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day
Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray;
Around, untrodden woods; and far above,
Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove,
Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes
Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103]
[Pg 83]
And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high,
That seems a part of heaven’s eternity.
There is no track of man where Hamet stands,
Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands;
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word
Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown,
Now but the lingering echo of a tone.
That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear,
He follows, reckless if his bands are near.
On by the rushing stream his way he bends,
And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends;
Piercing the still and solitary shades
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades,
Eternal twilight’s reign:—those mazes past,
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last,
And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course.
But there he pauses—for the lonely scene
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien,
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry,
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky,
So deep the solemn and majestic sound
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round—
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets.
—What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell
In nature’s mighty presence?—midst the swell
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods,
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods?
These their own grandeur on the soul impress,
And bid each passion feel its nothingness.
Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave;
Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone,
It seems the temple of some power unknown,
Where earthly being may not dare intrude
To pierce the secrets of the solitude.
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale.
Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone?
Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan?
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled,
The unforgotten accents of the dead!
E’en thus it rose—and springing from his trance
His eager footsteps to the sound advance.
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er
He rushes on—and lo! where Zayda rends
Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends,
Lost in despair;—yet, as a step draws nigh,
Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity,
She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief,
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief;
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past,
And every woe forgetting—but the last.
“Com’st thou to weep with me?—for I am left
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft.
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier;
His child may call, but he no more shall hear.
He sleeps—but never shall those eyes unclose;
’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose;
Nor can it break his slumbers.—Dost thou mourn?
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn?
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know,
That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?”
But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name,
When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came
Each dark remembrance—by affliction’s power
Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour,
To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty,
And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow
Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow.
“Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might
Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light—
That I should thus forget! and bid thy tear
With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier!
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand,
In the last combat with thy ruthless band?
The morn beheld that conflict of despair:—
’Twas then he fell—he fell!—and thou wert there!
Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude.
Was it for this I loved thee?—Thou hast taught
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought!
’Twill soon be past—I bow to heaven’s decree,
Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.”
“I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below
For me to prove of yet untasted woe;
But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart
One more, one keener agony of heart.
[Pg 84]
Oh, hear me yet!—I would have died to save
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave;
But in the fierce confusion of the strife,
In my own stern despair and scorn of life,
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught,
Save that to perish there in vain I sought.
And let me share thy sorrows!—hadst thou known
All I have felt in silence and alone,
E’en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last,
A grief like mine might expiate all the past
“But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower,
So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower,
From every danger, every storm secured,
How hast thou suffer’d! what hast thou endured!
Daughter of palaces! and can it be
That this bleak desert is a home for thee!
These rocks thy dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone!
Oh, yet forgive!—be all my guilt forgot,
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!”
“That lot is fix’d—’twere fruitless to repine:
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine.
I may forgive—but not at will the heart
Can bid its dark remembrances depart.
No, Hamet! no!—too deeply are these traced;
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced!
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep
Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep.
E’en now, prophetic of my early doom,
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb;
And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel
That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal!
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died;
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot,
In pain and peril—I forsook him not.
“And now, farewell!—behold the summer-day
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away.
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,
With the last rites his bier to sanctify.
Oh, yet in time, away!—’twere not my prayer
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare!
This hour they come—and dost thou scorn to fly?
Save me that one last pang—to see thee die!”
E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread;
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.
They reach the cave—they enter—slow their pace,
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face;
And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait
In silent stern devotedness his fate,
Hath met their glance—then grief to fury turns:
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath.
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!
They close around him: lofty still his mien,
His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene.
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry;
Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony.
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend
Against the life he seeks not to defend,
Wildly she darts between—each feeling past,
Save strong affection, which prevails at last.
Oh, not in vain its daring!—for the blow
Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow;
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest,
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er,
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.
She, she alone is calm:—a fading smile,
Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while;
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell
Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell.
“Now is the conflict past, and I have proved
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved!
Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide
The heart so long and so severely tried:
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d,
But sterner duties call’d—and were fulfill’d.
And I am blest!—To every holier tie
My life was faithful,—and for thee I die!
Nor shall the love so purified be vain;
Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again.
Farewell!—And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer,
Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare!
Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes,
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.”
Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang—’tis past—her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died—oh! who may paint
The grief to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d:
These have no words—nor are by words portray’d.
A dirge is rising on the mountain-air,
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear
[Pg 85]
Far o’er the Alpuxarras;—wild its tone,
And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!”
“Daughter of heroes! thou art gone
To share his tomb who gave thee birth:
Peace to the lovely spirit flown!
It was not form’d for earth.
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race,
Which brightly pass’d and left no trace.
“But calmly sleep!—for thou art free,
And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise.
Sleep! they are closed at length for thee,
Life’s few and evil days!
Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye,
The lingering death of liberty.
“Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom
Didst early to the storm resign:
We bear it still—and dark their doom
Who cannot weep for thine!
For us, whose every hope is fled,
The time is past to mourn the dead.
“The days have been, when o’er thy bier
Far other strains than these had flow’d;
Now, as a home from grief and fear,
We hail thy dark abode!
We, who but linger to bequeath
Our sons the choice of chains or death.
“Thou art with those, the free, the brave,
The mighty of departed years;
And for the slumberers of the grave
Our fate hath left no tears.
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain
For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again.
“Have we not seen despoil’d by foes
The land our fathers won of yore?
And is there yet a pang for those
Who gaze on this no more?
Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest!
Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!”
A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave.
Sever’d in life, united in the tomb—
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom!
Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan;
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone.
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze,
Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days,
(When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there,
The stern and lofty councils of despair,)
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild,
Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled,
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those
Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose.

[86] The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli’s capitulation. “Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y temiendo no ser ya el Dueño de un pueblo amotinádo, se apresuró á concluir una capitulation, la menos dura que podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio entregor á Granada el dia seis de Enero.”—Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 298.

[87] The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle.

[88] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is frequently styled, “he who was born in happy hour.”

[89] “Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his country in that great danger; for the night before the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great army passing through; and it passed on to the royal monastery of St Isidro, and there was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors.”—Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid.

[90] The name of Andalusia, the region of evening, or of the west, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so called, but to the whole peninsula.

[91] “En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz, de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremoláran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela; y un exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectaculos.”—Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 299.

[92] Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: “Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming one habitation out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with any where else can convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii.”—Swinburne’s Travels through Spain.

[93] “Passing round the corner of the emperor’s palace, you are admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land. The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or del Mesucar, that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with a deep basin of clear water in the middle; two flights of marble steps leading down to the bottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with marble; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate that the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan.”—Swinburne’s Travels in Spain.

[94] The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. “In examining this abode of magnificence,” says Bourgoanne, “the observer is every moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces; and whatever duration these may have, time, with which every thing passes away, has too much contributed to confirm to them that title.”—See Bourgoanne’s Travels in Spain.

[95] Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum.

[96] “Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levantò la señal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, à grandes bozes dizieron, ‘Granada! Granada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.’ La serenissima reyna D. Isabel, que viò ia señal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hincò de rodillas, y diò infinitas gracias à Dios por la victoria que le avia dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey luego à canto de organo cantò Te Deum laudamus. Fuè tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muça, tomaron mil dulzaynas y añafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad.”—Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.

[97] “Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron galanamente alcancias y cañas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la terra.”—Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace.

[98] “Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con ellos, que no quisò estar en España, y en Africa le mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdiò a Granada.”—Guerras Civiles de Granada.

[99] Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Ayxa,—“Thou dost well to weep like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a man.”

[100] “El rey mandò, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra los Abencerrages.”—Guerras Civiles de Granada.

[101] “The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits; they are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the Moors took refuge.”—Bourgoanne’s Travels in Spain.

[102] “Plût à Dieu que je craignisse!”—Andromaque.

[103] Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. “The nearer we approached these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aërial colouring; the real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime.”

THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.

[“In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death.”—Sismondi, History of the Italian Republics, vol. i.]

“L’orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la tête levée.”—Mad. de Stael.

Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades,
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades,
Where dwelt, in days departed long,
The sons of battle and of song,
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears
But o’er the wrecks of other years,
Temples and domes, which long have been
The soil of that enchanted scene.
There the wild fig-tree and the vine
O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104]
[Pg 86]
The cypress, in funereal grace,
Usurps the vanish’d column’s place;
O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze;
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide
They once adorn’d in sculptured pride;
And nature hath resumed her throne
O’er the vast works of ages flown.
Was it for this that many a pile,
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile,
To Anio’s banks the image lent
Of each imperial monument?[105]
Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes,
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains;
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d
From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d.
We need no prescient sibyl there
The doom of grandeur to declare;
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time;
Each relic utters Fate’s decree—
The future as the past shall be.
Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale,
Who now shall tell your lofty tale?
Who trace the high patrician’s dome,
The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home?
When moss-clad wrecks alone record
There dwelt the world’s departed lord,
In scenes where verdure’s rich array
Still sheds young beauty o’er decay,
And sunshine on each glowing hill
Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.
Sunk is thy palace—but thy tomb,
Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106]
Though vanish’d with the days of old
Its pillars of Corinthian mould;
Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought,
Each bodying some immortal thought,
Which o’er that temple of the dead
Serene but solemn beauty shed,
Have found, like glory’s self, a grave
In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107]
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair
Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er.
High thoughts of many a mighty mind
Expanding when all else declined,
In twilight years, when only they
Recall’d the radiance pass’d away,
Have made that ancient pile their home,
Fortress of freedom and of Rome.
There he, who strove in evil days
Again to kindle glory’s rays,
Whose spirit sought a path of light
For those dim ages far too bright—
Crescentius—long maintain’d the strife
Which closed but with its martyr’s life,
And left th’ imperial tomb a name,
A heritage of holier fame.
There closed De Brescia’s mission high,
From thence the patriot came to die;[108]
[Pg 87]
And thou, whose Roman soul the last
Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109]
Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled
To mingle with the glorious dead,
That midst the world’s degenerate race
They vainly sought a dwelling-place,
Within that house of death didst brood
O’er visions to thy ruin woo’d.
Yet, worthy of a brighter lot,
Rienzi, be thy faults forgot!
For thou, when all around thee lay
Chain’d in the slumbers of decay—
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye
Had scarce a tear for liberty—
Alone, amidst the darkness there,
Couldst gaze on Rome—yet not despair![110]
’Tis morn—and nature’s richest dyes
Are floating o’er Italian skies;
Tints of transparent lustre shine
Along the snow-clad Apennine;
The clouds have left Soracte’s height,
And yellow Tiber winds in light,
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew’d
The wide Campagna’s solitude.
’Tis sad amidst that scene to trace
Those relics of a vanish’d race;
Yet, o’er the ravaged path of time—
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime,
Where nature still, though empires fall,
Holds her triumphant festival—
E’en desolation wears a smile,
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while;
And heaven’s own light, earth’s richest bloom,
Array the ruin and the tomb.
But she, who from yon convent tower
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour;
She, whose rich flow of raven hair
Streams wildly on the morning air,
Heeds not how fair the scene below,
Robed in Italia’s brightest glow.
Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains
Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes,
And they, the Pleiades of earth,
The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth,
Lie spread beneath; not now her glance
Roves o’er that vast sublime expanse;
Inspired, and bright with hope,’tis thrown
On Adrian’s massy tomb alone;
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled,
His faithful few Crescentius led;
While she, his anxious bride, who now
Bends o’er the scene her youthful brow,
Sought refuge in the hallow’d fane,
Which then could shelter, not in vain.
But now the lofty strife is o’er,
And Liberty shall weep no more.
At length imperial Otho’s voice
Bids her devoted sons rejoice;
And he, who battled to restore
The glories and the rights of yore,
Whose accents, like the clarion’s sound,
Could burst the dead repose around,
Again his native Rome shall see
The sceptred city of the free!
And young Stephania waits the hour
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower—
Her ardent heart with joy elate,
That seems beyond the reach of fate;
Her mien, like creature from above,
All vivified with hope and love.
Fair is her form, and in her eye
Lives all the soul of Italy;
A meaning lofty and inspired,
As by her native day-star fired;
Such wild and high expression, fraught
With glances of impassion’d thought,
As fancy sheds, in visions bright,
O’er priestess of the God of Light;
And the dark locks that lend her face
A youthful and luxuriant grace,
Wave o’er her cheek, whose kindling dyes
Seem from the fire within to rise,
But deepen’d by the burning heaven
To her own land of sunbeams given.
Italian art that fervid glow
Would o’er ideal beauty throw,
And with such ardent life express
Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,—
[Pg 88]
Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall,
The shade of glory still recall.
But see!—the banner of the brave
O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave.
’Tis lower’d—and now Stephania’s eye
Can well the martial train descry,
Who, issuing from that ancient dome,
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome.
Now from her watch-tower on the height,
With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light,
She flies—and swift her way pursues
Through the lone convent’s avenues.
Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread
With records of the conquering dead,
And paths which track a glowing waste,
She traverses in breathless haste;
And by the tombs where dust is shrined
Once tenanted by loftiest mind,
Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate!
Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d,
Rush on the gathering multitude.
—Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet
That thus the Roman thousands meet?
With names that bid their thoughts ascend,
Crescentius! thine in song to blend;
And of triumphal days gone by
Recall th’ inspiring pageantry?
—There is an air of breathless dread,
An eager glance, a hurrying tread;
And now a fearful silence round,
And now a fitful murmuring sound,
Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream.
Quick is each step and wild each mien,
Portentous of some awful scene.
Bride of Crescentius! as the throng
Bore thee with whelming force along,
How did thine anxious heart beat high,
Till rose suspense to agony!—
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close,
And leave thy heart to deeper woes.
Who midst yon guarded precinct stands,
With fearless mien but fetter’d hands?
The ministers of death are nigh,
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye;
And in his glance there fives a mind
Which was not form’d for chains to bind,
But cast in such heroic mould
As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old.
Crescentius! freedom’s daring son,
Is this the guerdon thou hast won?
Oh, worthy to have lived and died
In the bright days of Latium’s pride!
Thus must the beam of glory close
O’er the seven hills again that rose,
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke,
The soul of Rome indignant woke?
Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111]
Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112]
Th’ illusions, that around her cast
Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113]
Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray,
Shed o’er her midnight of decay;
Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine
Must rivet every chain—but thine.
Calm is his aspect, and his eye
Now fix’d upon the deep blue sky,
Now on those wrecks of ages fled
Around in desolation spread—
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray,
Recording triumphs pass’d away;
[Pg 89]
Works of the mighty and the free,
Whose steps on earth no more shall be,
Though their bright course hath left a trace
Nor years nor sorrows can efface.
Why changes now the patriot’s mien,
Erewhile so loftily serene?
Thus can approaching death control
The might of that commanding soul?
No!—Heard ye not that thrilling cry
Which told of bitterest agony?
He heard it, and at once, subdued,
Hath sunk the hero’s fortitude.
He heard it, and his heart too well
Whence rose that voice of woe can tell;
And midst the gazing throngs around
One well-known form his glance hath found—
One fondly loving and beloved,
In grief, in peril, faithful proved.
Yes! in the wildness of despair,
She, his devoted bride, is there.
Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies,
The light of frenzy in her eyes:
But ere her arms can clasp the form
Which life ere long must cease to warm—
Ere on his agonising breast
Her heart can heave, her head can rest—
Check’d in her course by ruthless hands,
Mute, motionless, at once she stands;
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance,
Frozen and fix’d in horror’s trance;
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled,
And thought o’erwhelm’d, and feeling dead;
And the light waving of her hair,
And veil, far floating on the air,
Alone, in that dread moment, show
She is no sculptured form of woe.
The scene of grief and death is o’er,
The patriot’s heart shall throb no more:
But hers—so vainly form’d to prove
The pure devotedness of love,
And draw from fond affection’s eye
All thought sublime, all feeling high—
When consciousness again shall wake,
Hath now no refuge but to break.
The spirit long inured to pain
May smile at fate in calm disdain,
Survive its darkest hour, and rise
In more majestic energies.
But in the glow of vernal pride,
If each warm hope at once hath died,
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower,
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower;
A broken gem, whose inborn light
Is scatter’d—ne’er to re-unite.

[104] “J’étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des Thermes voisins du Pécile, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renversé le pan d’un mur en s’élevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte de l’édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades des ruines, s’ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient se réfugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maçonnerie étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des marbres: çà et là de hauts cyprès remplaçaient les colonnes tombées dans ces palais de la Mort; l’acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds, sur des débris, comme si la nature s’était plu à reproduire sur ces chefs-d’œuvre mutilés d’architecture, l’ornement de leur beauté passée.”—Chateaubriand’s Souvenirs d’ Italie.

[105] The gardens and buildings of Hadrian’s villa were copies of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions—the Lycæum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c.

[106] The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome against the Goths. “The lover of the arts,” says Gibbon, “must read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers.” He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its summit.

[107] “Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues, out étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais quand on songe que les chefs-d’œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là devant nous, et qu’un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes, l’on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs.”—Mad. de Stael.

[108] Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. “Le préfet demeura dans le château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu’ une moitié de Rome. C’est là qu’habitoient les hommes qu’il avoit si souvent appelés à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur législateur. Le tumulte de l’exécution et la flamme du bûcher réveillèrent les Romains; ils s’armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux qui, n’ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses cendres comme de précieuses reliques.”

[109] “Posterity will compare the virtues and fadings of this extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude, the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots.”—Gibbon’s Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 362.

[110] “Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu’à Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n’avoit été élevé au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le sénat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire qu’il s’attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple—il alla au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce qu’il n’avoit pas désespéré de la republique.”—Montesquieu’s Grandeur et Décadence des Romains.

[111] Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account:—“In the eighth year of Numa’s reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy; Rome also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria and the Muses: that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the city, and should be kept with great care; that eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently conversed with the Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities; and that the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of this account.”—Life of Numa.

[112] “Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth?”—Isaiah, chap. 23.

[113] “Un mélange bizarre de grandeur d’àme et de foiblesse entroit dès cette époque (l’onzième siècle) dans le caractère des Romains. Un mouvement généreux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-à-coup à l’abattement; ils passoient de la liberté la plus orageuse, à la servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques déserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le sentiment de leur impuissance; au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passée, les citoyens éprouvoient d’une manière trop décourageante leur propre nullité. Le nom des Romains qu’ils portoient ranimoit fréquemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd’hui; mas bientôt la vue de Rome, du forum désert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au pâturage des troupeaux, des temples désolés, des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit à sentir qu’ils n’étoient plus les Romains d’autrefois.”—Sismondi, Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. i. p. 172.

PART II.

Hast thou a scene that is not spread
With records of thy glory fled?
A monument that doth not tell
The tale of liberty’s farewell?
Italia! thou art but a grave
Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave,
And nature gives her treasures birth
O’er all that hath been great on earth.
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled
When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child:
Though fane and tomb alike are low,
Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow;
And, robed in that exulting ray,
Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay—
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,
In nature’s pomp magnificent!
What marvel if, when all was lost,
Still on thy bright enchanted coast,
Though many an omen warn’d him thence,
Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114]
[Pg 90]
Still gazing on the lovely sky,
Whose radiance woo’d him—but to die?
Like him, who would not linger there,
Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?
Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,
Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?
Hath not thy pure and genial air
Balm for all sadness but despair?[115]
No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace
Not all thy magic can efface!
Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn
The world and all its gifts to spurn;
Time may steal on with silent tread,
And dry the tear that mourns the dead,
May change fond love, subdue regret,
And teach e’en vengeance to forget:
But thou, Remorse! there is no charm
Thy sting, avenger, to disarm!
Vain are bright suns and laughing skies
To soothe thy victim’s agonies:
The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.
In vain for Otho’s joyless eye
Smile the fair scenes of Italy,
As through her landscapes’ rich array
Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way.
Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight
Rises when nature laughs in light,
Glides round him at the midnight hour,
Is present in his festal bower,
With awful voice and frowning mien,
By all but him unheard, unseen.
Oh! thus to shadows of the grave
Be every tyrant still a slave!
Where, through Gargano’s woody dells,
O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116]
A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb
Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom,
In shades that saw him live and die
Beneath their waving canopy.
’Twas his, as legends tell, to share
The converse of immortals there;
Around that dweller of the wild
There “bright appearances” have smiled,
And angel-wings at eve have been
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between.
And oft from that secluded bower
Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour,
A swell of viewless harps, a sound
Of warbled anthems pealing round.
Oh, none but voices of the sky
Might wake that thrilling harmony,
Whose tones, whose very echoes made
An Eden of the lonely shade!
Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps
Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps;
Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown
And veil’d his low sepulchral stone:
Yet still the spot is holy, still
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill;
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer
Aërial vesper-hymns may hear
Around those forest-precincts float,
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote.
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint
To that rude shrine’s departed saint,
And deem that spirits of the blest
There shed sweet influence o’er her breast.
And thither Otho now repairs,
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;
And if for him, on holy ground,
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead,
She dwells, remote from heedless eye,
With nature’s lonely majesty.
Vain, vain the search!—his troubled breast
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest:
The weary pilgrimage is o’er,
The hopes that cheer’d it are no more.
Then sinks his soul, and day by day
Youth’s buoyant energies decay.
[Pg 91]
The light of health his eye hath flown,
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone.
Joyless as one on whom is laid
Some baleful spell that bids him fade,
Extending its mysterious power
O’er every scene, o’er every hour:
E’en thus he withers; and to him
Italia’s brilliant skies are dim.
He withers—in that glorious clime
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time;
And suns, that shed on all below
Their full and vivifying glow,
From him alone their power withhold,
And leave his heart in darkness cold.
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair—
He only seems to perish there.
Yet sometimes will a transient smile
Play o’er his faded cheek awhile,
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain
Of power to lull all earthly pain—
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem
Th’ ethereal music of a dream,
A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown,
Deep thrilling power in every tone!
Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow
Hath language only given to woe;
And if at times its wakening swell
Some tale of glory seems to tell,
Soon the proud notes of triumph die,
Lost in a dirge’s harmony.
Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved,
Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved,
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence
Such deep impassion’d eloquence!
Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy—
He is no child of hope and joy!
Though few his years, yet have they been
Such as leave traces on the mien,
And o’er the roses of our prime
Breathe other blights than those of time.
Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,
By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d.
Oh! there are sorrows which impart
A sternness foreign to the heart,
And, rushing with an earthquake’s power,
That makes a desert in an hour,
Rouse the dread passions in their course,
As tempests wake the billows’ force!—
’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face,
The stamp of woes like these to trace.
Oh! where can ruins awe mankind
Dark as the ruins of the mind?
His mien is lofty, but his gaze
Too well a wandering soul betrays:
His full dark eye at times is bright
With strange and momentary light,
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw
O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow:
And oft his features and his air
A shade of troubled mystery wear,
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught
With some unfathomable thought.
Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d
Dwells the sad secret in his breast;
The pride his haughty brow reveals
All other passion well conceals—
He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone
In music’s eloquence alone;
His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d
Through his full song and swelling chord.
He seeks no friend, but shuns the train
Of courtiers with a proud disdain;
And, save when Otho bids his lay
Its half unearthly power essay
In hall or bower the heart to thrill,
His haunts are wild and lonely still.
Far distant from the heedless throng,
He roves old Tiber’s banks along,
Where Empire’s desolate remains
Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains;
Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine
That strews the desert Palatine,
With mournful yet commanding mien,
Like the sad genius of the scene,
Entranced in awful thought appears
To commune with departed years.
Or at the dead of night, when Rome
Seems of heroic shades the home;
When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls
The mighty to their ancient halls;
When hush’d is every meaner sound,
And the deep moonlight-calm around
Leaves to the solemn scene alone
The majesty of ages flown—
A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb,
He wanders through the sacred gloom;
And midst those dwellings of decay
At times will breathe so sad a lay,
So wild a grandeur in each tone,
’Tis like a dirge for empires gone!
Awake thy pealing harp again,
But breathe a more exulting strain,
Young Guido! for awhile forgot
Be the dark secrets of thy lot,
[Pg 92]
And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song
To speed the banquet’s hour along!—
The feast is spread, and music’s call
Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O’er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep—
The still small voice of conscience—die,
Lost in the din of revelry.
On his pale brow dejection lowers,
But that shall yield to festal hours;
A gloom is in his faded eye,
But that from music’s power shall fly;
His wasted cheek is wan with care,
But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.
Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,
Strike the bold chord exultingly!
And pour upon the enraptured ear
Such strains as warriors love to hear!
Let the rich mantling goblet flow,
And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart—but not the mien!
Away, vain dream!—on Otho’s brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o’erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson’d with a hectic dye,
The burning flush of agony!
His lip is quivering, and his breast
Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d;
Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed,
And now to heaven in anguish raised;
And as, with unavailing aid,
Around him throng his guests dismay’d,
He sinks—while scarce his struggling breath
Hath power to falter—“This is death!”
Then rush’d that haughty child of song,
Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng.
Fill’d with a strange delirious light,
His kindling eye shone wildly bright;
And on the sufferer’s mien awhile
Gazing with stem vindictive smile,
A feverish glow of triumph dyed
His burning cheek, while thus he cried:—
“Yes! these are death-pangs—on thy brow
Is set the seal of vengeance now!
Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught,
And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d;
And bitter as thy pangs may be,
They are but guerdons meet from me!
Yet these are but a moment’s throes—
Howe’er intense, they soon shall close.
Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath—
My life hath been a lingering death,
Since one dark hour of woe and crime,
A blood-spot on the page of time!
“Deem’st thou my mind of reason void?
It is not frenzied—but destroy’d!
Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought—
That work of ruin thou hast wrought!
The secret of thy doom to tell,
My name alone suffices well!
Stephania!—once a hero’s bride!
Otho! thou know’st the rest—he died.
Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word,
The Roman fell, untried, unheard!
And thou, whose every pledge was vain,
How couldst thou trust in aught again?
“He died, and I was changed—my soul,
A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control.
From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d,
The outcast of a purer world,
I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown,
And lived for one dread task alone.
The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow—
The hand of death is on thee now.
Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d,
The debt of blood shall soon be paid!
Thine hour is come—the time hath been
My heart had shrunk from such a scene;
That feeling long is past—my fate
Hath made me stern as desolate.
“Ye that around me shuddering stand,
Ye chiefs and princes of the land!
Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom?
Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb!
He sleeps unhonour’d—yet be mine
To share his low, neglected shrine.
His soul with freedom finds a home,
His grave is that of glory—Rome!
Are not the great of old with her,
That city of the sepulchre?
Lead me to death! and let me share,
The slumbers of the mighty there!”
The day departs—that fearful day
Fades in calm loveliness away:
[Pg 93]
From purple heavens its lingering beam
Seems melting into Tiber’s stream,
And softly tints each Roman hill
With glowing light, as clear and still
As if, unstain’d by crime or woe,
Its hours had pass’d in silent flow.
The day sets calmly—it hath been
Mark’d with a strange and awful scene:
One guilty bosom throbs no more,
And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er.
And thou, ere yet another sun
His burning race hath brightly run,
Released from anguish by thy foes,
Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.
Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky
Fix yet once more thy parting eye!
A few short hours—and all shall be
The silent and the past for thee.
Oh! thus with tempests of a day
We struggle, and we pass away,
Like the wild billows as they sweep,
Leaving no vestige on the deep!
And o’er thy dark and lowly bed
The sons of future days shall tread,
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,
By them unknown, by thee forgot.

[114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Cæsar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately into Cæsar’s house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero’s vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ‘Shall we,’ said they, ‘remain to be spectators of our master’s murder? Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?’ Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea.”—Plutarch, Life of Cicero.

[115]

“Now purer air
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive
All sadness but despair.”—Milton.

[116] Mount Gargano. “This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus:

‘Aquilonibus
Querceta Gargani laborant,
Et foliis viduantur orni.’—Horace.

“There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation.”—Swinburne’s Travels.

[117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote 3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace?”—Milton.

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city—a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day—on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him.”—Langhorne’s Plutarch.]

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria!—yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around
O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall,
In gay magnificence the feast was spread;
And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall,
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed
O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes,
That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.
And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d
O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!—in every face
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind,
Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,
Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth,
But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.
Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom
May still survive the wearers—and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle, and may set
In death—but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess’d
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.
Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien,
And read their annals on that brow of care!
Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been:
Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair.
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire
The buoyant energies of days gone by;
There is delusion in its meteor fire,
And all within is shame, is agony!
Away! the tear in bitterness may flow,
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.
Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame,
O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow,
To that ascendant and undying name,
Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now.
Thy glory is departed, but hath left
A lingering light around thee: in decay
Not less than kingly—though of all bereft,
Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.
Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!
[Pg 94]
But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made
His desolation—thou art by his side,
In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d,
To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride.
Imperial being! e’en though many a stain
Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.
Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired—thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright
With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire—in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]
And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With all the majesty of mighty woes:
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,
Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be
In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.
But there is sadness in the eyes around,
Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;
“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies
Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;
While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown’d—but not for me.
“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,
O victors of Philippi! many a field
Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.
Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world
How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread,
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d,
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!
Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky,
The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop—but die.”
The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night—
Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep;
From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light
The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep.
For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams,
The battle-signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;—
Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb;
Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.
Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound
Of gathering tumult?—Near and nearer still
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around.
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,
Is heard upon the midnight air to float;
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.
These are no mortal sounds—their thrilling strain
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high;
And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom—“Despair and die!”[119]

[118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.—See Plutarch.

[119]

“To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”
Richard III.

[Pg 95]

ALARIC IN ITALY.

[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire thus proceeds:—“Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep—the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis—could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”—Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.]

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
His steps have track’d that glorious clime,
The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dead,[120]
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries
From temple and from tomb arise.
He pass’d—the light of burning fanes
Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;
And woke they not—the brave, the free,
To guard their own Thermopylæ?
And left they not their silent dwelling,
When Scythia’s note of war was swelling?
No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,
Sad freedom battled not—but wept!
For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand,
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;
Nor one high soul from slumber broke
When Athens own’d the northern yoke.
But was there none for thee to dare
The conflict, scorning to despair?
O City of the seven proud hills!
Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills,
As doth a clarion’s battle-call—
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall?
Did no Camillus from the chain
Ransom thy Capitol again?
Oh, who shall tell the days to be
No patriot rose to bleed for thee!
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d?
That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121]
Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:—
How woke the mighty? She whose will
So long had bid the world be still,
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye
Th’ ascendant star of destiny!
She woke—to view the dread array
Of Scythians rushing to their prey,
To hear her streets resound the cries
Pour’d from a thousand agonies!
While the strange light of flames, that gave
A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave,
Bursting in that terrific hour
From fane and palace, dome and tower,
Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine,
Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine:
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed
O’er spear and sword, with carnage red,
Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying,
And kindled pyres for Romans dying.
Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!
[Pg 96]
The time hath been when thy distress
Had roused up empires for redress!
Now, her long race of glory run,
Without a combat Rome is won,
And from her plunder’d temples forth
Rush the fierce children of the North,
To share beneath more genial skies
Each joy their own rude clime denies.
Ye who on bright Campania’s shore
Bade your fair villas rise of yore,
With all their graceful colonnades,
And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,
Along the blue Hesperian deep,
Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep—
Beneath your olive and your vine
Far other inmates now recline;
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed
With rich libations duly shed,[122]
O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends,
Its bowery canopy extends.
For them the southern heaven is glowing,
The bright Falernian nectar flowing;
For them the marble halls unfold,
Where nobler beings dwelt of old,
Whose children for barbarian lords
Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords.
Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine.
Yet, though luxurious they repose
Beneath Corinthian porticoes—
While round them into being start
The marvels of triumphant art—
Oh! not for them hath Genius given
To Parian stone the fire of heaven,
Enshrining in the forms he wrought
A bright eternity of thought.
In vain the natives of the skies
In breathing marble round them rise,
And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade
People the dark-green laurel shade.
Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye
To visions of divinity;
And rude his hand which dares deface
The models of immortal grace.
Arouse ye from your soft delights!
Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites;
And other lands must yet be won,
And other deeds of havoc done.
Warriors! your flowery bondage break,
Sons of the stormy North, awake!
The barks are launching from the steep—
Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123]
And Afric’s burning winds afar
Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war.
Where shall his race of victory close?
When shall the ravaged earth repose?
But hark! what wildly mingling cries
From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise?
Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air?
A sterner conquerer hath been there!
A conqueror—yet his paths are peace,
He comes to bring the world’s release;
He of the sword that knows no sheath,
The avenger, the deliverer—Death!
Is then that daring spirit fled?
Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?
Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength,
And he and earth are calm at length.
The land where heaven unclouded shines,
Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;
The land by conquest made his own,
Can yield him now—a grave alone.
But his—her lord from Alp to sea—
No common sepulchre shall be!
Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye
Its buried wealth may ne’er descry!
Where mortal foot may never tread
Above a victor-monarch’s bed.
Let not his royal dust be hid
’Neath star-aspiring pyramid;
Nor bid the gather’d mound arise,
To bear his memory to the skies.
Years roll away—oblivion claims
Her triumph o’er heroic names;
And hands profane disturb the clay
That once was fired with glory’s ray;
And Avarice, from their secret gloom,
Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb.
But thou, O leader of the free!
That general doom awaits not thee:
Thou, where no step may e’er intrude,
Shalt rest in regal solitude,
Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,
The Awakener’s final trumpet sound.
Turn ye the waters from their course,
Bid Nature yield to human force,
[Pg 97]
And hollow in the torrent’s bed
A chamber for the mighty dead.
The work is done—the captive’s hand
Hath well obey’d his lord’s command.
Within that royal tomb are cast
The richest trophies of the past,
The wealth of many a stately dome,
The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome;
And when the midnight stars are beaming,
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear
The Chastener of the Nations there;
To rest at length from victory’s toil,
Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!
Then the freed current’s rushing wave
Rolls o’er the secret of the grave;
Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood
To crimson that sepulchral flood,
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep
The mystery in its bosom deep.
Time hath past on since then—and swept
From earth the urns where heroes slept;
Temples of gods and domes of kings
Are mouldering with forgotten things;
Yet not shall ages e’er molest
The viewless home of Alaric’s rest:
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river,
The guardian of his dust for ever.

[120] After the taking of Athens by Sylla, “though such numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet—partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ‘he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the living for the dead.’”—Plutarch.

[121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia.”—Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311.

[122] The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that “this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade.”—See the notes to Melmoth’s Pliny.

[123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar dominion of Ceres.

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.

[“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage—this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,—‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames.”—Ancient Universal History.]

The sun sets brightly—but a ruddier glow
O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw.
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire
In lurid splendour from her domes aspire;
Sway’d by the wind, they wave—while glares the sky
As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh;
The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall;
Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams—
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams;
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains,
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes;
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around,
Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124]
—But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight,
All regal in magnificent attire,
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire?
She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour
Of dread communion and delirious power;
A being more than earthly, in whose eye
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency.
The flames are gathering round—intensely bright,
Full on her features glares their meteor light;
But a wild courage sits triumphant there,
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate.
The dark profusion of her locks unbound
Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round;
Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien—
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene.
Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry
Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh,
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest,
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain,
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?
Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands;
On him who left her to that burning tomb,
Alone to share her children’s martyrdom;
Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife,
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life.
“Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee,
E’en in thy fetters, can existence be!
[Pg 98]
Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!—with blasted name,
The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame.
O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain!
Still may the manès of thy children rise
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes;
Still may their voices on the haunted air
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,
Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume,
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!
E’en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire,
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think’st thou I love them not?—’Twas thine to fly—
’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!—the arms that cannot save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”
Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams,
Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams;
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest;
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high,
Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.

[124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy.

HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.

[From Maccabees, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony.—22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them.—23. Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed.—24. Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.—25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair covering; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold.—26. Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many sore stripes.—27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter.—28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly they acknowledged the power of God.—29. For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life.”]

A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries
Rose from her dwellings—youthful cheeks were pale,
Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes,
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail;
Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer,
And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair.
Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside
The regal splendour of their fair array,
With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride,
And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay;
While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine
Who made of old renown and empire thine.
But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate,
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold;
And all the scene reveals its solemn state,
Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold;
And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode,
The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God.
Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest,
Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest?
Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne,
And call the oracle’s recess thine own!
Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host,
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour,
To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast,
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power,
Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene,
And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been.
Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might,
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill,
Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light
Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill?
Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain,
Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again!
Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore
Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid,
The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store:
What recks his heart though age unsuccour’d die,
And want consume the cheek of infancy?
Away, intruders!—hark! a mighty sound!
Behold, a burst of light!—away, away!
A fearful glory fills the temple round,
A vision bright in terrible array!
And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame,
His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame!
[Pg 99]
His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane
Seems waving fire—the kindling of his eye
Is as a meteor—ardent with disdain
His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty!
Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear
Some dread archangel through the fields of air.
But who is he, in panoply of gold,
Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form,
Yet in its brightness awful to behold,
And girt with all the terrors of the storm!
Lightning is on his helmet’s crest—and fear
Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe.
And by his side two radiant warriors stand,
All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace—
Oh! more than kingly—godlike!—sternly grand,
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face
Beams with the beauty to immortals given,
Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven.
Then sinks each gazer’s heart—each knee is bow’d
In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight,
Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd,
Bursts on their leader in terrific might;
And the stern angels of that dread abode
Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God.
Darkness—thick darkness!—low on earth he lies,
Rash Heliodorus—motionless and pale—
Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil;
And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train,
Is borne from that inviolable fane.
The light returns—the warriors of the sky
Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away;
Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high
Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day;
Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill!
Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.

[125] “Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?”—Job, chap. xxxix. v. 19.

NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

[“En même temps que les Génois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils étoient déchirés eux-mêmes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de l’année 1169, pour rétablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes à leur voix et plus puissantes qu’eux, furent obligés d’ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencèrent par s’assurer secrètement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant étoient entraînés dans les émeutes par leur parenté avec les chefs de faction; puis, se concertant avec le vénérable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevêque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que la surprise et l’alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de l’obscurité de la nuit, rendroit l’assemblée et plus complète et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement général, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil archevêque, entouré de son clergé en habit de cérémonies, et portant des torches allumées; tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Gênes, étoient exposées devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient à leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Dès que l’assemblée fut formée, le vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassée il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs âmes, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberté, dont leurs discordes entraîneroient la ruine, de jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix à venir.

“Les hérauts, dès qu’il eut fini de parler, s’avancèrent aussitôt vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l’une des factions, qui étoit présent à l’assemblée, et, secondés par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les prières de ses parens eux-mêmes, ils le sommèrent de se conformer au vœu des consuls et de la nation.

“Roland, à leur approche, déchira ses habits, et, s’asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela à haute voix les morts qu’il avoit juré de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le déterminer à s’avancer, les consuls eux-mêmes, l’archevêque et le clergé, s’approchèrent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prières, ils l’entraînèrent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de ses inimitiés passées.

“Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de Volta, n’étoient pas présens à l’assemblée, mais le peuple et le clergé se portèrent en foule à leurs maisons; ils les trouvèrent dejà ébranlés par ce qu’ils venoient d’apprendre, et, profitant de leur émotion, ils leur firent jurer une réconciliation sincère, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposée. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnèrent en témoignage d’allégresse, et l’archevêque de retour sur la place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eu honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauvé leur patrie.”—Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.]

In Genoa, when the sunset gave
Its last warm purple to the wave,
No sound of war, no voice of fear,
Was heard, announcing danger near:
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate
But slumber’d till its hour of fate,
Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close,
Sunk the wide city to repose.
But when deep midnight reign’d around,
All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound,
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze
Bore its dread summons o’er the seas.
[Pg 100]
Then, Genoa, from their slumber started
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted;
Then mingled with th’ awakening peal
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel.
Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls;
Arise to guard your native walls!
With breathless haste the gathering throng
Hurry the echoing streets along;
Through darkness rushing to the scene
Where their bold counsels still convene.
But there a blaze of torches bright
Pours its red radiance on the night,
O’er fane, and dome, and column playing,
With every fitful night-wind swaying:
Now floating o’er each tall arcade,
Around the pillar’d scene display’d,
In light relieved by depth of shade:
And now, with ruddy meteor glare,
Full streaming on the silvery hair
And the bright cross of him who stands
Rearing that sign with suppliant hands,
Girt with his consecrated train,
The hallow’d servants of the fane.
Of life’s past woes the fading trace
Hath given that aged patriarch’s face
Expression holy, deep, resign’d,
The calm sublimity of mind.
Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d,
And left him of his race the last,
Alone on earth—yet still his mien
Is bright with majesty serene;
And those high hopes, whose guiding star
Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar,
Have with that light illumed his eye
Whose fount is immortality,
And o’er his features pour’d a ray
Of glory, not to pass away.
He seems a being who hath known
Communion with his God alone,
On earth by nought but pity’s tie
Detain’d a moment from on high!
One to sublimer worlds allied,
One from all passion purified,
E’en now half mingled with the sky,
And all prepared—oh! not to die—
But, like the prophet, to aspire,
In heaven’s triumphal car of fire.
He speaks—and from the throngs around
Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound;
Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance,
They stand as in a spell-bound trance:
He speaks—oh! who can hear nor own
The might of each prevailing tone?
“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong,
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate
Hath made your country desolate;
Now by the love ye bear her name,
By that pure spark of holy flame
On freedom’s altar brightly burning,
But, once extinguished, ne’er returning;
By all your hopes of bliss to come
When burst the bondage of the tomb;
By Him, the God who bade us live
To aid each other, and forgive—
I call upon ye to resign
Your discords at your country’s shrine,
Each ancient feud in peace atone,
Wield your keen swords for her alone,
And swear upon the cross, to cast
Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”
No voice replies. The holy bands
Advance to where yon chieftain stands,
With folded arms, and brow of gloom
O’ershadow’d by his floating plume.
To him they lift the cross—in vain:
He turns—oh! say not with disdain,
But with a mien of haughty grief,
That seeks not e’en from heaven relief.
He rends his robes—he sternly speaks—
Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:—
“Father! not thus the wounds may close
Inflicted by eternal foes.
Deem’st thou thy mandate can efface
The dread volcano’s burning trace?
Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene
Be smiling as it once hath been?
No! for the deeds the sword hath done
Forgiveness is not lightly won;
The words by hatred spoke may not
Be as a summer breeze forgot!
’Tis vain—we deem the war-feud’s rage
A portion of our heritage.
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame,
Bequeath’d us that undying flame;
Hearts that have long been still and cold
Yet rule us from their silent mould;
And voices, heard on earth no more,
Speak to our spirits as of yore.
Talk not of mercy!—blood alone
The stain of bloodshed may atone;
Nought else can pay that mighty debt,
The dead forbid us to forget.”
He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow
There beams more lofty grandeur now;
[Pg 101]
His reverend form, his aged hand,
Assume a gesture of command;
His voice is awful, and his eye
Fill’d with prophetic majesty.
“The dead!—and deem’st thou they retain
Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain?
Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by,
Aught but the fearful penalty?
And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone
For deeds of slaughter may atone?
There hath been blood—by Him ’twas shed
To expiate every crime who bled;
Th’ absolving God, who died to save,
And rose in victory from the grave!
And by that stainless offering given
Alike for all on earth to heaven;
By that inevitable hour
When death shall vanquish pride and power,
And each departing passion’s force
Concentrate all in late remorse;
And by the day when doom shall be
Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee—
The doom that shall not be repeal’d,
Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d—
I summon thee, O child of clay!
To cast thy darker thoughts away,
And meet thy foes in peace and love,
As thou wouldst join the blest above.”
Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling
Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing.
Oh, not in vain the pleading cries
Of anxious thousands round him rise!
He yields: devotion’s mingled sense
Of faith, and fear, and penitence,
Pervading all his soul, he bows
To offer on the cross his vows,
And that best incense to the skies,
Each evil passion’s sacrifice.
Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing,
High hearts with soft emotions glowing;
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting,
And ardent throngs in transport meeting;
And eager footsteps forward pressing,
And accents loud in joyous blessing;
And when their first wild tumults cease,
A thousand voices echo “Peace!”
Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away,
And the rich Orient burns with day;
Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth,
Rises the choral hymn of earth—
Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling,
Of peace and holy rapture telling.
Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep,
The seaman hears them on the deep—
So mellow’d by the gale, they seem
As the wild music of a dream.
But not on mortal ear alone
Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone;
For beings of a purer sphere
Bend with celestial joy, to hear.

THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.

[“Not only the place of Richard’s confinement,” (when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) “if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies; and both might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince’s friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive.—(Hist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.”—See Russell’s Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369.

The Troubadour o’er many a plain
Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain.
O’er many a rugged mountain-scene
And forest wild his track hath been:
Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky
He hath sung the songs of chivalry;
His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze,
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees;
From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave,
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave;
And yet, if still on earth thou art,
Monarch of the lion-heart!
The faithful spirit, which distress
But heightens to devotedness,
By toil and trial vanquish’d not,
Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.
[Pg 102]
He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine,
And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine:
The feudal towers that crest its height
Frown in unconquerable might;
Dark is their aspect of sullen state—
No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126]
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest,
At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest;
Vainly rich evening’s parting smile
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile,
That midst bright sunshine lowers on high,
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.
Not these the halls where a child of song
Awhile may speed the hours along;
Their echoes should repeat alone
The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan,
Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast,
When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127]
The weary minstrel paused—his eye
Roved o’er the scene despondingly:
Within the length’ning shadow, cast
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast,
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around
Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d;
Proud guardians of the regal flood,
In giant strength the mountains stood—
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven,
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven.
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow,
But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below;
In purple tints the vineyards smiled,
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild;
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell;
But all was lonely, silent, rude,
A stern, yet glorious solitude.
But hark! that solemn stillness breaking,
The Troubadour’s wild song is waking.
Full oft that song in days gone by
Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry:
It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone,
Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone;
On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung,
The leagued Crusaders’ tents among;
Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won
The palm in the field of Ascalon;
And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine
Peals the bold strain of Palestine.

[126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un heaulme, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre.”

[127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt of the wild Jager, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s Classical Tour; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts.—See the “Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin,” and “Autumn on the Rhine.”

THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG.

“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,”
The Soldan cried to the captive knight,
“And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met
To gaze on the fearful sight.
“But be our faith by thy lips profess’d,
The faith of Mecca’s shrine,
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest,
And life shall yet be thine.”
“I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood,
And gazed with undaunted eye;
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood,
And think’st thou I fear to die?
“I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers,
Have fall’n for the name Divine;
And the faith that cheer’d their closing hours
Shall be the light of mine.”
“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health,
And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom?
Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth,
Or torture and the tomb.”
“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined
For a dying Saviour’s brow;
He spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind,
And I reject them now!”

[Pg 103]

“Art thou the son of a noble line
In a land that is fair and blest?
And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine
Again on its shores to rest?
“Thine own is the choice to hail once more
The soil of thy father’s birth,
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er,
Forgotten in foreign earth.”
“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise
In the country of my love;
But yet, though cloudless my native skies,
There’s a brighter clime above!”
The bard hath paused—for another tone
Blends with the music of his own;
And his heart beats high with hope again,
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.
“Are there none within thy father’s hall,
Far o’er the wide blue main,
Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall,
With sorrow deep and vain?”
“There are hearts that still, through all the past,
Unchanging have loved me well;
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast
When I bade my home farewell.
“Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier
Than th’ apostate’s living stain;
There’s a land where those who loved when here
Shall meet to love again.”
’Tis he! thy prince—long sought, long lost,
The leader of the red-cross host!
’Tis he!—to none thy joy betray,
Young Troubadour! away, away!
Away to the island of the brave,
The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129]
Arouse the sons of the noble soil
To win their Lion from the toil.
And free the wassail-cup shall flow,
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow;
The festal board shall be richly crown’d,
While knights and chieftains revel round,
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring,
When merry England hails her king.

[128] The Plain of Esdräelon, called by way of eminence the “Great Plain;” in Scripture, and elsewhere, the “field of Megiddo,” the “Galilean Plain.” This plain, the most fertile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of “every nation which is under heaven” have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdräelon, and have beheld the various banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabor.—Dr Clarke’s Travels.

[129] “This precious stone set in the sea.”—Richard II.

THE DEATH OF CONRADIN.

[“La défaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni à ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d’Anjou.) L’amour du peuple pour l’héritier légitime du trône avoit éclaté d’une manière effrayante; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles révolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie; et Charles, revêtant sa défiance et sa cruauté des formes de la justice, résolut de faire périr sur l’échafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, l’unique espérance de son parti. Un seul juge Provençal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n’ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d’autres se renfermèrent dans un timide et coupable silence; et Charles, sur l’autorité de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sentence fut communiquée à Conradin, comme il jouoit aux échecs; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se préparer à son exécution, et le 26 d’Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marché de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles étoit présent, avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamné. Conradin étoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il détacha lui-même son manteau, et s’étant mis à genoux pour prier, il se releva en s’écriant: ‘Oh, ma mère, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu’on va te porter de moi!’ Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui l’entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple; alors, détachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d’un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tête au bourreau. Après lui, sur le même échafaud, Charles fit trancher la tête au Duc d’Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un raffinement de cruauté, Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, précédât son père, et mourût entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d’après ses ordres, furent exclus d’une terre sainte, et inhumés sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite bâtir sur le même lieu une église de Carmélites, comme pour apaiser ces ombres irritées.”—Sismondi’s Républiques Italiennes.]

No cloud to dim the splendour of the day
Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay,
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore
With every tint that charm’d the great of yore—
Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade
Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade.
That race is gone—but glorious Nature here
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career,
And bids these regions of the sun display
Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away.
The beam of heaven expands—its kindling smile
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle,
Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest,
With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast.
Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray,
On Roman streamers there no more to play;
Still, as of old, unalterably bright,
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height,
[Pg 104]
With all Italia’s sunshine to illume
The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb.
Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread
Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead;
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies,
Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise;
While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak,
Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak.
Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse!
Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues,
Who shall explore your regions, and declare
The poet err’d to paint Elysium there?
Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide
Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside;
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear,
And spells more potent shall pervade the air.
What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130]
Still dwell the beings of his verse around,
Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground;
His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves
Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves;
His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea,
The soul, the genius of Parthenope;
Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill
The purple radiance of Elysium still.
Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky
Have witness’d many a dark reality.
Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne
The sighs of exiles never to return.[131]
There with the whisper of Campania’s gale
Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail,
Mourning for buried heroes—while to her
That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132]
And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan
Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone;
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note
Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float
Around the spot where Agrippina died,
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133]
Pass’d are those ages—yet another crime,
Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime.
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore—
It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er!
There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,—
A scene of death from thence must be survey’d.
Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?—each mien is pale,
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale:
But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast,
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d;
The burning tear awhile must check its course,
Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force;
For tyranny is near, and will not brook
Aught but submission in each guarded look.
Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134]
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance,
Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace;
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament:
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there,
May read at once her sentence—to despair!
But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave,
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave,
While all is yet around thee which can give
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live;
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye,
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die
Hath grown too full for utterance—Can it be!
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee?
[Pg 105]
Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone!
Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom
Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb,
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul,
Emotions tyranny may ne’er control?
Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led,
Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed,
Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride,
May hope for mercy—if to thee denied?
There is dead silence on the breathless throng,
Dead silence all the peopled shore along,
As on the captive moves—the only sound,
To break that calm so fearfully profound,
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave,
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave;
While on that shore, his own fair heritage,
The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage
Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him.
He mounts the scaffold—doth his footstep fail?
Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale?
Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught,
To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed,
And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed!
If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows,
One human fear convulse his parting breath,
And shrink from all the bitterness of death!
But no! the spirit of his royal race
Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye
Is eloquent with injured majesty.
He kneels—but not to man; his heart shall own
Such deep submission to his God alone!
And who can tell with what sustaining power
That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour?
How the still voice, which answers every moan,
May speak of hope—when hope on earth is gone?
That solemn pause is o’er—the youth hath given
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven:
The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky,
Life all around him glows—and he must die?
Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes;
Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire,
May sleep suppress’d a while—but not expire.
One softer image rises o’er his breast,
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest!
“Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair,
When thy lost child is gone?”—that thought can thrill
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still.
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun—
It falls—the race of Conradin is run!
Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain,
A voice shall cry to heaven—and not in vain!
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne,
In proud supremacy of guilt alone,
Charles of Anjou!—but that dread voice shall be
A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee!
The scene of death is closed—the throngs depart,
A deep stem lesson graved on every heart.
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes,
High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies.
O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave,
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave;
Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot,
Unhonour’d, unadorn’d—but unforgot;
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live,
Now mutely suffering—never to forgive!
The sunset fades from purple heavens away—
A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay:
Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135]
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm;
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek,
And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak,
Inured to woes—yet what were all the past!
She sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast,
While one bright hope remain’d—who now shall tell
Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell?
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save,
The mother came—and she hath found his grave!
And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief,
Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief,
Awhile she kneels—till roused at length to know,
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe,
On the still air a voice of anguish wild,
A mother’s cry is heard—“My Conradin! my child!”

[130] The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long since been lost.

[131] Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot.

[132] “Quelques souvenirs du cœur, quelques noms de femmes, réclament aussi vos pleurs. C’est à Misène, dans le lieu même où nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompée Cornélie conserva jusqu’à la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords: un jour, le même assassin qui lui ravit son époux la trouva digne de le suivre. L’île de Nisida fut témoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie.”—Madame de Stael, Corinne.

[133] The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors; besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from Agrippina’s tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples.—See Ancient Universal History.

[134] “Ce Charles,” dit Giovanni Villani, “fut sage et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, âpre et forte redouté de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensées qui l’égaloient aux plus grandes entreprises; inébranlable dans l’adversité, ferme et fidèle dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ni riant presque jamais, décent comme un religieux, zélé catholique, âpre à rendre justice, féroce dans ses regards. Sa taille étoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivâtre, son nez fort grand. Il paroissoit plus fait qu’aucun autre chevalier pour la majesté royale. Il ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour.”—Sismondi, Républiques Italiennes, vol. iii.

[135] “The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin’s mother, who, landing on the beach with her son’s ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous conqueror.”—Swinburne’s Travels in the Two Sicilies.

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

Quarterly Review.—“‘Tales and Historic Scenes’ is a collection,[Pg 106] as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his course of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judgments,—in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more care must be taken: if the tale be fictitious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned, in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art.

“The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn; and she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of their dialogue,—they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly free from exaggeration,—

‘Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,’” etc.

Edinburgh Monthly Review.—“The more we become acquainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are delighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie; but, even compared with the living masters of the lyre, she is entitled to a very high distinction....

“Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it impossible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by inspiration—as it is poetically called—by a fine tact of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours forth her enchanting song and ‘builds her lofty rhyme.’ The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of magnanimity; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals.

“It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales.”

Constable’s Magazine.—“The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest—in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance.... The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite.... Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from The Abencerrage.

“If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature.”


THE SCEPTIC.[136]

“Leur raison, qu’ils prennent pour guide, ne presente à leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent l’une après l’autre d’incomprehensibles erreurs.”—Bossuet.

When the young Eagle, with exulting eye,
Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky,
And leave the Alps beneath him in his course,
To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source;
[Pg 107]
Will his free wing, from that majestic height,
Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light,
Which far below, with evanescent fire,
Shines to delude and dazzles to expire?
No! still through clouds he wins his upward way,
And proudly claims his heritage of day!
—And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze
The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze,
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam,
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith
To the deep valley of the shades of death?
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given,
For the high birthright of its hope in heaven?
If lost the gem which empires could not buy,
What yet remains?—a dark eternity!
Is earth still Eden?—might a seraph guest
Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest?
Is all so cloudless and so calm below,
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show?
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate,
Rejects the promise of a brighter state,
And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace,
To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base?
Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng,
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song,
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high,
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die!
’Tis well—thine eye is yet undimm’d by time,
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime;
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice,
And in the glory of thy strength rejoice!
But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil,
Are few and distant on the desert soil;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man!
Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared—
Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared?
When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d,
And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud,
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain
With the bright images of pleasure’s train?
Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore,
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more,
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave!
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call,
She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all?
Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
[Pg 108]
And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!
For she was born beyond the stars to soar,
And kindling at the source of life, adore;
Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth;
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free,
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.
Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft,
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left;
And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour,
Still with fond care supports thy languid head,
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.
But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above,
Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love?
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest
Within that hallow’d shrine—a parent’s breast,
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie,
On one frail idol—destined but to die;
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light,
Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite?
Then tremble! cling to every passing joy,
Twined with the life a moment may destroy!
If there be sorrow in a parting tear,
Still let “for ever” vibrate on thine ear!
If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown,
Find more than anguish in the thought—’tis gone!
Go! to a voice such magic influence give,
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live;
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul,
And let a glance the springs of thought control;
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight,
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight;
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust,
Lean on the willow, idolise the dust!
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care,
Think on that dread “for ever”—and despair!
And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds.
Watch well its course—explore with anxious eye
Each little cloud that floats along the sky:
Is the blue canopy serenely fair?
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there,
And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep!
Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate,
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate!
Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds
His awful form in tempests and in clouds;
He fills the summer air with latent power,
He hides his venom in the scented flower,
He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath,
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!
Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast,
And vainly hope the tree of life to find
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind?
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well,
It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell,
Become a desert now, a vale of gloom,
O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb?
Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze—
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast;
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed
Her glory round the image of the dead;
And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest,
The form departed be thy spirit’s guest,
It bears no light from purer worlds to this;
Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss.
But who shall dare the gate of life to close,
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows?
That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace
Each distant isle, and visit every race,
Pours from the throne of God its current free,
Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee.
Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed,
While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead—
While still, suspended by a single hair,
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air,
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break
The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake!
Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear,
And send his chastening Spirit from above,
O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.
But seek thou mercy through his name alone,
To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown;
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode,
As man to suffer, and to heal as God;
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless,
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress.

[Pg 109]

Call thou on Him! for he, in human form,
Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm.
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past,
O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last—
Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d
O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored;
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live,
Taught from his Cross the lesson—to forgive!
Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose,
Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes.
And haste!—ere bursts the lightning from on high,
Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139]
So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away,
And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey.
Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood,
As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued;
Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed
Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head.
—He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade
Of such deep night as man for man hath made,
Through lingering years—if call’d at length to be
Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun,
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun.
Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d,
If the Deliverer, in his might at last,
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast,
The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight,
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light.
But this will pass away: that spark of mind,
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined,
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray,
Born to be foster’d with ethereal day.
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d,
On wing of flame, the purifying blast,
And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod,
Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God!
But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride,
Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride?
In thine own strength unaided to defy,
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky?
Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock,
Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock?
Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow
A thousand years may awe the vale below,
Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height
By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might!
A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne,
In silent fortitude or haughty scorn,
Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent
To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent.
Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye,
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply!
The wild delirious laughter of despair,
The mirth of frenzy—seek an answer there!
Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale,
Close not thine ear against their awful tale.
They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way,
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save!
Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains
Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur—mouldering fanes,
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown,
And regal cities, now the serpent’s own:
Earth has more awful ruins—one lost mind,
Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.
But who with eye unshrinking shall explore
That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more?
Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll
Around the shatter’d temple of the soul,
Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie,
And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140]
Sunk are its idols now—and God alone
May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown!
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare,
Is heard an oracle that cries—“Beware!
Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies!
One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies!
Haste, ere the hour of doom—draw nigh to Him
Who dwells above, between the cherubim!”
Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career—
Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere,
Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run
With science in the chariot of the sun;
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep,
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep,
And search the laws that nature’s springs control,
There tracing all—save Him who guides the whole!

[Pg 110]

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past;
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled,
The depths of time exploring, to retrace
The glorious march of many a vanish’d race.
Or did thy power pervade the living lyre
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire,
Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high,
Full and alone, their mighty harmony;
While woke each passion from its cell profound,
And nations started at th’ electric sound?
Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now,
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow?
What though thy name, through distant empires heard,
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word?
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye
Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky,
To make the secrets of all ages thine,
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine
O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?—hath thy mind
Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind,
For this to woo their homage! Thou hast sought
All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught,
Won every wreath—but that which will not die,
Nor aught neglected—save eternity!
And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath,
When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path?
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then,
O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men,
With an immortal’s courage, to sustain
The transient agonies of earthly pain?
—One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved
When the loud fury of the billow raved;
But him thou knew’st not—and the light he lent
Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement,
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet,
A thing we shrink from—vainly to forget!
—Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide!
The dagger, grasp’d in death—the brow, the eye,
Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony;
The soul’s dark traces left in many a line
Graved on his mein, who died—“and made no sign!”
Approach not, gaze not—lest thy fever’d brain
Too deep that image of despair retain.
Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour
Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power,
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above
See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love!
O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!—Thou whose ways,
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze,
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand,
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand,
And countless ages, trampling into clay
Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day;
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!—Thou,
With whom all time is one eternal now,
Who know’st no past nor future—Thou whose breath
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death!
Look on us! guide us!—wanderers of a sea
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee?
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight,
A star may set—and we are lost in night;
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink,
A treacherous song allure us—and we sink!
Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead’s light,
To moments circumscribed the Infinite,
And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally
By that dread union—Man with Deity;
Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed,
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead;
Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control
The earthquakes of that universe—the soul;
Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore,
“Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain,
The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain.
Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure
In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure;
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just
Look upward still, in high and holy trust,
And by affliction guided to Thy shrine,
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.
And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power,
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour:
When on the edge of that unknown abyss
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss,
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave,
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave,
Must drink the cup of trembling[141]—when we see
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee,
Forsake us not! If still, when life was young,
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung,
If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past,
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast,
Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge—
[Pg 111]
When from thy justice to thy love we fly,
On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye;
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease,
Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper—Peace![142]
For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld
The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d,
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain,
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain;
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe
Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe,
Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried,
We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet
In glory’s arms exultingly to meet—
A closing triumph, a majestic scene,
Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien,
As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all,
He folds his mantle, regally to fall!
—Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone,
Yet not less terrible because unknown,
Is the last hour of thousands: they retire
From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire.
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect’s little world of cares,
Descends in silence—while around waves on
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone!
Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown,
—Start not, thou trifler!—such may be thine own.
But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear,
A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before,
We fain would stifle—but it sleeps no more!
There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng
That join the masque of revelry and song:
Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored,
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board;
And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood,
And the heart owns the might of solitude,
Is its low whisper heard?—a note profound,
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose
Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!
Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove
That life had nought to claim such lingering love,
And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d,
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d.
In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride,
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide,
Call up the countless armies of the dead,
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread,
And say—“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree,
Made for creation, be reversed for thee?”
Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why—
It is enough that nature shrinks to die.
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid,
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid!
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined
And mystic questions of the parting mind,
Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst,
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first,
When freed from mortal films—what viewless world
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d—
What awful and unbodied beings guide
Her timid flight through regions yet untried;
Say if at once, her final doom to hear,
Before her God the trembler must appear,
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?
Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more
The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore
The unknown, the unseen, the future—though the heart,
As at unearthly sounds, before them start;
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh,
They have their source in immortality!
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies,
An equal to the mortal conflict rise?
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace,
Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race,
The mighty rider comes—oh whence shall aid
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d?
Whence, but from thee, Messiah!—thou hast drain’d
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d;
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known,
The mystic horror—all became thine own!
But did no hand celestial succour bring,
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting?
Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour,
To arm thee with invulnerable power?
No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed,
[Pg 112]
From man averted—and thy path on high
Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony:
For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes,
Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!
But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom!
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod.
Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God;
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar,
And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.
He rose! the everlasting gates of day
Received the King of Glory on his way!
The hope, the comforter of those who wept,
And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept,
He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain.
Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame,
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice
Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice!
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend,
He whom the busy world shall miss no more
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!
And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft
Of that high hope, to misery what were left?
But for the vision of the days to be,
But for the comforter despised by thee,
Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look,
Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke,
When o’er our heads the desolating blast,
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d,
And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey
Hath call’d our fairest and our best away?
Should we not madden when our eyes behold
All that we loved in marble stillness cold,
No more responsive to our smile or sigh,
Fix’d—frozen—silent—all mortality?
But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,”
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel
Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land;
And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless,
Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness,
With all a nation’s blessings on thy head,
O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead?
But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart
Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart!
When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled,
When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child
Yearn’d with vain longing—still thy patient eye
To its last light beam’d holy constancy!
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast,
Amidst those agonies—thy first and last,
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes,
Breathed not a plaint—and settled in repose;
While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour,
Who from the brightest vision of a throne,
Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own,
And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast,
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!
“It is the will of God!”—yet, yet we hear
The words which closed thy beautiful career;
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode,
But for that thought—“It is the will of God!”
Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree
If not one murmur then escaped from thee?
Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace,
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race,
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among,
Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song!
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well,
E’en as an angel, with presiding care,
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.
For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies
Call on the watchers of the land to rise,
To set the sign of fire on every height,[144]
And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might,
Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die,
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory!
By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood
Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood,
When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown,
In high and holy singleness, alone,
But mighty in her God—and shall she now
Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow?
From the bright fountain of her glory turn,
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn?
No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude,
Throned in thy majesty of solitude,
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest,
[Pg 113]
Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers,
Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!
Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle!
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile,
Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes
That guard the peasant’s records and remains,
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell,
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades,
When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades,
Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise,
And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies.
There may the mother, as with anxious joy
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy,
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays
Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days,
When angels, whispering through the cedar shade,
Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d;
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes,
She bids the prayer of infancy arise,
Tell of His name who left his throne on high,
Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify,
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried,
And fondly say—“My child, for thee He died!”

[136] “The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in which her revered friend[137] took a peculiar interest. It had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advantageous to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who entered very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to command frankly whatever assistance his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered dedication; but was afterwards deterred from putting it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manœuvre to propitiate the good graces of the Quarterly Review; and from the slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy.”—Memoir, p. 31.

“One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine; and there is something in its tone so far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the same time so prophetic of the happy influence her writings were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the concluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the reviewer thus proceeds,—‘These extracts must, we think, convey to every reader a favourable impression of the talents of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which her high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we imagine, of some of the most popular writers of the day, that they are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of their performances; it is the deep, and will be the lasting reproach of others, that in this point of view they have wantonly sought and realised the most profound literary abasement. With the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to most of them, the author before us is not only free from every stain, but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the era of a woman’s sway in literature shall become coeval with the return of its moral purity and elevation.’ From suffrages such as these, Mrs Hemans derived not merely present gratification, but encouragement and cheer for her onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feelings of the sorrowful, or taught the desponding where to look for comfort. In a letter written at this time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of the heaviest of human calamities—the loss of an exemplary mother—she thus describes her own appreciation of such heart-tributes:—‘It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know, that you should find any thing I have written at all adapted to your present feelings, and that The Sceptic should have been one of the last books upon which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast. Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will inform me which were the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure and pious mind: they will be far more highly valued by me than any thing I have ever written.’—Ibid. pp. 334-4.

“It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy of The Sceptic. ‘I cannot refuse myself the gratification of saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs Hemans’s superior genius and refined taste. I rank her, as a poet, very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her Modern Greece which evinces more just views, or more delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance, on a subject so worthy of it; and, anticipating the future by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the perusal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit.’”—Ibid.

[137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph.

[138] “He is patient, because He is eternal.”—St Augustine.

[139] “Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge for you; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person at unawares.—And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from the avenger.”—Numbers, chap. xxxv.

[140] “Every man in the chambers of his imagery.”—Ezekiel, chap. viii.

[141] “Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out.”—Isaiah, chap. li.

[142] “And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”—Kings, book i. chap. 19.

[143] The Princess Charlotte.

[144] “And set up a sign of fire.”—Jeremiah, chap. vi.

[What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thirteen years after the publication of the Sceptic, and when the author, towards the termination of her earthly career, was residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance occurred by which Mrs Hemans was greatly affected and impressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and begged earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of all but her immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told that she was unable to receive him; but he persisted in entreating for a few minutes’ audience, with such urgent importunity that at last the point was conceded. The moment he was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest satisfied without avowing—that to her he owed, in the first instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to “search the Scriptures.” Having poured forth his thanks and benedictions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her overwhelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and wondering humility.—Memoir, p. 255-6.]

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS.

North American Review.—“In 1820 Mrs Hemans published The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She considers the influence of unbelief on the affections and gentler part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may be found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality. Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she turns to the sterner tasks of life:—

‘E’en youth’s brief hours
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers;
The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan,
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling—Man.’

But then the sceptic has no relief in memory; for memory recalls no joys but such as were transitory, and known to be such; and as for hope—

‘She, who like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all,
Will she speak comfort?—Thou hast shorn her plume,
That might have raised thee far above the tomb,
And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’

“The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no home for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feelings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attachment to a vain idol, from which death may at any time divide him ‘for ever.’... For relief the infidel is referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites the fervour of devotion with poetic sensibility.... The poem proceeds to depict, in a forcible manner, the unfortunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowledge but that which gives salvation; and, having gained possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed with the majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, finds relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal rest. The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and support in the hour of dissolution; for the hour, when the soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another life, is an ‘awful one.’... This is followed by an allusion to the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic questions, that it cannot solve. But through the influence of religion—

‘He whom the busy world shall miss no more
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store,
Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart,
Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart.’

“After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, the poem closes with the picture of a mother teaching her child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine example of the Saviour.

“We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for it illustrates the character of Mrs Hemans’s manner. We perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, gratifications, and sorrows of social life.”—Professor Norton.

Edinburgh Monthly Review.—“We have on more than one occasion expressed the very high opinion which we entertain of the talents of this lady; and it is gratifying to find that she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree the applause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibition of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy of her poetical career; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, and of very high promise. Not but that she has already[Pg 114] performed more than has often been sufficient to win for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but because what she has already done shrinks, when compared with what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere incipient excellence—the intimation rather than the fulfilment of the high destiny of her genius.

... “The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spontaneous offspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an exquisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than the force of many of her masculine competitors, she never ceases to be strictly feminine in the whole current of her thought and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of that free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some of the most remarkable among the female literati of our times have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have been very difficult to have reconciled the treatment, in the hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belongs to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its attractions, and wrapt in darkness and defiance. But Mrs Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, while she has left in the poem before us every trace of vigorous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and confiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility of hope and of faith has in it none of the weakness with which it has been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owns a divine and mysterious vigour residing under the very aspect of gentleness and devotion.”

Quarterly Review.—“Her last two publications are works of a higher stamp; works, indeed, of which no living poet need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled The Sceptic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to advocating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem must have owed its being to the circumstances of the times—to a laudable indignation at the course which literature in many departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and at the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but by no means exclusively, as has been falsely supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs Hemans, however, does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse; few poems, ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have ever been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force to confirm a wavering mind; it is simply resting the truth of religion on the necessity of it—on the utter misery and helplessness of man without it. This argument is in itself available for all the purposes of poetry: it appeals to the imagination and passions of man; it is capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs Hemans has gone through this range with great feeling and ability; and when she comes to the mind which has clothed itself in its own strength, and relying proudly on that alone in the hour of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the contest, she rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed:—

‘Oh, what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye,
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,’ etc.”]

SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION,

AN UNFINISHED POEM.

I.

Beings of brighter worlds! that rise at times
As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught,
In those brief visions of celestial climes
Which pass like sunbeams o’er the realms of thought,
Dwell ye around us?—are ye hovering nigh,
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air?
And in deep solitudes, where human eye
Can trace no step, Immortals! are ye there?
Oh! who can tell?—what power, but Death alone,
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown?

II.

But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers
Of Eden wither’d, when reveal’d ye shone
In all your brightness midst those holy bowers—
Holy, but not unfading, as your own!
While He, the child of that primeval soil,
With you its paths in high communion trode,
His glory yet undimm’d by guilt or toil,
And beaming in the image of his God,
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky,
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity.

III.

Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays,
Mingling their tones, from nature’s temple rose,
When nought but that majestic song of praise
Broke on the sanctity of night’s repose,
With music since unheard: and man might trace
By stream and vale, in deep embow’ring shade,
[Pg 115]
Devotion’s first and loveliest dwelling-place,
The footsteps of th’ Omnipotent, who made
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass’d.

IV.

Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven!
Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour,
When from his paradise the alien driven
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower,
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell
With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame,
And his first cry of misery was—“Farewell!”
His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot
Is still for happier lands to pine—and reach them not.

V.

Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld
Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep?
From all its founts the world of waters swell’d,
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep!
For He, to whom the elements are slaves,
In wrath unchain’d the oceans of the cloud,
And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves
Folded creation in their mighty shroud;
Then left the earth a solitude, o’erspread
With its own awful weeks—a desert of the dead.

VI.

But onward flow’d life’s busy course again,
And rolling ages with them bore away—
As to be lost amidst the boundless main,
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey—
The hallow’d lore of old—the guiding light
Left by tradition to the sons of earth,
And the blest memory of each sacred rite
Known in the region of their father’s birth,
When in each breeze around his fair abode
Whisper’d a seraph’s voice, or lived the breath of God.

VII.

Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day,
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast,
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray,
Catching brief splendour from the purple west?
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile
With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone;
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile,
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own,
Blending her rites with thine—while yet afar
Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star.

VIII.

Yet still one stream was pure—one sever’d shrine
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands;
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine,
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands.
There still the father to his child bequeath’d
The sacred torch of never-dying flame;
There still Devotion’s suppliant accents breathed
The One adored and everlasting Name;
And angel guests would linger and repose
Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose.

IX.

But far o’er earth the apostate wanderers bore
Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade,
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore,
In thrilling whispers to the soul convey’d
High inspiration: yet in every clime,
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought
With beings, in their essence more sublime,
To hold communion of mysterious thought;
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean,
And hear in every wind the accents of th’ Unseen.

X.

Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repose
On some protecting influence: here confined,
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes,
Earth is too narrow for th’ immortal mind.
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day,
As exiles panting for their native coast,
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way,
And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross’d.
Death hovers round us: in the zephyr’s sigh,
As in the storm, he comes—and lo! Eternity!

XI.

As one left lonely on the desert sands
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide,
He gazes as the pathless waste expands—
Around, beyond, interminably wide;
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom,
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky,
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume
The glistening Serab[145] which illudes his eye:
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown,
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown.

[Pg 116]

XII.

His thoughts explored the past—and where were they,
The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by?
He turn’d—a boundless void before him lay,
Wrapp’d in the shadows of futurity.
How knew the child of Nature that the flame
He felt within him struggling to ascend,
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame
Doom’d with the earth on which it moved, to blend?
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed,
If ’twere a Father’s love or Tyrant’s wrath decreed?

XIII.

Oh! marvel not if then he sought to trace
In all sublimities of sight and sound,
In rushing winds that wander through all space,
Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom embrown’d,
The oracles of Fate! or if the train
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep,
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer’s brain,
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep,
Were deem’d mysterious revelations, sent
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element.

XIV.

Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time,
Clothed with a deeper power?—earth’s wandering race,
Exploring realms of solitude sublime,
Not as we see, beheld her awful face!
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met
Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay
In savage pomp before them—all was yet
Silent and vast, but not as in decay;
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne,
Look’d o’er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, lone.

XV.

The forests in their dark luxuriance waved,
With all their swell of strange Æolian sound;
The fearful deep, sole region ne’er enslaved,
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round.
Then, brooding o’er the images, imprest
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye,
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast,
Midst dim remembrances of infancy,
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams,
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and streams.

XVI.

Then bled the victim—then in every shade
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine;
Fear bow’d before the phantoms she portray’d,
And Nature teem’d with many a mystic sign.
Meteors, and storms, and thunders! ye whose course
E’en yet is awful to th’ enlighten’d eye,
As, wildly rushing from your secret source,
Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high,
Then o’er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast,
And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass’d.

XVII.

But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning,
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky!
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning,
Would pierce the secrets of infinity—
To you the heart, bereft of other light,
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains,
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night,
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns,
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race
Of some unnumber’d orbs, that light the depths of space.

XVIII.

Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought,
Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored
The wide creation, and beholding nought
Like your eternal beauty, then adored
Its living splendours; deeming them inform’d
By natures temper’d with a holier fire—
Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm’d,
Who to the source of spirit might aspire,
And mortal prayers benignantly convey
To some presiding Power, more awful far than they.

XIX.

Guides o’er the desert and the deep! to you
The seaman turn’d, rejoicing at the helm,
When from the regions of empyreal blue
Ye pour’d soft radiance o’er the ocean-realm;
To you the dweller of the plains address’d
Vain prayers, that call’d the clouds and dews your own;
To you the shepherd, on the mountain’s crest,
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone,
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie
With your immortal host, and image back the sky.

XX.

Hail to the queen of heaven! her silvery crown
Serenely wearing, o’er her high domain
[Pg 117]
She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down,
As if to smile on her terrestrial reign.
Earth should be hush’d in slumber—but the night
Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread,
On hoary Lebanon’s umbrageous height
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed
To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades
Faintly as Nature’s light the ’wilder’d soul pervades.

XXI.

But when thine orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring,
Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme,
Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring
Beauty and life in each triumphant beam,
Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d!
What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire
Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled
The precious incense of each odorous pyre,
Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales,
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales.

XXII.

Yet not with Saba’s fragrant wealth alone,
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew’d;
For the dark children of the burning zone
Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew’d
With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene,
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view’d,
And though with glory mantled, and severe
In his own fulness of beatitude,
Yet mourn’d for those whose spirits from thy ray
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day.

XXIII.

But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers!
Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies,
And hold high converse, midst his native bowers,
With the once glorious son of Paradise,
Look’d ye from heaven in sadness! were your strains
Of choral praise suspended in dismay,
When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains
With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day?
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes.
While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice?

XXIV.

And well the powers of evil might rejoice,
When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry,
And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice,
The frantic mother bore her child to die!
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands
With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway,
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands,
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey.
Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale!
Well may the drum’s loud peal o’erpower an infant’s wail?

XXV.

A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose;
’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids,
Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows,
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades.
With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound,
Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns:
Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found—
To life and love the buried god returns!
Then wakes the timbrel—then the forests ring,
And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing!

XXVI.

But fill’d with holier joy the Persian stood,
In silent reverence, on the mountain’s brow,
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood
Of radiance burst around, above, below—
Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o’erflow’d
In worship of th’ Invisible, and praised
In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode
Of life, and power, and excellence—the throne
Where dwelt the Unapproach’d, resplendently alone.[146]

XXVII.

What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave
Mysterious sanctity to things which wear
Th’ Eternal’s impress?—if the living wave,
The circling heavens, the free and boundless air—
If the pure founts of everlasting flame,
Deep in his country’s hallow’d vales enshrined,
And the bright stars maintain’d a silent claim
To love and homage from his awe-struck mind?
Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream
Of uncreated Power, far, far o’er these supreme.

XXVIII.

And with that faith was conquest. He whose name
To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung—
[Pg 118]
He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung,
He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d,
Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast
Their ancient idols down before his way,
Who in majestic march, from shore to shore,
The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore.

[145] Serab, mirage.

[146] At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the following stanza was here inserted:—

“Nor rose the Magian’s hymn, sublimely swelling
In full-toned homage to the source of flame,
From fabric rear’d by man, the gorgeous dwelling
Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame.
Be rear’d no temple, bade no walls contain
The breath of incense or the voice of prayer;
But made the boundless universe his fane,
The rocks his altar-stone—adoring there
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades
All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.”

[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in death—Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:—“I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivanhoe did; and was something so perfectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of the poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.”

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition and Revelation, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park:—“I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. ‘Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,’ and in the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour of affliction—or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical; but the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude.”

Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustrations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries—the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job—to the still existing rites of the Hindoos—would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author’s time. The work was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published is all that remains of it, though the project was never distinctly abandoned.]


ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147]

THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.

FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”

[147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then conducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign literature, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which it is used to introduce.”—Memoir, p. 41.

Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts—they are present, and clothed with[Pg 119] life—before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these political poems—the object and purport of which are so different—the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself.

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revolution.

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character—he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse—and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body:—

“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes,
Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose;
Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed,
Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.
“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower,
And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour;
Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.
[Pg 120]
“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre,