The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Felicia Hemans This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 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 *** POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY’S STATIONERY OFFICE. [Illustration: _Felicia Hemans_] THE POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS. _COMPLETE COPYRIGHT EDITION._ WILLIAM P. NIMMO, LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND; AND EDINBURGH. 1875. CONTENTS JUVENILE POEMS. Page On my Mother’s Birthday. Written at the age of eight 1 A Prayer. Written at the age of nine _ib._ Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven _ib._ Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven 2 To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the age of eleven _ib._ Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve _ib._ Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen 3 Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen _ib._ Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen _ib._ England and Spain; or, Valour and Patriotism. Written at the age of fourteen 4 THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c. The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend 10 To my Mother 11 To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, after the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore and the battle of Corunna _ib._ To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal 12 Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith _ib._ The Ruin and its Flowers 13 Christmas Carol 14 The Domestic Affections 15 To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway 19 Epitaph on Mr W----, a celebrated Mineralogist 20 Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist _ib._ Prologue to _The Poor Gentleman_. As intended to be performed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at Clonmel 21 THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY 22 MODERN GREECE 28 Critical Annotations 42 TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. Sonnet 70 43 Sonnet 282 From Psalm 137 _ib._ Part of Eclogue 15 44 Sonnet 271 44 Sonnet 186 _ib._ Sonnet 108 44 Sonnet 23 To a Lady who died at Sea 45 Sonnet 19 _ib._ “Que estranho caso de amor!” _ib._ Sonnet 58 _ib._ Sonnet 178 _ib._ Sonnet 80 46 Sonnet 239 From Psalm 137 _ib._ Sonnet 128 _ib._ “Polomeu apartamento” _ib._ Sonnet 205 47 Sonnet 133 _ib._ Sonnet 181 _ib._ Sonnet 278 _ib._ “Mi nueve y dulce querella” _ib._ Metastasio.--“Dunque si sfoga in pianto” _ib._ -- “Al furor d’avversa Sorte” 48 -- “Quella onda che ruina” _ib._ -- “Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie” _ib._ -- “Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine” _ib._ -- “Parlagli d’un periglio” _ib._ -- “Sprezza il furor del vento” _ib._ -- “Sol può dir che sia contento” _ib._ -- “Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!” 49 Vincenzo da Filicaja.--“Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte” _ib._ Pastorini.--“Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio” _ib._ Lope de Vega.--“Estese el cortesano” _ib._ Francisco Manuel.--On ascending a Hill leading to a Convent _ib._ Della Casa.--Venice 50 Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio.--“L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso” _ib._ Quevedo.--Rome buried in her own Ruins _ib._ El conde Juan de Tarsis.--“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos”_ib._ Torquato Tasso.--“Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa” _ib._ Bernardo Tasso.--“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole” 51 Petrarch.--“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura” _ib._ -- “Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde” _ib._ Pietro Bembo.--“O Muerte! que sueles ser” _ib._ Francesco Lorenzini.--“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai” _ib._ Gesner.--Morning Song 52 German Song.--“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen” _ib._ Chaulieu.--“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau” _ib._ Garcilaso de Vega.--“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera” 52 Lorenzo de Medici.--Violets 53 Pindemonte.--On the Hebe of Canova _ib._ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore 54 Dirge of a Child _ib._ Invocation 55 To the Memory of General Sir E--D P--K--M _ib._ To the Memory of Sir H--Y E--LL--S, who fell in the battle of Waterloo 56 Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of the Spanish patriot Mina _ib._ The Aged Indian, _ib._ Evening amongst the Alps 57 Dirge of the Highland Chief in “Waverley” _ib._ The Crusaders’ War-Song 58 The Death of Clanronald _ib._ To the Eye 59 The Hero’s Death, _ib._ Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte _ib._ WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. 63 Advertisement by the Author, &c. _ib._ TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. The Abencerrage 67 The Widow of Crescentius 85 The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra 93 Alaric in Italy 95 The Wife of Asdrubal 97 Heliodorus in the Temple 98 Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi’s “Républiques Italiennes” 99 The Troubadour and Richard Cœur-de-Lion 101 The Death of Conradin 103 Critical Annotations 105 THE SCEPTIC 106 Critical Annotations 113 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION 114 ITALIAN LITERATURE. The Basvigliana of Monti 118 The Alcestis of Alfieri 121 Il Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandro Manzoni 125 Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti 133 PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. Vincenzo da Filicaja 138 Carlo Maria Maggi _ib._ Alessandro Marchetti _ib._ Alessandro Pegolotti _ib._ Francesco Maria de Conti.--The Shore of Africa _ib._ ---- Jeu-d’Esprit on the word “Barb” 139 The Fever-Dream _ib._ DARTMOOR 141 WELSH MELODIES. The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas 145 Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans _ib._ The Green Isles of Ocean 146 The Sea-Song of Gafran _ib._ The Hirlas Horn _ib._ The Hall of Cynddylan 147 The Lament of Llywarch Hen _ib._ Grufydd’s Feast 148 The Cambrian in America _ib._ Taliesin’s Prophecy _ib._ Owen Glyndwr’s War-Song 149 Prince Madoc’s Farewell _ib._ Caswallon’s Triumph 150 Howel’s Song _ib._ The Mountain Fires _ib._ Eryri Wen 151 Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. _ib._ The Dying Bard’s Prophecy 152 The Fair Isle. For the melody called the “Welsh Ground” _ib._ The Rock of Cader Idris _ib._ THE VESPERS OF PALERMO 153 Critical Annotations 186 ---- Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third 187 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. The Maremma 191 A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 194 The Caravan in the Deserts 210 Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 212 A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 213 Belshazzar’s Feast 219 The Last Constantine 221 Annotations on the Last Constantine 234 The League of the Alps; or, the Meeting of the Field of Grütli _ib._ SONGS OF THE CID. The Cid’s Departure into Exile 238 The Cid’s Deathbed _ib._ The Cid’s Funeral Procession 239 The Cid’s Rising 241 GREEK SONGS. The Storm of Delphi 241 The Bowl of Liberty 242 The Voice of Scio 243 The Spartans’ March _ib._ The Urn and Sword 244 The Myrtle Bough _ib._ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. On a Flower from the Field of Grütli 244 On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 245 The Chieftain’s Son _ib._ A Fragment _ib._ England’s Dead 246 The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eisteddvod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London, May 22, 1822 246 The Voice of Spring 247 Elysium 249 The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue 250 The Tombs of Platæa 251 The View from Castri _ib._ The Festal Hour 252 Song of the Battle of Morgarten 253 Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and his army in Africa. Translated from the Spanish of Herrera 254 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL 256 THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 262 Advertisement by the Author, _ib._ Critical Annotations 292 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 293 Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 294 The Cross of the South _ib._ The Sleeper of Marathon 295 To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday _ib._ Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same _ib._ To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 296 From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega _ib._ From the Italian of Sannazaro _ib._ Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. Translated from Camoens 297 A Dirge 298 TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE To Venus 298 To his Attendant _ib._ To Delius 299 To the Fountain of Bandusia _ib._ To Faunus _ib._ DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS 300 Critical Annotations 315 THE FOREST SANCTUARY 316 Critical Annotations 336 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. Moorish Bridal-Song 338 The Bird’s Release _ib._ The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 339 Valkyriur Song 340 The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition 341 Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle 342 The Messenger Bird 343 Answer to The Messenger Bird, by an American Quaker Lady _note_, _ib._ The Stranger in Louisiana _ib._ The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition 344 The Bended Bow 345 He never smiled again 346 Cœur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father _ib._ The Vassal’s Lament for the Fallen Tree 347 The Wild Huntsman 348 Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of La Motte Fouqué 348 The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 349 Ancient Greek Song of Exile _ib._ Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue _ib._ Greek Parting Song 351 The Suliote Mother 352 The Farewell to the Dead 353 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I go, Sweet Friends! 354 Angel Visits _ib._ Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the Rhine _ib._ To one of the Author’s children on his Birthday 355 On a Similar Occasion _ib._ Christ Stilling the Tempest _ib._ Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers 356 Monumental Inscription _ib._ The Sound of the Sea _ib._ The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey’s statue of Lady Louisa Russell 357 A Dirge _ib._ Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine _ib._ English Soldier’s Song of Memory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” 358 Haunted Ground _ib._ The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the Memoirs of John Hunter 359 Stanzas to the Memory of * * * 360 The Vaudois Valleys _ib._ Song of the Spanish Wanderer 361 The Contadina. Written for a Picture _ib._ Troubadour Song _ib._ The Treasures of the Deep _ib._ Bring Flowers 362 The Crusader’s Return 363 Thekla’s Song; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the German of Schiller 364 The Revellers _ib._ The Conqueror’s Sleep 365 Our Lady’s Well _ib._ The Parting of Summer 366 The Songs of our Fathers _ib._ The World in the Open Air 367 Kindred Hearts _ib._ The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 368 Casabianca 369 The Dial of Flowers _ib._ Our Daily Paths 370 The Cross in the Wilderness 371 Last Rites 372 The Hebrew Mother _ib._ The Wreck 373 The Trumpet 374 Evening Prayer at a Girls’ School _ib._ The Hour of Death 375 The Lost Pleiad _ib._ The Cliffs of Dover 376 The Graves of Martyrs _ib._ The Hour of Prayer 377 The Voice of Home to the Prodigal _ib._ The Wakening 378 The Breeze from Shore _ib._ The Dying Improvisatore 379 Music of Yesterday _ib._ The Forsaken Hearth 380 The Dreamer _ib._ The Wings of the Dove 381 Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 382 The Boon of Memory _ib._ Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 383 RECORDS OF WOMAN. Arabella Stuart 385 The Bride of the Greek Isle 388 The Bride’s Farewell 389 The Switzer’s Wife 391 Properzia Rossi 392 Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death 394 Imelda _ib._ Edith. A Tale of the Woods 396 The Indian City 398 The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 401 Indian Woman’s Death-Song 402 Joan of Arc in Rheims 403 Pauline 404 Juana 405 The American Forest Girl 406 Costanza 407 Madeline. A Domestic Tale 408 The Queen of Prussia’s Tomb 409 The Memorial Pillar 410 The Grave of a Poetess 411 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Homes of England 412 The Sicilian Captive _ib._ Ivan the Czar 413 Carolan’s Prophecy 414 The Lady of the Castle. From the “Portrait Gallery,” an unfinished poem 416 The Mourner for the Barmecides 417 The Spanish Chapel 418 The Kaiser’s Feast 419 Tasso and his Sister 420 Ulla; or, The Adjuration 421 To Wordsworth 422 A Monarch’s Death-bed 423 To the Memory of Heber _ib._ The Adopted Child _ib._ Invocation 424 Körner and his Sister _ib._ The Death-Day of Körner 425 An Hour of Romance 427 A Voyager’s Dream of Land _ib._ The Effigies 428 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England 429 The Spirit’s Mysteries _ib._ The Departed 430 The Palm-Tree _ib._ The Child’s Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument of Chantrey’s 431 The Sunbeam _ib._ Breathings of Spring 432 The Illuminated City _ib._ The Spells of Home 433 Roman Girl’s Song _ib._ The Distant Ship 434 The Birds of Passage _ib._ The Graves of a Household 435 Mozart’s Requiem _ib._ The Image in Lava 436 Christmas Carol 437 A Father Reading the Bible _ib._ The Meeting of the Brothers _ib._ The Last Wish 438 Fairy Favours 439 Critical Annotations 440 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. A Spirit’s Return 442 The Lady of Provence 446 The Coronation of Inez de Castro 448 Italian Girl’s Hymn to the Virgin 449 To a Departed Spirit _ib._ The Chamois Hunter’s Love 450 The Indian with his Dead Child _ib._ Song of Emigration 451 The King of Arragon’s Lament for his Brother 452 The Return 453 The Vaudois Wife _ib._ The Guerilla Leader’s Vow 454 Thekla at her Lover’s Grave 455 The Sisters of Scio _ib._ Bernardo del Carpio 456 The Tomb of Madame Langhans 457 The Exile’s Dirge _ib._ The Dreaming Child 458 The Charmed Picture _ib._ Parting Words 459 The Message to the Dead _ib._ The Two Homes 460 The Soldier’s Death-bed 461 The Image in the Heart _ib._ The Land of Dreams 462 Woman on the Field of Battle _ib._ The Deserted House 463 The Stranger’s Heart 464 To a Remembered Picture _ib._ Come Home 465 The Fountain of Oblivion _ib._ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Bridal-Day 466 The Ancestral Song 467 The Magic Glass 468 Corinne at the Capitol 469 The Ruin _ib._ The Minster 470 The Song of Night 471 The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon _ib._ The Two Voices 472 The Parting Ship 473 The Last Tree of the Forest _ib._ The Streams 474 The Voice of the Wind 475 The Vigil of Arms 476 The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey _ib._ Nature’s Farewell 477 The Beings of the Mind _ib._ The Lyre’s Lament 478 Tasso’s Coronation 479 The Better Land _ib._ The Wounded Eagle 480 Sadness and Mirth _ib._ The Nightingale’s Death-Song 481 The Diver _ib._ The Requiem of Genius 482 Triumphant Music 483 Second-Sight _ib._ The Sea-Bird flying inland 484 The Sleeper _ib._ The Mirror in the Deserted Hall _ib._ To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet 485 The Star of the Mine _ib._ Washington’s Statue. Sent from England to America _ib._ A Thought of Home at Sea 486 To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law _ib._ To an Orphan _ib._ Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother 487 Where is the Sea? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile _ib._ To my own Portrait _ib._ No More 488 Passing Away 489 The Angler _ib._ Death and the Warrior 490 Song. For an air by Hummel _ib._ To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl, who died in the cause and lamented by the people of Greece _ib._ The Broken Chain 491 The Shadow of a Flower _ib._ Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull _ib._ The Bell at Sea 492 The Subterranean Stream _ib._ The Silent Multitude 493 The Antique Sepulchre _ib._ Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 494 The Memory of the Dead _ib._ He walked with God 495 The Rod of Aaron _ib._ The Voice of God _ib._ The Fountain of Marah 496 The Penitent’s Offering _ib._ The Sculptured Children _ib._ Woman and Fame 497 A Thought of the Future 498 The Voice of Music _ib._ The Angel’s Greeting 499 A Farewell to Wales _ib._ Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on receiving from her some Flowers when confined by illness _ib._ A Parting Song 500 We return no more _ib._ To a Wandering Female Singer 501 Lights and Shades _ib._ The Palmer _ib._ The Child’s First Grief 502 To the New-Born _ib._ The Death-Song of Alcestis _ib._ The Home of Love 503 Books and Flowers 504 For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels 505 The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a picture of Eastlake’s 506 The Child’s Return from the Woodlands 506 The Faith of Love 507 The Sister’s Dream, _ib._ A Farewell to Abbotsford 508 O’Connor’s Child _ib._ The Prayer for Life 509 The Welcome to Death _ib._ The Victor 510 Lines written for the Album at Rosanna _ib._ The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene of a recent Shipwreck 511 The Haunted House _ib._ The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps 512 To the Mountain-Winds 514 The Procession 515 The Broken Lute _ib._ The Burial in the Desert 516 To a Picture of the Madonna 517 A Thought of the Rose 518 Dreams of Heaven _ib._ The Wish 519 Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the county of Kilkenny _ib._ Epitaph 520 Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco _ib._ To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist _ib._ O ye Hours! _ib._ The Freed Bird 521 Marguerite of France _ib._ The Wanderer 523 The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland _ib._ To Caroline 524 The Flower of the Desert _ib._ Critical Annotations _ib._ HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. Introductory Verses 528 The Rainbow 529 The Sun _ib._ The Rivers _ib._ The Stars 530 The Ocean _ib._ The Thunder-storm 531 The Birds _ib._ The Skylark. Child’s Morning Hymn 532 The Nightingale. Child’s Evening Hymn _ib._ The Northern Spring 533 Paraphrase of Psalm 148 _ib._ NATIONAL LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. NATIONAL LYRICS. The Themes of Song 534 Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. To the air of “Am Rhein! Am Rhein!” _ib._ A Song of Delos 535 Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 536 Naples. A Song of the Syren _ib._ The Fall of D’Assas. A Ballad of France 537 The Burial of William the Conqueror _ib._ SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. Near thee! still near thee! 538 Oh! Droop thou not _ib._ SONGS OF SPAIN. Ancient Battle-Song 539 The Zegri Maid _ib._ The Rio Verde Song _ib._ Seek by the Silvery Darro 540 Spanish Evening Hymn _ib._ Bird that art Singing on Ebro’s Side! _ib._ Moorish Gathering-Song _ib._ The Song of Mina’s Soldiers 541 Mother! Oh, sing me to rest _ib._ There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles _ib._ SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. And I too in Arcadia 541 The Wandering Wind 542 Ye are not miss’d, fair Flowers! _ib._ The Willow Song _ib._ Leave me not yet 543 The Orange Bough _ib._ The Stream set Free _ib._ The Summer’s Call _ib._ Oh! Skylark, for thy Wing! 544 SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. Introduction 545 The Brother’s Dirge _ib._ The Alpine Horn _ib._ O ye Voices! _ib._ I Dream of all things Free 546 Far o’er the Sea _ib._ The Invocation _ib._ The Song of Hope _ib._ MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. The Call to Battle 547 Mignon’s Song. Translated from Goethe _ib._ The Sisters. A Ballad 548 The Last Song of Sappho 549 Dirge _ib._ A Song of the Rose 550 Night-Blowing Flowers 551 The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers _ib._ Echo-Song _ib._ The Muffled Drum 552 The Swan and the Skylark _ib._ The Curfew-Song of England 553 Genius Singing to Love 554 Music at a Deathbed _ib._ Marshal Schwerin’s Grave 555 The Fallen Lime-Tree _ib._ The Bird at Sea 556 The Dying Girl and Flowers _ib._ The Ivy-Song 557 The Music of St Patrick’s _ib._ Keene; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son Far Away 558 The Lyre and Flower 559 Sister! since I met thee last _ib._ The Lonely Bird _ib._ Dirge at Sea _ib._ Pilgrim’s Song to the Evening Star 560 The Meeting of the Ships _ib._ Come Away _ib._ Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 561 Music from Shore _ib._ Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 561 If thou hast crush’d a flower 562 Brightly hast thou fled _ib._ The Bed of Heath _ib._ Fairy Song _ib._ What Woke the Buried Sound 563 Sing to me, Gondolier! _ib._ Look on me thus no more _ib._ O’er the far blue Mountains _ib._ O thou Breeze of Spring! _ib._ Come to me, Dreams of Heaven! 564 Good-Night _ib._ Let her Depart _ib._ How can that Love so deep, so lone 565 Water-Lilies. A Fairy Song _ib._ The Broken Flower _ib._ I would we had not met again _ib._ Fairies’ Recall _ib._ The Rock beside the Sea 566 O ye Voices gone! _ib._ By a Mountain-Stream at rest _ib._ Is there some Spirit sighing _ib._ The Name of England 567 Old Norway. A Mountain War-song _ib._ Come to me, Gentle Sleep! _ib._ SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. Preface 568 The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen Mary _ib._ Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 572 Cathedral Hymn 574 Wood Walk and Hymn 576 Prayer of the Lonely Student 577 The Traveller’s Evening Song 579 Burial of an Emigrant’s Child in the Forests _ib._ Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard 581 The Child Reading the Bible 583 A Poet’s Dying Hymn _ib._ The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott 585 The Prayer in the Wilderness 586 Prisoners’ Evening Service. A Scene of the French Revolution 587 Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Persecution 588 Prayer at Sea after Victory 589 The Indian’s Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moravian Missionary 590 Evening Song of the Weary 592 The Day of Flowers _ib._ Hymn of the Traveller’s Household on his Return--in the Olden Time 594 The Painter’s Last Work 595 A Prayer of Affection 596 Mother’s Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child _ib._ Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody by Felton 597 SONNETS. FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. Invocation _ib._ Invocation continued _ib._ The Song of Miriam 598 Ruth 598 The Vigil of Rizpah _ib._ The Reply of the Shunamite Woman _ib._ The Annunciation _ib._ The Song of the Virgin 599 The Penitent anointing Christ’s Feet _ib._ Mary at the Feet of Christ _ib._ The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus _ib._ The Memorial of Mary 599 The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross _ib._ Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 600 Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection _ib._ SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. The Sacred Harp 600 To a Family Bible _ib._ Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture _ib._ Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers 601 On a Remembered Picture of Christ--an Ecce Homo by Leonardo da Vinci _ib._ The Children whom Jesus Blessed _ib._ Mountain Sanctuaries _ib._ The Lilies of the Field _ib._ The Birds of the Air 602 The Raising of the Widow’s Son _ib._ The Olive Tree _ib._ The Darkness of the Crucifixion _ib._ Places of Worship _ib._ Old Church in an English Park 603 A Church in North Wales _ib._ Louise Schepler _ib._ To the Same _ib._ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Two Monuments 604 The Cottage Girl _ib._ The Battle-Field 605 A Penitent’s Return _ib._ A Thought of Paradise 606 Let us Depart _ib._ On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross--painted by Velasquez 607 Communings with Thought _ib._ The Water-Lily 608 The Song of Penitence. Unfinished 609 Troubadour Song _ib._ The English Boy _ib._ To the Blue Anemone 610 SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. Scenes from “Tasso” 611 Scenes from “Iphigenia.” A Fragment 616 RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. A Vernal Thought 617 To the Sky _ib._ On Records of Immature Genius _ib._ On Watching the Flight of a Skylark 618 A Thought of the Sea _ib._ Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening _ib._ The River Clwyd in North Wales _ib._ Orchard-Blossoms 619 To a Distant Scene _ib._ A Remembrance of Grasmere _ib._ Thoughts connected with Trees _ib._ The Same _ib._ On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 620 A Thought at Sunset _ib._ Images of Patriarchal Life _ib._ Attraction of the East _ib._ To an Aged Friend 620 A Happy Hour 621 Foliage _ib._ A Prayer _ib._ Prayer continued _ib._ Memorial of a Conversation 622 RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. The Return to Poetry 622 To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his “Prigione” _ib._ To the Same released _ib._ On a Scene in the Dargle 623 On the Datura Arborea _ib._ On Reading Coleridge’s Epitaph _ib._ Design and Performance _ib._ Hope of Future Communion with Nature _ib._ Dreams of the Dead 624 The Poetry of the Psalms _ib._ Despondency and Aspiration _ib._ The Huguenot’s Farewell 626 Antique Greek Lament 627 THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. Intellectual Powers 627 Sickness like Night _ib._ On Retzsch’s Design of the Angel of Death _ib._ Remembrance of Nature _ib._ Flight of the Spirit _ib._ Flowers _ib._ Recovery 629 Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few days before her death _ib._ ---- Appendix 630 Index 642 Index to first lines 647 CHRONOLOGY OF MRS HEMANS’ LIFE AND WORKS 1793. Felicia Dorothea Browne, born at Liverpool, Sept 25. 1800, (æt. 7.) Removes with family from Liverpool to Gwrych, near Abergele, Denbighshire.--Shortly afterwards composes Lines on her Mother’s Birthday. 1804, (11.) Spends winter in London.--Writes thence letter in rhyme to brother and sister in Wales. 1808, (15.) Collection of poems printed in 4to.--England and Spain written.--Becomes acquainted with Captain Hemans. 1809, (16.) Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire.--Pursues her studies in French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.--Acquires the elements of German; and shows a taste for drawing and music. 1812, (19.) Domestic Affections and other poems published.--Marries Captain Hemans.--Takes up residence at Daventry, Northamptonshire. 1813, (20.) Son Arthur born.--Returns to Bronwylfa. 1816, (23.) Publishes Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy; also Modern Greece. 1818, (25.) Makes Translations from Camoens and others.--Publishes Stanzas on the Death of Princess Charlotte, (_Blackwood’s Magazine_, April.) 1819, (26.) Tales and Historic Scenes published.--Gains prize for best poem on the Meeting of Wallace and Bruce.--Captain Hemans takes up residence in Italy.--Family consists of five sons. 1820, (27.) Publishes poem of Sceptic.--Becomes acquainted with Bishop Heber and his brother Richard.--Corresponds with Mr Gifford.--Contributes papers on Foreign Literature to _Edinburgh Magazine_.--Publishes Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third.--Visits Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool, (October.) 1821, (28.) Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by Royal Society of Literature.--Corresponds with Rev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly.--Writes Vespers of Palermo.--Extends her German studies. Writes Welsh Melodies. 1822, (29.) Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written;--also dramatic fragment of Don Sebastian. 1823, (30.) Contributes to Thomas Campbell’s _New Monthly Magazine_.--Voice of Spring written, (March.)--Siege of Valencia published, along with Last Constantine and Belshazzar’s Feast.--Vespers of Palermo performed at Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.) 1824, (31.) Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which unfortunately lost.--Writes Lays of Many Lands.--Removes with family from Bronwylfa to Rhyllon. 1825, (32.) Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, The Hour of Death, Graves of a Household, The Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her best lyrics written. 1826, (33.) The Forest Sanctuary published, together with Lays of Many Lands.--Commences correspondence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S., who republishes her works there. 1827, (34.) Mrs Hemans loses her mother (11th January.)--Writes Hymns for Childhood, which are first published in America.--Corresponds with Joanna Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline Bowles, Mary Howitt, and M. J. Jewsbury.--Writes Körner to his Sister, Homes of England, An Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many other lyrics.--Health becomes impaired. 1828, (35.) Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, and collected Miscellanies, (May.)--Contributes regularly to _Blackwood’s Magazine_.--Visits Wavertree Lodge early in summer.--Removes to village of Wavertree with family in September. 1829, (36.) Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering Female Singer, The Child’s First Grief, The Better Land, and Miscellanies.--Voyages to Scotland, (June,) and visits Mr Henry M’Kenzie, Rev. Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Captain Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other distinguished literati.--Returns to England, (Sept.)--A Spirit’s Return composed. 1830, (37.) Songs of the Affections published.--Visits the Lakes and Mr Wordsworth.--Domiciles during part of summer at Dove’s Nest, near Ambleside.--Revisits Scotland, (Aug.)--Returns by Dublin and Holyhead to Wales. 1831, (38.) State of health delicate.--Quits England for last time, (April,) and proceeds to Dublin.--Visits the Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and Woodstock.--Returns to Dublin, (Aug.)--Writes various lyrics. 1832, (39.) Health continues greatly impaired.--Writes Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs of Spain, and Songs of a Guardian Spirit. 1833, (40.) Feels recruited during spring.--Writes Songs of Captivity, Songs for Summer Hours, and many of Scenes and Hymns of Life.--Composes Sonnets Devotional and Memorial.--Commences translation of Scenes and Passages from German Authors, (December.) 1834, (41.) Hymns for Childhood published (March;) also National Lyrics and Songs for Music.--Paper on Tasso, published in _New Monthly Magazine_, (May.)--Writes Fragment of Paper on Iphigenia.--Records of Spring 1834 written, (April, May, June.)--Is seized with fever; during convalescence retires into county of Wicklow.--Returns to Dublin in autumn, and has attack of ague.--Composes Records of Autumn 1834.--Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and Nov.)--The Huguenot’s Farewell and Antique Greek Lament, (Nov.)--Thoughts during Sickness written, (Nov. and Dec.)--Retires during convalescence to Redesdale, a country-seat of the Archbishop of Dublin. 1835, (42.) Returns to Dublin, (March.)--Debility gradually increases.--Corresponds regarding Sir Robert Peel’s appointment of her son Henry.--Dictates Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.)--Departs this life, (16th May.)--Remains interred in vault beneath St Anne’s Church, Dublin. THE POETICAL WORKS OF MRS HEMANS JUVENILE POEMS ON MY MOTHER’S BIRTHDAY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT. Clad in all their brightest green, This day the verdant fields are seen; The tuneful birds begin their lay, To celebrate thy natal day. The breeze is still, the sea is calm, And the whole scene combines to charm; The flowers revive, this charming May, Because it is thy natal day. The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day. A PRAYER. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE. O God! my Father and my Friend, Ever thy blessings to me send; Let me have Virtue for my guide, And Wisdom always at my side. Thus cheerfully through life I’ll go, Nor ever feel the sting of woe; Contented with the humblest lot-- Happy, though in the meanest cot. ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise.” O Author of the rich luxuriant year! Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep, And e’en hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub’s note; To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. ’Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy,--heaven’s immortal King! Yet to that happiness I’d fain aspire-- Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire: With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o’er my lyre, And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire!” And when to Thee my youth, my life, I’ve given, Raise me to join Eliza,[1] blest in Heaven. [1] A sister whom the author had lost. SHAKSPEARE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. [One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own--a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree--where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm.--_Memoir of Mrs Hemans by her Sister_, p. 6, 7.] I love to rove o’er history’s page, Recall the hero and the sage; Revive the actions of the dead, And memory of ages fled: Yet it yields me greater pleasure, To read the poet’s pleasing measure. Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, The bosom’s energies are fired; We learn to shed the generous tear, O’er poor Ophelia’s sacred bier; To love the merry moonlit scene, With fairy elves in valleys green; Or, borne on fancy’s heavenly wings, To listen while sweet Ariel sings. How sweet the “native woodnotes wild” Of him, the Muse’s favourite child! Of him whose magic lays impart Each various feeling to the heart! TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE COUNTRY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. [At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite rural haunts and amusements--the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme.--_Mem._ p. 8, 9.] Happy soon we’ll meet again, Free from sorrow, care, and pain; Soon again we’ll rise with dawn, To roam the verdant dewy lawn; Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail, Or wander through the well-known vale; Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers; And sport away the light-wing’d hours. Soon we’ll run the agile race; Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;-- Through the wheat-field or the grove, We’ll hand in hand delighted rove; Or, beneath some spreading oak, Ponder the instructive book; Or view the ships that swiftly glide, Floating on the peaceful tide; Or raise again the caroll’d lay; Or join again in mirthful play; Or listen to the humming bees, As their murmurs swell the breeze; Or seek the primrose where it springs; Or chase the fly with painted wings; Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade; Or mark the tender shooting blade: Or stray beside the babbling stream, When Luna sheds her placid beam; Or gaze upon the glassy sea---- Happy, happy shall we be! SONNET TO MY MOTHER. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE. To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, I pour the genuine numbers free from art-- The lays inspired by gratitude and truth; For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart. Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, With fond endearments to impart relief: Be mine thy warm affection to repay With duteous love in thy declining hours; My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, Perennial roses, to adorn thy way: Still may thy grateful children round thee smile-- Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile. SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. ’Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest May hover round the virtuous man’s repose; And oft in visions animate his breast, And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, And whisper to his bosom hallow’d peace. Ah, tender thought! that oft with sweet relief May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, And pensive pleasure with devotion blend; While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, The airy lay of some departed saint. RURAL WALKS. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. Oh! may I ever pass my happy hours In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers; For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. And much I love to hail the vernal morn, When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn; And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, To cull the tender rosebuds in my way; And seek in every wild secluded dell, The weeping cowslip and the azure bell; With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, To form the gay festoon of varied hue. And oft I seek the cultivated green, The fertile meadow, and the village scene; Where rosy children sport around the cot, Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. And there I wander by the cheerful rill, That murmurs near the osiers and the mill; To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, And listen to their pleasing festive lay. I love to loiter in the spreading grove, Or in the mountain scenery to rove; Where summits rise in awful grace around, With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown’d; Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, “And frown upon the vale” with grandeur wild: And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, Array’d in all the blending shades of Time. The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane; “And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast.” SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. [In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste,[2] and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils attendant upon the career of an author;--though it may here be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unexpected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.] I love to hail the mild and balmy hour When evening spreads around her twilight veil. When dews descend on every languid flower, And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, While o’er the wave the breezes lightly play; To hear the waters murmur as they glide, To mark the fading smile of closing day. There let me linger, blest in visions dear, Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy’s ear, Of airy music floating on the breeze. For still when evening sheds the genial dews, That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. [2] The criticism referred to, and which, considering the circumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows: --“We hear that these poems are the ‘genuine productions of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thirteen years,’ and we do not feel inclined to question the intelligence; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have ‘children dear,’ yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention. Many of Miss Browne’s compositions are extremely _jejune_. However, though Miss Browne’s poems contain some erroneous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the ‘Reflections in a ruined Castle,’ and the poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ‘Patriotism’ contain good thoughts and forcible images; and if the youthful author were to content herself for some years with reading instead of writing, we should open any future work from her pen with an expectation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publication; though we must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before the oak.”--_Monthly Review_, 1809. ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. ----“His sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country’s cause.”--Pope. [New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike themes; and trumpets and banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned paramount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involuntarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, “The Cid Ruy Diaz,” the Campeador. Under the inspiration of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled “England and Spain,” which was published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of fourteen; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it.--_Memoir_, p. 10, 11.] Too long have Tyranny and Power combined To sway, with iron sceptre, o’er mankind; Long has Oppression worn th’ imperial robe, And Rapine’s sword has wasted half the globe! O’er Europe’s cultured realms, and climes afar, Triumphant Gaul has pour’d the tide of war: To her fair Austria veil’d the standard bright; Ausonia’s lovely plains have own’d her might; While Prussia’s eagle, never taught to yield, Forsook her towering height on Jena’s field! O gallant Frederic! could thy parted shade Have seen thy country vanquish’d and betray’d, How had thy soul indignant mourn’d her shame, Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish’d fame! When Valour wept lamented Brunswick’s doom, And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb; When Prussia, drooping o’er her hero’s grave, Invoked his spirit to descend and save; Then set her glories--then expired her sun, And fraud achieved e’en more than conquest won! O’er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay, Has desolation spread her ample sway; Thy blast, O Ruin! on tremendous wings, Has proudly swept o’er empires, nations, kings. Thus the wild hurricane’s impetuous force With dark destruction marks its whelming course, Despoils the woodland’s pomp, the blooming plain, Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train! --Rise, Freedom, rise! and, breaking from thy trance, Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance! With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, And call thy champions to defend thy laws! How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain? How long shall despots and usurpers reign? Is honour’s lofty soul for ever fled! Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead? Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell, No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell? Yes, Freedom! yes! thy sons, a noble band, Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand; Once more, ’tis thine, invincible to wield The beamy spear and adamantine shield! Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes; Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer’d fires, Thy look sublime the warrior’s heart inspires; And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, Lo! Britain’s generous host their aid supply, Resolved for thee to triumph or to die; And Glory smiles to see Iberia’s name Enroll’d with Albion’s in the book of fame! Illustrious names! still, still united beam, Be still the hero’s boast, the poet’s theme: So, when two radiant gems together shine, And in one wreath their lucid light combine; Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays, Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. Descend, O Genius! from thy orb descend! Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend! As Memnon’s harp (so ancient fables say) With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, And swell a louder note, a nobler tone; Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye; Steal from the source of day empyreal fire, And breathe the soul of rapture o’er the lyre! Hail, Albion! hail, thou land of freedom’s birth! Pride of the main, and Phœnix of the earth! Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel! Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave, Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave; In classic elegance and arts divine, To rival Athens’ fairest palm is thine; For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly, And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky, Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime To other worlds beyond the sphere of time! Hail, Albion, hail! to thee has fate denied Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan’s pride, The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast, And all the wealth of Montezuma’s coast: For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine, No glowing suns mature the blushing vine; No light Arabian gales their wings expand, To waft Sabæan incense o’er the land; No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils; Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, And far from thee the scented cassia blows: Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own; From Lapland’s shore to Afric’s fervid reign, She bids thy ensigns float above the main; Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale, And shows to other worlds her daring sail: Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee, Queen of the trident! empress of the sea! For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, And bade the zones resound with Britain’s arms! Calpè’s proud rock, and Syria’s palmy shore, Have heard and trembled at their battle’s roar; The sacred waves of fertilising Nile Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle; For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war Has roll’d o’er Vincent’s cape and Trafalgar! Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder’s sound, And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown’d-- Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main! The milder emblems of the virtues calm-- The poet’s verdant bay, the sage’s palm-- These in thy laurel’s blooming foliage twine, And round thy brows a deathless wreath combine: Not Mincio’s banks, nor Meles’ classic tide, Are hallow’d more than Avon’s haunted side; Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber’s stream. Bright in the annals of th’ impartial page, Britannia’s heroes live from age to age! From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race, Her painted natives, foremost in the chase, Free from all cares for luxury or gain, Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain; To these Augustan days, when social arts Refine and meliorate her manly hearts; From doubtful Arthur--hero of romance, King of the circled board, the spear, the lance-- To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, The gallant victors of Vimeira’s field; Still have her warriors borne th’ unfading crown And made the British flag the ensign of renown. Spirit of Alfred! patriot soul sublime! Thou morning-star of error’s darkest time! Prince of the Lion-heart! whose arm in fight, On Syria’s plains repell’d Saladin’s might! Edward! for bright heroic deeds revered, By Cressy’s fame to Britain still endear’d! Triumphant Henry! thou, whose valour proud, The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow’d! Look down, look down, exalted shades! and view Your Albion still to freedom’s banner true! Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, Supreme in glory, and of spotless name: And, as the pyramid indignant rears Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years; See her secure in pride of virtue tower, While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power! Lo! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, Bold Victory hovers near, “with eyes of fire!” While Lusitania hails, with just applause, The brave defenders of her injured cause; Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, And swells th’ exulting pæan to the skies! And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, Breathed to their cherish’d realms a sad farewell! Who, as the vessel bore them o’er the tide, Still fondly linger’d on its deck, and sigh’d; Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, And the blue distance melted into light-- The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia’s hate To fly for refuge in a foreign state-- They, soon returning o’er the western main, Ere long may view their clime beloved again: And as the blazing pillar led the host Of faithful Israel o’er the desert coast, So may Britannia guide the noble band O’er the wild ocean to their native land. O glorious isle!--O sovereign of the waves! Thine are the sons who “never will be slaves!” See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, And rend the laurels of insulting France; To brave Castile their potent aid supply, And wave, O Freedom! wave thy sword on high! Is there no bard of heavenly power possess’d To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast? Like Shakspeare o’er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow’d fire, To wake the chords of Ossian’s magic lyre; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot’s name to ages might consign? Rise, Inspiration! rise! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam! Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture’s hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, And pour impassion’d fervour o’er the soul! Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, Brought by a cherub from th’ empyrean heaven! Ah, fruitless wish! ah, prayer preferr’d in vain, For her--the humblest of the woodland train; Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise The hymn of liberty, the song of praise! Iberian bands! whose noble ardour glows To pour confusion on oppressive foes; Intrepid spirits, hail! ’tis yours to feel The hero’s fire, the freeman’s godlike zeal! Not to secure dominion’s boundless reign, Ye wave the flag of conquest o’er the slain; No cruel rapine leads you to the war, Nor mad ambition, whirl’d in crimson car. No, brave Castilians! yours a nobler end, Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend! For these, for these, your valiant legions rear The floating standard, and the lofty spear! The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, Fired by the image of the maid adored! His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid, The father’s hand unsheaths the glittering blade! For each, for all, for ev’ry sacred right, The daring patriot mingles in the fight! And e’en if love or friendship fail to warm, His country’s name alone can nerve his dauntless arm! He bleeds! he falls! his deathbed is the field! His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield! His closing eyes the beam of valour speak, The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek; Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, Then for his country breathes a prayer--and dies! Oh! ever hallow’d be his verdant grave-- There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave! Thou, lovely Spring! bestow, to grace his tomb, Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom; There let the tears of heaven descend in balm, There let the poet consecrate his palm! Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground, And shades of sainted heroes watch around! ’Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, Thy chief, O Thebes! at Mantinea fell; Smiled undismay’d within the arms of death, While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath! O thou, the sovereign of the noble soul! Thou source of energies beyond control! Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, Whose sons unconquer’d fight, undaunted bleed,-- Inspiring Liberty! thy worshipp’d name The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame; Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, Where ne’er a flower expands, a zephyr blows; Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign; Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove The green savannas and the spicy grove; Scent the rich balm of India’s perfumed gales, In citron-woods and aromatic vales: For oh! fair Liberty, when thou art near, Elysium blossoms in the desert drear! Where’er thy smile its magic power bestows, There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows; The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, And every chord to swelling transport lives; There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace; With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms, And calls from stone expression’s breathing forms. Thus, where the fruitful Nile o’erflows its bound, Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, Bid Ceres laugh o’er waste and sterile sands, And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. Immortal Freedom! daughter of the skies! To thee shall Britain’s grateful incense rise. Ne’er, goddess! ne’er forsake thy favourite isle, Still be thy Albion brighten’d with thy smile! Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, While proudly triumph’d thine insulting foes; Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo’s light, Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight: Once more we see thy kindling soul return, Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn; Lo! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives, Lo! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives! Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band! Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. Though myriads flashing in the eye of day Stream’d o’er the smiling land in long array, Though tyrant Asia pour’d unnumber’d foes, Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose;-- For every state in sacred union stood, Strong to repel invasion’s whelming flood; Each heart was glowing in the general cause, Each hand prepared to guard their hallow’d laws; Athenian valour join’d Laconia’s might, And but contended to be first in fight; From rank to rank the warm contagion ran, And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. Then Persia’s monarch mourn’d his glories lost, As wild confusion wing’d his flying host; Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung! Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record The high achievements of the conquering sword. Thus, brave Castilians! thus may bright renown And fair success your valiant efforts crown! Genius of chivalry! whose early days Tradition still recounts in artless lays; Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls-- The floating banners and the lofty halls, The gallant feats thy festivals display’d, The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade; Whose ancient pride Romance delights to hail, In fabling numbers, or heroic tale: Those times are fled, when stern thy castles frown’d, Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown’d; Those times are fled, when fair Iberia’s clime Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime; And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore, Live but in legends wild, and poet’s lore. Lo! where thy silent harp neglected lies, Light o’er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs; Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung, The choral voice of mirth and music rung; Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone, Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan: Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone, Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown; Genius of chivalry! thy noble train, Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain! Fair truth, array’d in robes of spotless white, Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light; Warm emulation, with aspiring aim, Still darting forward to the wreath of fame; And purest love, that waves his torch divine, At awful honour’s consecrated shrine; Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance; And generous courage, resting on his lance; And loyalty, by perils unsubdued; Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude; And patriot energy, with heart of flame-- These, in Iberia’s sons are yet the same! These from remotest days their souls have fired, “Nerved every arm,” and every breast inspired! When Moorish bands their suffering land possess’d, And fierce oppression rear’d her giant crest, The wealthy caliphs on Cordova’s throne In eastern gems and purple splendour shone; Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied With stately Bagdat’s oriental pride; Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array’d, Where arts and luxury their charms display’d; ’Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar’s costly towers, Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers; There all Arabian fiction e’er could tell Of potent genii or of wizard spell-- All that a poet’s dream could picture bright, One sweet Elysium, charm’d the wondering sight! Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand, It seem’d an Eden from Armida’s wand! Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state, When freedom waved on high the sword of fate! When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear, Stem retribution frowning on his spear; And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, O’erwhelm’d with shame, confess’d the Christian’s might. In later times the gallant Cid arose, Burning with zeal against his country’s foes; His victor-arm Alphonso’s throne maintain’d, His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain’d! And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, Inspiring theme of patriotic verse! High in the temple of recording fame, Iberia points to great Gonsalvo’s name! Victorious chief! whose valour still defied The arms of Gaul, and bow’d her crested pride; With splendid trophies graced his sovereign’s throne, And bade Granada’s realms his prowess own. Nor were his deeds thy only boast, O Spain! In mighty Ferdinand’s illustrious reign; ’Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, Unfurl’d his flag before the eastern gale; Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. Fair science guided o’er the liquid realm, Sweet hope, exulting, steer’d the daring helm; While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye, Courageous enterprise still hover’d nigh: The hoary genius of th’ Atlantic main Saw man invade his wide majestic reign-- His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, The throne, the world of awful solitude. And e’en when shipwreck seem’d to rear his form, And dark destruction menaced in the storm; In every shape when giant-peril rose, To daunt his spirit and his course oppose; O’er ev’ry heart when terror sway’d alone, And hope forsook each bosom but his own: Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell’d, His glorious track the gallant sailor held; Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave, Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep, With dauntless prow explored th’ untravell’d deep; Thus, at the helm, Ulysses’ watchful sight View’d ev’ry star and planetary light. Sublime Columbus! when, at length descried, The long-sought land arose above the tide, How every heart with exultation glow’d, How from each eye the tear of transport flow’d! Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew When Canaan’s fertile plains appear’d in view. Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze, Then martial music floated o’er the seas; Their waving streamers to the sun display’d, In all the pride of warlike pomp array’d. Advancing nearer still, the ardent band Hail’d the glad shore, and bless’d the stranger land; Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair, With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air: Then crowded round its free and simple race, Amazement pictured wild on every face; Who deem’d that beings of celestial birth, Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth. Then first another world, another sky, Beheld Iberia’s banner blaze on high! Still prouder glories beam on history’s page, Imperial Charles! to mark thy prosperous age Those golden days of arts and fancy bright, When Science pour’d her mild, refulgent light; When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe Creative Sculpture claim’d the living wreath; When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers, Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers; When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine, The clouds that veil’d religion’s hallow’d shrine Those golden days beheld Iberia tower High on the pyramid of fame and power; Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes, Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. Thus on proud Lebanon’s exalted brow, The cedar, frowning o’er the plains below, Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e’er to bend! When Gallia pour’d to Pavia’s trophied plain, Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train; When, after many a toil and danger past, The fatal morn of conflict rose at last; That morning saw her glittering host combine, And form in close array the threat’ning line; Fire in each eye, and force in ev’ry arm, With hope exulting, and with ardour warm; Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, Their armour flashing to the beam of day; Their gen’rous chargers panting, spurn the ground, Roused by the trumpet’s animating sound; And heard in air their warlike music float, The martial pipe, the drum’s inspiring note! Pale set the sun--the shades of evening fell, The mournful night-wind rung their funeral knell; And the same day beheld their warriors dead, Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled! Fled, like the lightning’s evanescent fire, Bright, blazing, dreadful--only to expire! Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess’d her might, Iberia’s planet shed meridian light! Nor less, on famed St Quintin’s deathful day, Castilian spirit bore the prize away-- Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, And trophies beaming high in glory’s fane! And lo! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, Still proudly emulate their fathers’ fame; Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, Still rush impetuous to repel the foe; Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear! Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour’s crown, The living amaranths of bright renown! Be theirs th’ inspiring tribute of applause, Due to the champions of their country’s cause! Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, The joy when conscience whispers and approves! When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high, To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty; When every hand is dauntless and prepared The sacred charter of mankind to guard; When Britain’s valiant sons their aid unite, Fervent and glowing still for freedom’s right, Bid ancient enmities for ever cease, And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand? Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless? Can victory fail to crown them with success? Look down, O Heaven! the righteous cause maintain, Defend the injured, and avenge the slain! Despot of France! destroyer of mankind! What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind! Oh! if at midnight round thy regal bed, When soothing visions fly thine aching head; When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, And lull thy senses in his opiate balm; Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, And murder’d victims bleed before thine eyes; Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, “Tyrant! the hour, th’ avenging hour is near!” It is, it is! thy star withdraws its ray-- Soon will its parting lustre fade away; Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light, And veil thy splendours in eternal night! Oh! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul With awful terrors and with dread control, Bids threat’ning forms, appalling, round thee stand, And summons all her visionary band; Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, And whispers, peace and happiness are fled; E’en at the time of silence and of rest, Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast; Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale? Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail? And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke? Bereave a nation of its rights revered, Of all to morals sacred and endear’d? And shall they tamely liberty resign, The soul of life, the source of bliss divine? Canst thou, supreme destroyer! hope to bind, In chains of adamant, the noble mind? Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear-- Go, stay the lightning in its wing’d career! No, tyrant! no! thy utmost force is vain The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, Then bid thy legions all their power combine! Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, E’en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, E’en then, with kindling fire, with indignation burn! Ye sons of Albion! first in danger’s field, The sword of Britain and of truth to wield! Still prompt the injured to defend and save, Appal the despot, and assist the brave; Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, The cause of Justice and Castile to aid! Ye sons of Albion! by your country’s name, Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame; Oh! by the shades of Cressy’s martial dead, By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled; By honours gain’d on Blenheim’s fatal plain, By those in Victory’s arms at Minden slain; By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, Undaunted spirit! valour’s favourite son! By Albion’s thousand, thousand deeds sublime, Renown’d from zone to zone, from clime to clime; Ye British heroes! may your trophies raise A deathless monument to future days! Oh! may your courage still triumphant rise, Exalt the “lion banner” to the skies! Transcend the fairest names in history’s page, The brightest actions of a former age; The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, And bid oppression fall--to rise no more! Then soon returning to your native isle, May love and beauty hail you with their smile; For you may conquest weave th’ undying wreath, And fame and glory’s voice the song of rapture breathe! Ah! when shall mad ambition cease to rage? Ah! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage? When, when, supplanting discord’s iron reign, Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again? Not till the despot’s dread career is closed, And might restrain’d and tyranny deposed! Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign! Fair blue-eyed seraph! balmy power divine! Descend once more! thy hallow’d blessings bring, Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing! Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train, Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain: Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky! Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye; Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, Thy myrtle-sceptre o’er the globe extend: Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind, Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind; Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire, To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. Descend once more! to bid the world rejoice-- Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, Around thy shrine with purest incense throng, Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song! Then shall the shepherd’s flute, the woodland reed, The martial clarion and the drum succeed; Again shall bloom Arcadia’s fairest flowers, And music warble in Idalian bowers. Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath; And golden Ceres bless the festive swain, Where the wild combat redden’d o’er the plain. These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid! Return, return, in vest of light array’d! Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air: With accents milder than Æolian lays, When o’er the harp the fanning zephyr plays, Be thine to charm the raging world to rest, Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast! O Thou! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep! Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep! Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind’s force, And stays the thunder in its vengeful course; Fountain of life! Omnipotent Supreme! Robed in perfection! crown’d with glory’s beam! Oh! send on earth thy consecrated dove, To bear the sacred olive from above; Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, The festal harmony of nature’s prime! Bid truth and justice once again appear, And spread their sunshine o’er this mundane sphere; Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, Transcendant light their hallow’d fane illume; Bid war and anarchy for ever cease, And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace; Brothers once more, let men her empire own, And realms and monarchs bend before the throne, While circling rays of angel-mercy shed Eternal haloes round her sainted head! THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AND OTHER POEMS. [In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled _The Domestic Affections, and other Poems_, was given to the world--the last that was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne; for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had returned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquaintance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych; and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so entirely to depend.--_Memoir_, p. 24.] THE SILVER LOCKS. ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND. Though youth may boast the curls that flow In sunny waves of auburn glow; _As_ graceful on thy hoary head Has Time the robe of honour spread, And there, oh! softly, _softly_ shed His wreath of snow! As frost-work on the trees display’d When weeping Flora leaves the shade, E’en more than Flora, charms the sight; E’en so thy locks of purest white Survive, in age’s frost-work bright, Youth’s vernal rose decay’d! To grace the nymph whose tresses play Light on the sportive breeze of May, Let other bards the garland twine, Where sweets of every hue combine; Those locks revered, that silvery shine, Invite my lay! Less white the summer-cloud sublime, Less white the winter’s fringing rime; Nor do Belinda’s lovelier seem (A Poet’s blest immortal theme) Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam Of reverend Time! Long may the graceful honours smile, Like moss on some declining pile; O much revered! may filial care Around thee, duteous, long repair, Thy joys with tender bliss to share, Thy pains beguile! Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave! Long, long, your much-loved beauty save! May bliss your latest evening crown, Disarm life’s winter of its frown, And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down In gladness to the grave! And as the parting beams of day On mountain-snows reflected play, And tints of roseate lustre shed; Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, May joy, with evening planet, shed His mildest ray! August 18, 1809. TO MY MOTHER. If e’er from human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow; If e’er my heart has learn’d to know The generous wish or prayer; Who sow’d the germ with tender hand? Who mark’d its infant leaves expand?-- My mother’s fostering care. And if _one_ flower of charms refined May grace the garden of my mind, ’Twas she who nursed it there: She loved to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil; To banish every weed and thorn That oft opposed her toil! And oh! if e’er I sigh’d to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise; If e’er I wish’d the glittering stores That Fortune on her favourite pours; ’Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine, Round _thee_ with streaming rays might shine, And gild thy sun-bright days! Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power Might then irradiate every hour; For these, my mother! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow;-- But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, _unconfined_, And fall as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace; The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright, For thee would beam with softer light Than all the diamond’s crystal rays, Than all the emerald’s lucid blaze; And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease! Then, oh! may Heaven, that loves to bless, Bestow the power to cheer distress; Make _thee_ its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom’d to dwell; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth; And round, with liberal hand, dispense The sunshine of beneficence! But ah! if Fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high; If grief and pain thy steps assail, In life’s remote and wintry vale; Then, as the wild Æolian lyre Complains with soft entrancing number, When the lone storm awakes the wire, And bids enchantment cease to slumber; So filial love, with soothing voice, E’en then shall teach thee to rejoice; E’en _then_ shall sweeter, milder sound, When sorrow’s tempest raves around; While dark misfortune’s gales destroy, The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy! TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way; Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers, Whose fragrance shall never decay! And lo! to embrace thee, my Brother! she flies, With artless delight, that no words can bespeak; With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, With a smile and a glow on her cheek! From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield, From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest; Oh! welcome again, to the grove and the field, To the vale of retirement and rest. Then warble, sweet muse! with the lyre and the voice, Oh! gay be the measure and sportive the strain; For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice To meet thee, my Brother! again. When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown’d, How often would fancy present to my view The horrors that waited thee round! How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer, That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm; That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, In the heat of the combat’s alarm! How sad and how often descended the tear, (Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain!) How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear I might never behold thee again! But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o’er, And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose; Thy dangers, our tears, have endear’d thee the more, And my bosom with tenderness glows. And oh! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth, Bright and transient, have fled like the rainbow away; My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, Shall never, oh! never decay! No time can impair it, no change can destroy, Whate’er be the lot I am destined to share; It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy, And beam through the cloud of despair! TO MY ELDEST BROTHER. (WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.) How many a day, in various hues array’d, Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade, How many an hour, on silent wing is past, O my loved Brother! since we saw thee last! Since _then_ has childhood ripen’d into youth, And fancy’s dreams have fled from sober truth; Her splendid fabrics melting into air, As sage experience waved the wand of care! Yet _still_ thine absence wakes the tender sigh, And the tear trembles in affection’s eye! When shall we meet again?--with glowing ray Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day; Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear, And sings benignly still--_that_ day is near! She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice; Tells that the hour approaches, to restore Our cherish’d wanderer to his home once more; Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, To faith still true, affection still sincere! Then the past woes, the future’s dubious lot, In that blest meeting shall be all forgot! And joy’s full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, Though all around th’ impending storm should lower. Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, Albion’s firm sons, on Lusitania’s coast, (That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, Where glory’s pole-star beams their constant guide,) Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray To Cambria’s vales and mountains far away? Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, And paint the greeting that awaits at home? Does memory’s pencil oft, in mellowing hue, Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; In softer tints delighting to retrace Each tender image and each well-known face? Yes, wanderer! yes! thy spirit flies to those Whose love, unalter’d, warm and faithful glows. Oh! could that love, through life’s eventful hours, Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers! Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast, No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest! But though our tenderness can but bestow The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe, Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, In storms, in sunshine, far and near--the same! Still dwell enthroned within th’ unvarying heart, And, firm and _vital_, but with life depart! Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811. LINES WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH. O thou! whose pure, exalted mind, Lives in this record, fair and bright; O thou! whose blameless life combined Soft female charms, and grace refined, With science and with light! Celestial maid! whose spirit soar’d Beyond this vale of tears-- Whose clear, enlighten’d eye explored The lore of years! Daughter of Heaven! if here, e’en _here_, The wing of towering thought was thine; If, on this dim and mundane sphere, Fair truth illumed thy bright career, With morning-star divine; How must thy bless’d ethereal soul _Now_ kindle in her noontide ray, And hail, unfetter’d by control, The Fount of Day! E’en _now_, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, Undimm’d by doubt, nor veil’d by fear, Behold a chain of wonders rise-- Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies, Transcendant, pure, and clear! E’en _now_, the fair, the good, the true, From mortal sight conceal’d, Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, In light reveal’d! If _here_ the lore of distant time, And learning’s flowers, were all thine own; How must thy mind ascend sublime, Matured in heaven’s empyreal clime, To light’s unclouded throne! Perhaps e’en _now_ thy kindling glance Each orb of living fire explores, Darts o’er creation’s wide expanse, Admires--adores! Oh! if that lightning-eye surveys This dark and sublunary plain; How must the wreath of human praise Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, So dim, so pale, so vain! How, like a faint and shadowy dream, Must quiver learning’s brightest ray; While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, The sun of glory pours his beam, Perfection’s day! [The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wilson.--_Poems_, vol. ii. p. 140-9.] THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS. Sweets of the wild! that breathe and bloom On this lone tower, this ivied wall, Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall. Though doom’d, remote from careless eye, To smile, to flourish, and to die In solitude sublime, Oh! ever may the spring renew, Your balmy scent and glowing hue, To deck the robe of time! Breathe, fragrance! breathe! enrich the air, Though wasted on its wing unknown! Blow, flowerets! blow! though vainly fair, Neglected and alone! These flowers that long withstood the blast, These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, While Flora’s children stay-- To mantle o’er the lonely pile, To gild Destruction with a smile, And beautify Decay! Sweets of the wild! uncultured blowing, Neglected in luxuriance glowing; From the dark ruins frowning near, Your charms in brighter tints appear, And richer blush assume; You smile with softer beauty crown’d, Whilst all is desolate around, Like sunshine on a tomb! Thou hoary pile, majestic still, Memento of departed fame! While roving o’er the moss-clad hill, I ponder on thine ancient name! Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep, That here, so oft, have shone supreme; While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep That vanish’d is the golden dream! Where are the banners, waving proud, To kiss the summer-gale of even-- All purple as the morning-cloud, All streaming to the winds of heaven? Where is the harp, by rapture strung To melting song or martial story? Where are the lays the minstrel sung To loveliness or glory? Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, To thee no festal measure calls; No music through the desert halls, Awakes thee to rejoice! How still thy sleep! as death profound-- As if, within this lonely round, A step--a note--_a whisper’d sound_ Had ne’er aroused thy voice! Thou hear’st the zephyr murmuring, dying, Thou hear’st the foliage waving, sighing; But ne’er again shall harp or song, These dark deserted courts along, Disturb thy calm repose. The harp is broke, the song is fled, The voice is hush’d, the bard is dead; And never shall thy tones repeat Or lofty strain or carol sweet With plaintive close! Proud Castle! though the days are flown When once thy towers in glory shone; When music through thy turrets rung, When banners o’er thy ramparts hung, Though ’midst thine arches, frowning lone, Stern Desolation rear his throne; And Silence, deep and awful, reign Where echo’d once the choral strain; Yet oft, dark ruin! lingering here, The Muse will hail thee with a tear; Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams, And through the fringing ivy streams, And softens every shade sublime, And mellows every tint of Time-- Oh! here shall Contemplation love, Unseen and undisturb’d, to rove; And bending o’er some mossy tomb, Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom, Shall weep for Glory’s transient day And Grandeur’s evanescent ray; And listening to the swelling blast, Shall wake the Spirit of the Past-- Call up the forms of ages fled, Of warriors and of minstrels dead, Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, With all Ambition’s kindling fire! Nor wilt thou, Spring! refuse to breathe Soft odours on this desert air; Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath, And fringe these towers with garlands fair! Sweets of the wild, oh! ever bloom Unheeded on this ivied wall! Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall! Thus round Misfortune’s holy head, Would Pity wreaths of honour spread; Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile! CHRISTMAS CAROL. Fair Gratitude! in strain sublime, Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal; And, hailing this auspicious time, Kneel, Adoration! kneel! CHORUS. For lo! the day, th’ immortal day, When Mercy’s full, benignant ray Chased every gathering cloud away, And pour’d the noon of light! Rapture! be kindling, mounting, glowing, While from thine eye the tear is flowing, Pure, warm, and bright! ’Twas on this day--oh, love divine!-- The Orient Star’s effulgence rose; Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign Shall never, never close! CHORUS. Messiah! be thy name adored, Eternal, high, redeeming Lord! By grateful worlds be anthems pour’d-- Emanuel! Prince of Peace! This day, from heaven’s empyreal dwelling, Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, Bade discord cease! Wake the loud pæan, tune the voice, Children of heaven and sons of earth! Seraphs and men! exult, rejoice, To bless the Saviour’s birth! CHORUS. Devotion! light thy purest fire! Transport! on cherub wing aspire! Praise! wake to Him thy golden lyre, Strike every thrilling chord! While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, We own thy grace, reviving, healing, Redeemer! Lord! THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, To light the wilderness with beams of heaven? To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse Their temper’d sunshine and celestial hues? Those pure delights, ordain’d on life to throw Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know? Say, do they grace Ambition’s regal throne, When kneeling myriads call the world his own? Or dwell with Luxury, in th’ enchanted bowers Where taste and wealth exert _creative_ powers? Favour’d of heaven! O Genius! are they thine, When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine; While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day? No! sacred joys! ’tis yours to dwell enshrined, Most fondly cherish’d, in the purest mind; To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties, On earth so sweet--so perfect in the skies! Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, The violet smiles, embosom’d in the glade There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, Gem of seclusion! treasure of the vale! Thus, far retired from life’s tumultuous road, Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode Where hallow’d Innocence and sweet Repose May strew her shadowy path with many a rose. As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye, And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, While viewless angels wave their pinions near; Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole, While War’s red lightnings desolate the ball, And thrones and empires in destruction fall; Then calm as evening on the silvery wave, When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, _Her_ empire Home!--her throne, Affection’s breast! For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, And softer sunshine every scene illumes. When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas; When Summer, waving her creative wand, Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand; Or Autumn’s pencil sheds, with magic trace, O’er fading lowliness, a moonlight grace; Oh! still for her, through Nature’s boundless reign, No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain; While mental peace, o’er every prospect bright, Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light! Lo! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime, Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, The blood-red meteor of the northern sky! And high through darkness rears his giant-form, His throne the billow, and his flag the storm! Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more, And the wild surges foam along the shore, Domestic Bliss, _thy_ heaven is still serene, Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green! Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade-- Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade! Clear through the day, her light around thee glows, And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose! --Hail, sacred Home! where soft Affection’s hand With flowers of Eden twines her magic band! Where pure and bright the social ardours rise, Concentring all their holiest energies!-- When wasting toil has dimm’d the vital flame, And every power deserts the sinking frame, Exhausted nature still from sleep implores The charm that lulls, the manna that restores! Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares, To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs; Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies! Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love, Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; To _thee_ we turn, still faithful, from afar-- Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee! When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh; Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign, And the moon trembles on the sleeping main; At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep! No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, All heaven--and sea--and solitude--around! Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear! Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, And Danger frowns--the monarch of the wave! Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell! Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge, Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge? Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er, No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more! Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, The struggling agony for death or life, E’en _then_ thy mind, embittering every pain, Retraced the image so beloved--in vain! Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, Life’s parting sigh--the murmur of adieu! Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface, Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase? Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy The loved impression of domestic joy? Ye daylight dreams! that cheer the soldier’s breast, In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest, Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray O’er the long march through Desolation’s way; Oh! still ye bear him from th’ ensanguined plain, Armour’s bright flash, and Victory’s choral strain, To that loved Home where pure affection glows, That shrine of bliss! asylum of repose! When all is hush’d--the rage of combat past, And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast; When the warm throb of many a heart is o’er, And many an eye is closed to wake no more; Lull’d by the night-wind, pillow’d on the ground, (The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round!) While o’er the slain the tears of midnight weep, Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep! E’en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray The cherish’d forms that o’er his bosom sway; He sees fond transport light each beaming face, Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace! While the sweet welcome vibrates through his heart, “Hail, weary soldier!--never more to part!” And lo! at last, released from every toil, He comes!--the wanderer views his native soil! Then the bright raptures words can never speak Flash in his eye and mantle o’er his cheek! Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer Implored for him each guardian-spirit’s care; Who, for his fate, through sorrow’s lingering year, Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear; In that blest moment, all the past forget-- Hours of suspense and vigils of regret! And oh! for him, the child of rude alarms, Rear’d by stern danger in the school of arms! How sweet to change the war-song’s pealing note For woodland-sounds in summer air that float! Through vales of peace, o’er mountain wilds to roam, And breathe his native gales, that whisper--‘Home!’ Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, Charms of existence! angel sympathies! Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen! And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers; Though gazing nations hail the fiery car That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, While Fame’s loud pæan bids his heart rejoice, And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice;-- Yet from your source _alone_, in mazes bright, Flows the full current of serene delight! On Freedom’s wing, that every wild explores, Through realms of space, th’ aspiring eagle soars! Darts o’er the clouds, exulting to admire, Meridian glory--on her throne of fire! Bird of the Sun! his keen unwearied gaze Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze; But soon, descending from his height sublime. Day’s burning fount, and light’s empyreal clime, Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest! Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, And proudly waving in his gifted hand, O’er Fancy’s worlds, Invention’s plastic wand, Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys The clearest heaven of intellectual rays! Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, (While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught, Dilate the noblest energies of thought;) Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, At length he flies, to that serene retreat, Where calm and pure the mild affections meet; Embosom’d there, to feel and to impart The softer pleasures of the social heart! Ah! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, From every tie by fate relentless torn; See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, Mark’d with no step, uncheer’d by human smile, Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck’d wanderer stand, Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand! Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, And weep--and pray--and linger--but in vain! Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade, Where voice ne’er echo’d, footstep never stray’d, He fondly seeks, o’er cliffs and deserts rude, Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude! And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone The wood’s deep sigh, the surge’s distant moan! All else is hush’d! so silent, so profound, As if some viewless power, presiding round, With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, Had spread for ages the repose of death! Ah! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, Lives but to watch--and watches but to weep! He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, His the dread loneliness of sea and skies! Far from his cherish’d friends, his native shore, Banish’d from being--to return no more; There must he die!--within that circling wave, That lonely isle--his prison and his grave! Lo! through the waste, the wilderness of snows, With fainting step, Siberia’s exile goes! Homeless and sad, o’er many a polar wild, Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled; Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign, And bind existence in eternal chain! Child of the desert! pilgrim of the gloom! Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb! While on thy faded cheek the arctic air Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair! Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day In that stern clime to shed its parting ray; Not that fair nature’s loveliness and light No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight; Ah! not for _this_--far, far beyond relief, Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; But that no friend of kindred heart is there, Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share; That no mild soother fondly shall assuage The stormy trials of thy lingering age; No smile of tenderness, with angel power, Lull the dread pangs of dissolution’s hour; For this alone, despair, a withering guest, Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast! Yes! there, e’en there, in that tremendous clime, Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime; Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, In all his wild magnificence of might; E’en _there_, affection’s hallow’d spell might pour The light of heaven around th’ inclement shore! And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced, That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced, Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, E’en ’midst the world of solitude and snow! The halcyon’s charm, thus dreaming fictions feign, With mystic power could tranquillise the main; Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, And peace and silence brood upon the deep! And thus, Affection, can _thy_ voice compose The stormy tide of passions and of woes; Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, And lull misfortune in the arms of peace! Oh! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien, Wan, yet resign’d, and hopeless, yet serene! Long ere victorious time had sought to chase The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, That faded eye was dimm’d with many a care, Those waving locks were silver’d by despair! Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm! He, a sad emigrant! condemn’d to roam In life’s pale autumn from his ruin’d home, Has borne the shock of Peril’s darkest wave, Where joy--and hope--and fortune--found a grave! ’Twas his to see Destruction’s fiercest band Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, And roll triumphant on their blasted way, In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay! Unequal combat raged on many a plain, And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain! Ah! gallant exile! nobly, long, he bled, Long braved the tempest gathering o’er his head! Till all was lost! and horror’s darken’d eye Roused the stern spirit of despair to die! Ah! gallant exile! in the storm that roll’d Far o’er his country, rushing uncontroll’d, The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom, Torn by the blast, were scatter’d on the tomb! When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, The bosom ties that bound his soul to life, Yet one was spared! and she, whose filial smile Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, E’en _then_ could temper, with divine relief, The wild delirium of unbounded grief; And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart! And now, though time, subduing every trace, Has _mellow’d_ all, he _never_ can _erase_; Oft will the wanderer’s tears in silence flow, Still sadly faithful to remember’d woe! Then she, who feels a father’s pang alone, (Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) With anxious tenderness is ever nigh, To chase the image that awakes the sigh! Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise To brighter visions of celestial days! And speak of realms, where Virtue’s wing shall soar On eagle-plume--to wonder and adore; And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, Unite their kindred souls--and smile on all the past! Yes! we may hope that nature’s deathless ties, Renew’d, refined, shall triumph in the skies! Heart-soothing thought! whose loved, consoling powers With seraph-dreams can gild reflection’s hours, Oh! still be near, and brightening through the gloom, Beam and ascend! the day-star of the tomb! And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. Lo! by the couch where pain and chill disease In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze; Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, Life’s closing lesson--in its dawning day; Where beauty’s rose is withering ere its prime, Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil’d by time; There, bending still, with fix’d and sleepless eye, There, from her child, the mother learns to die; Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace Of lingering sickness in the faded face; Through the sad night, when every hope is fled, Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer’s bed; And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare The spoiler’s hand--the blight of death is there! He comes! now feebly in the exhausted frame, Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame; From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray-- Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away! Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart; Yet fond existence lingers ere she part! ’Tis past! the struggle and the pang are o’er, And life shall throb with agony no more; While o’er the wasted form, the features pale, Death’s awful shadows throw their silvery veil. Departed spirit! on this earthly sphere Though poignant suffering mark’d thy short career, Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, And hush thy sighs--an angel of repose! But who may charm _her_ sleepless pang to rest, Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast? And, while she bends in silence o’er thy bier, Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear? Visions of hope in loveliest hues array’d, Fair scenes of bliss by fancy’s hand portray’d! And were ye doom’d with false, illusive smile, With flattering promise, to enchant awhile? And are ye vanish’d, never to return, Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn? Will no bright hour departed joys restore? Shall the sad parent meet her child no more? Behold no more the soul-illumined face, The expressive smile, the animated grace! Must the fair blossom, wither’d in the tomb, Revive no more in loveliness and bloom? Descend, blest faith! dispel the hopeless care, And chase the gathering phantoms of despair; Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn, Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn; Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, The full perfection of immortal hues; Tell, that when mounting to her native skies, By death released, the parent spirit flies; There shall the child, in anguish mourn’d so long, With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, And guide her pinion on exulting flight, Through glory’s boundless realms, and worlds of living light. Ye gentle spirits of departed friends! If e’er on earth your buoyant wing descends; If, with benignant care, ye linger near, To guard the objects in existence dear; If, hovering o’er, ethereal band! ye view The tender sorrows, to _your_ memory true; Oh! in the musing hour, at midnight deep, While for your loss affection wakes to weep; While every sound in hallow’d stillness lies, But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs; Oh! then, amidst that holy calm be near, Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear; With secret spells her wounded mind compose, And chase the faithful tear--for you that flows: Be near--when moonlight spreads the charm you loved O’er scenes where once your _earthly_ footstep roved. Then, while she wanders o’er the sparkling dew, Through glens and wood-paths, once endear’d by you, And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers, And pauses oft, recalling former hours; Then wave your pinion o’er each well-known vale, Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale; Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell; And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul With soft enchantments and divine control! Be near, sweet guardians! watch her sacred rest, When Slumber folds her in his magic vest; Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, Return’d in dreams, to bless her mental eyes; Efface the memory of your last farewell-- Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell; The sweet communion of the past renew, Reviving former scenes, array’d in softer hue. Be near when death, in virtue’s brightest hour, Calls up each pang, and summons all his power; Oh! then, transcending Fancy’s loveliest dream, Then let your forms unveil’d around her beam; Then waft the vision of unclouded light, A burst of glory, on her closing sight; Wake from the harp of heaven th’ immortal strain, To hush the final agonies of pain; With rapture’s flame the parting soul illume, And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom! Oh! still be near, when, darting into day, Th’ exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay; Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high O’er many a world, ascending to the sky; There let your presence, once her earthly joy, Though dimm’d with tears and clouded with alloy, Now form her bliss on that celestial shore Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more. Yes! in the noon of that Elysian clime, Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time; Where mind’s bright eye, with renovated fire, Shall beam on glories never to expire; Oh! there th’ illumined soul may fondly trust, More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust, Those mild affections, whose consoling light Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow, Exalting rapture--not assuaging woe! TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF CONWAY. [Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beautiful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm; and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pensive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagination of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna Baillie’s play of _Ethwald_ was always pleasingly associated with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the ruins of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little poem, “The Ruin and its Flowers,” which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway; and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative of that gifted bard[3] had, at the time now alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway; but his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty, “The minstrel was infirm and old;” but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him; and the following lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.] Minstrel! whose gifted hand can bring Life, rapture, soul, from every string; And wake, like bards of former time, The spirit of the harp sublime;-- Oh! still prolong the varying strain! Oh! touch th’ enchanted chords again! Thine is the charm, suspending care, The heavenly swell, the dying close, The cadence melting into air, That lulls each passion to repose; While transport, lost in silence near, Breathes all her language in a tear. Exult, O Cambria!--now no more With sighs thy slaughter’d bards deplore: What though Plinlimmon’s misty brow And Mona’s woods be silent now, Yet can thy Conway boast a strain Unrivall’d in thy proudest reign. For Genius, with divine control, Wakes the bold chord neglected long, And pours Expression’s glowing soul O’er the wild Harp, renown’d in song; And Inspiration, hovering round, Swells the full energies of sound. Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone, Could rouse the warrior’s kindling fire, And now, ’tis like the breeze’s moan, That murmurs o’er th’ Eolian lyre: As if some sylph, with viewless wing, Were sighing o’er the magic string. Long, long, fair Conway! boast the skill That soothes, inspires, commands, at will! And oh! while rapture hails the lay, Far distant be the closing day, When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, And Cambria’s Harp lie hush’d in sleep! [3] Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances, he was not called upon to exercise his talents with any view to remuneration. He played to delight himself and others; and the innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded himself, as in a manner consecrated, by being made the depositary of a direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of the common modifications of vanity or self-conceit. EPITAPH ON MR W----, A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST.[4] Stop, passenger! a wondrous tale to list-- Here lies a famous Mineralogist. Famous indeed! such traces of his power, He’s left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr, Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks, His works resemble those of earthquake shocks; And future ages very much may wonder What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, Or whether Lucifer himself had ne’er Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there. His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, With him, good reader, here lie buried too-- Sweet specimens! which, toiling to obtain, He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain. We knew, so great the fuss he made about them, Alive or dead, he ne’er would rest without them; So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, We paved his grave with all his favourite stones. His much-loved hammer’s resting by his side; Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified: His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses, And at his feet a lump of coal reposes: Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet!-- His very coffin-plate is made of granite. Weep not, good reader! he is truly blest Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest: Weep not for him! but envied be his doom, Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had room: And, O ye rocks!--schist, gneiss, whate’er ye be, Ye varied strata!--names too hard for me-- Sing, “Oh, be joyful!” for your direst foe By death’s fell hammer is at length laid low. Ne’er on your spoils again shall W---- riot. Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet-- He sleeps--no longer planning hostile actions, As cold as any of his petrifactions; Enshrined in specimens of every hue, Too tranquil e’en to dream, ye rocks, of you. [4] “Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing, [Lines to Mr. Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place, three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they were never intended for publication, but were merely a _jeu d’esprit_ of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological researches.”--_Memoir_, p. 20. EPITAPH ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST. Here in the dust, its strange adventures o’er, A hammer rests, that ne’er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried; No day e’er pass’d, but in some desperate strife He risk’d the faithful hammer’s limbs and life: Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He’d mount a precipice that touch’d the skies, And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I’m sure they almost would have made--a penny! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, What fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine: Oh! that in strains which ne’er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon’d forth by Walter Scott! Then should its name with his be closely link’d, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards! be yours the ample field-- Bid W----’s hammer match Achilles’ shield: As for _my_ muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the hammer; Remembering well, “what perils do environ” Woman or “man that meddles with cold iron.” PROLOGUE TO THE _POOR GENTLEMAN_, AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL.[5] _Enter Captain_ George Browne, _in the character of Corporal_ Foss. To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, Stands “The Poor Gentleman,” with many a fear; Since well he knows, whoe’er may judge his cause, That Poverty’s no title to applause. Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote, If all their drapery be a threadbare coat? Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, Minds a man’s worth--except his worth in gold? Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner! Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner! Away with Poverty! let none receive her, She bears contagion as a plague or fever; “Bony, and gaunt, and grim”--like jaundiced eyes, Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. “Poor Gentleman!” and by poor soldiers, too! Oh, matchless impudence! without a sous! In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, How shall they dare at such a bar appear? What are their tactics and manœuvres here? While thoughts like these come rushing o’er our mind, Oh! may we still indulgence hope to find! Brave sons of Erin! whose distinguish’d name Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle! View our weak efforts with approving smile! School’d in rough camps, and still disdaining art, Ill can the soldier act a borrow’d part; The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage; His theatre is found in every land, Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band: Place him in danger’s front--he recks not where-- Be your own Wellington his prompter there, And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, He’ll act his part in glory’s tragic scene. Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall’d round, And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound, Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter’s wile Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty’s smile; Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, No stage effect of glittering pageantries: No, to your kindness he must look alone To realise the hope he dares not own; And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye, His wish to please may claim indemnity. And why despair, indulgence when we crave From Erin’s sons, the generous and the brave? Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught; Still has the stranger, in their social isle, Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, And well their hearts can share, though unexpress’d, Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier’s breast. [5] These verses were written about the same time as the preceding humorous epitaphs. [As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile compositions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity--for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to have commenced before the publication of the section which immediately follows. In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs Hemans’ mind may be divided into two distinct and separate eras--the first of which may be termed the _classical_, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” and “Modern Greece,” down to the “Historical Scenes,” and the “Translations from Camoens;” and the last, the _romantic_, which commences with “The Forest Sanctuary,” and includes “The Records of Woman,” together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occasional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sentiment and description may be read with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.] THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. [“The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre.... But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory.”--Eustace’s _Classical Tour through Italy_, vol. ii. p. 60.] “Italia, Italia! O tu cui die la sorte Dono infelice di bellezza, ond’ hai Funesta dote d’infiniti guai, Che’n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte.” Filicaja. Land of departed fame! whose classic plains Have proudly echo’d to immortal strains; Whose hallow’d soil hath given the great and brave, Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave; Home of the Arts! where glory’s faded smile Sheds lingering light o’er many a mouldering pile; Proud wreck of vanish’d power, of splendour fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead! Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day; Though dimm’d thy brightness, riveted thy chain, Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again! Lost, lovely realm! once more ’tis thine to gaze On the rich relics of sublimer days. Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, Or sacred Tivoli’s romantic glades; Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil’s tomb; Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga’s lonely wave, Swell’d the deep echoes of the fountain’s cave, Or thrill’d the soul in Tasso’s numbers high-- Those magic strains of love and chivalry! If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song, Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, Hallow’d by time, by absence more endear’d. And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might Each danger stemm’d, prevail’d in every fight-- Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind; Whose banners track’d the vanquish’d Eagle’s flight O’er many a plain, and dark sierra’s height; Who bade once more the wild heroic lay Record the deeds of Roncesvalles’ day; Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe; Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales, And ’midst those scenes renew’d th’ achievements high Bequeath’d to fame by England’s ancestry. Yet, when the storm seem’d hush’d, the conflict past, One strife remain’d--the mightest and the last! Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour Untamed Ambition summon’d all his power: Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, And the stern might of resolute Despair. Isle of the free! ’twas then thy champions stood, Breasting unmoved the combat’s wildest flood; Sunbeam of battle! then thy spirit shone, Glow’d in each breast, and sunk with life alone. O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb’d, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow’d by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour’s race was run, A prouder sepulchre--the field ye won! There every mead, each cabin’s lowly name, Shall live a watchword blended with your fame; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown That ask no urn to blazon their renown! There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o’er the dead; Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O’er the low mounds, the altars of the brave! Pause o’er each warrior’s grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze some name to glory dear; And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail’d, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below! And many an age shall see the brave repair To learn the Hero’s bright devotion there. And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! ’twas there th’ avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o’er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought! Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory’s throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign’d, Stamp’d with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero’s tomb. Oh! ne’er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy-- Ne’er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze’s moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone; Where midst the ruin’d shrines of many a vale, E’en Desolation tells a haughty tale, And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends! Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o’er some lofty theme; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth’s departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, With shades of those who ne’er shall be forgot; _There_ was your home, and there your power imprest, With tenfold awe, the pilgrim’s glowing breast; And, as the wind’s deep thrills and mystic sighs Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, Thus at your influence, starting from repose, Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. Fair Florence! queen of Arno’s lovely vale! Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, And sternly smiled, in retribution’s hour, To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler’s power. Too long the spirits of thy noble dead Mourn’d o’er the domes they rear’d in ages fled. Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, Temples of genius, palaces of taste, Too long, with sad and desolated mien, Reveal’d where Conquest’s lawless track had been; Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, Lonely they frown’d, a desert solitude. Florence! th’ Oppressor’s noon of pride is o’er, Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more! As one who, starting at the dawn of day From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, With transport heighten’d by those ills of night, Hails the rich glories of expanding light; E’en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, While heaven’s own hues in radiance round thee glow, With warmer ecstasy ’tis thine to trace Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace; More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored As loved lost relics, ne’er to be restored-- Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed By fond affection bending o’er the dead. Athens of Italy! once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art’s exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o’er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majesty-- So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand. Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance-- Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break-- Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, And snatch’d the Tuscan lyre from long repose, And bade its pealing energies resound With power electric through the realms around; O high in thought, magnificent in soul! Born to inspire, enlighten, and control; Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more, The shrine where nations mingle to adore! Again th’ enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, Shall hail the mighty of departed days: Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind Seems in the marble’s breathing mould enshrined; Still with ascendant power the world to awe, Still the deep homage of the heart to draw; To breathe some spell of holiness around, Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind! Love’s radiant goddess, idol of mankind! Once the bright object of Devotion’s vow, Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light Flash’d o’er the sculptor’s intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal’d to him alone, Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own; Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness! Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye On forms instinct with bright divinity, While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, Embrace the full magnificence of Art; From scenes by Raphael’s gifted hand array’d, From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray’d; From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, Seal’d with perfection, “sanctified by time;” Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel His spirit burn with emulative zeal: Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, Imbued at once with nobler energies; O’er life’s dim scenes on rapid pinions soar, And worlds of visionary grace explore, Till his bold hand give glory’s daydream birth, And with new wonders charm admiring earth. Venice exult! and o’er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze! What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o’er thy name; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey; Though quench’d the spirit of thine ancient race, And power and freedom scarce have left a trace; Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, And gild the wreck of years for ever past. Again thy fanes may boast a Titian’s dyes, Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, And scenes that glow in colouring’s richest bloom With life’s warm flush Palladian halls illume. From thy rich dome again th’ unrivall’d steed Starts to existence, rushes into speed, Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy’s thought Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, No mortal birth ye seem--but form’d to bear Heaven’s car of triumph through the realms of air; To range uncurb’d the pathless fields of space, The winds your rivals in the glorious race; Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet; And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, The flame that wakes creations into day. Creatures of fire and ether! wing’d with light, To track the regions of the Infinite! From purer elements whose life was drawn, Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn What years, on years in silence gliding by, Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry! Moulded by Art to dignify alone Her own bright deity’s resplendent throne, Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow’d Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, How many a race, whose tales of glory seem An echo’s voice--the music of a dream, Whose records feebly from oblivion save A few bright traces of the wise and brave; How many a state, whose pillar’d strength sublime Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, Towering o’er earth majestic and alone, Fortress of power--has flourish’d and is gone! And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, Consummate still in every grace remain, As o’er _their_ heads had ages roll’d in vain! Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight O’er countless monuments of earthly might! While she, from fair Byzantium’s lost domain, Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign. ’Midst the blue deep, who rear’d her island throne, And called th’ infinitude of waves her own; Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free! And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl’d Once cast its shadow o’er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell’d the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th’ illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day. Lo! where thy sons, O Rome! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again! Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august O’er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, Still o’er thy children seem to claim control; With awful grace arrest the pilgrim’s glance, Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, And bid the past, to fancy’s ardent eyes, From time’s dim sepulchre in glory rise. Souls of the lofty! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom’s ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phœnix grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th’ horizon’s gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle’s wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light! Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o’er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fix’d on thee the world’s adoring gaze; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench’d its beam, to die! Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay! Oh! what can realms in fame’s full zenith boast To match the relics of thy splendour lost! By Tiber’s waves, on each illustrious hill, Genius and Taste shall love to wander still; For there has Art survived an empire’s doom, And rear’d her throne o’er Latium’s trophied tomb: She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee! Oh! ne’er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter’d oak! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th’ immortal Archer’s form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame? Lord of the daystar! how may words portray Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray? Whate’er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, Of regal dignity and heavenly grace; Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight Each bold idea, borrow’d from the sky, To vest th’ embodied form of Deity; All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined! Son of Elysium! years and ages gone Have bow’d in speechless homage at thy throne, And days unborn, and nations yet to be, Shall gaze, absorb’d in ecstasy, on thee! And thou, triumphant wreck,[6] e’en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time: Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought! Where He, th’ inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign’d; Who from the past, the future, and th’ unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien: Unrivall’d Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection’s blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? Emblem of Rome! from power’s meridian hurl’d, Yet claiming still the homage of the world. What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced The work of wonder, idolised by taste? Oh! worthy still of some divine abode, Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God![7] Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, ’Tis thine, by fate unconquer’d, to dispense From every part some ray of excellence! E’en yet, inform’d with essence from on high, Thine is no trace of frail mortality! Within that frame a purer being glows, Through viewless veins a brighter current flows; Fill’d with immortal life each muscle swells, In every line supernal grandeur dwells, Consummate work! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past:[8] Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow’d o’er many a classic hill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero’s image to the world bequeathed; Enshrined in thee th’ imperishable ray Of high-soul’d Genius, foster’d by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers--who never shall return! And mark yon group, transfix’d with many a throe, Seal’d with the image of eternal woe: With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stern combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind. Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense; Though fix’d on him, his children’s suppliant eyes Implore the aid avenging fate denies; Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, And in each limb existence writhes, enroll’d Midst the dread circles of the venom’d fold; Yet the strong spirit lives--and not a cry Shall own the might of Nature’s agony! That furrow’d brow unconquer’d soul reveals, That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, Nor yields one moan to torture or to death![9] Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate’s severest hour. Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays: Landscapes, by colouring dress’d in richer dyes, More mellow’d sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil’s might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone And unapproach’d, midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless’d your favour’d sight, Severely grand, unutterably bright! Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye Could meet the noontide of eternity, And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll’d, On all that Fancy trembles to behold. Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled: Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare, Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair; These o’er the walls your magic skill array’d, Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, And breathe and move, the records of your power. Inspired of heaven! what heighten’d pomp ye cast O’er all the deathless trophies of the past! Round many a marble fane and classic dome, Asserting still the majesty of Rome-- Round many a work that bids the world believe What Grecian Art could image and achieve, Again, creative minds, your visions throw Life’s chasten’d warmth and Beauty’s mellowest glow. And when the Morn’s bright beams and mantling dyes Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, Or evening suns illume with purple smile The Parian altar and the pillar’d aisle, Then, as the full or soften’d radiance falls On angel-groups that hover o’er the walls, Well may those temples, where your hand has shed Light o’er the tomb, existence round the dead, Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, That nought of earth should find admittance there, Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown, Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone! Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy’s erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign’d Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow’d, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow’d. To her ’twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish’d, of th’ Omnipotent! O’er Judah’s hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan’s valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa’s brook, or Almotana’s deep,[10] Chain’d in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d, Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, “Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale. There dwelt her spirit--there her hand portray’d, Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought, Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, Who lived to guide us, and who died to save; Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, And soul return’d to animate the dead; Whom the waves own’d--and sunk beneath his eye, Awed by one accent of Divinity; To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow’d her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. O’er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, As all around the Godhead’s presence knew, And robed the Holy One’s benignant mien In beaming mercy, majesty serene. Oh! mark where Raphael’s pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour’s head;[11] Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude, And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower’d by that excess of light! Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, By truth inspired, to elevate the heart! To bid the soul exultingly possess, Of all her powers, a heighten’d consciousness; And, strong in hope, anticipate the day, The last of life, the first of freedom’s ray; To realise, in some unclouded sphere, Those pictured glories feebly imaged here! Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, Faint effluence of “the Dayspring from on high!” [This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:--“Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again.... I shall take Felicia Hemans’s _Restoration_, &c., with me--it is a good poem--very.”] [6] The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists. [7] “Quoique cette statue d’Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d’une manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef-d’œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mystères de l’art, se la représentent dans toute sa beauté. L’Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé un corps idéal audessus de la nature * * * Cet Hercule paroît donc ici tel qu’il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de l’humanité, il obtint l’immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux. Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles.”--Winckelmann, _Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens_, torn. ii. p. 248. [8] “Le Torso d’Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que l’art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l’histoire ne fait mention d’aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu’aux temps du Triumvirat Romain.”--Winckelmann, _ibid._ tom. ii. p. 250. [9] “It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not _yielded to suffering_, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still _superior_ to all its _afflictions_, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued.”--Alison’s _Essays_, vol. ii. p. 400. “Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l’image d’un homme qui tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l’esprit. Tandis que l’excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s’élève avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également contrainte par le silence que la force de l’âme impose à la douleur qu’elle voudrait étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard.”---Winckelmann, _Histoire de l’Art chez les Anciens_, tom. ii. p. 214. [10] _Almotana._ The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. [11] _The Transfiguration_, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave. MODERN GREECE. “O Greece! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, In these hast led the way, in these excell’d, Crown’d with the laurel of assenting Time.” Thomson’s _Liberty_. I. Oh! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, Fair land of Phidias! theme of lofty strains! And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks of time, The print of Glory’s parting step retains; Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot, Musing on years gone by in brightness there, The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear; As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye Of sea and heaven hath track’d the blue infinity? II. Is there who views with cold unalter’d mien, His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught, Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, Where Freedom triumph’d, or where Wisdom taught? Souls that too deeply feel! oh, envy not The sullen calm your fate hath never known: Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot Genius ne’er pierced, nor Fancy’s sunbeam shone, Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory’s trace, Glow with the generous flames of every age and race. III. But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined In the calm school of silent solitude; Pour’d on his ear, midst groves and glens retired, The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, All that hath lived, while empires have expired, To float for ever on the winds of time; And on his soul indelibly portray’d Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. IV. Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, A sanctuary of beauty and of light? There he may dwell in regions all his own, A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. For him the scenes of old renown possess Romantic charms, all veil’d from other eyes; There every form of nature’s loveliness Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies; As music’s voice, in some lone mountain dell, From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo’s swell. V. For him Italia’s brilliant skies illume The bard’s lone haunts, the warrior’s combat-plains, And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom Round Doric Pæstum’s solitary fanes.[12] But most, fair Greece! on thy majestic shore He feels the fervours of his spirit rise; Thou birth-place of the Muse! whose voice of yore Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies; And lingers still around the well-known coast, Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost. VI. By seas that flow in brightness as they lave Thy rocks, th’ enthusiast rapt in thought may stray, While roves his eye o’er that deserted wave, Once the proud scene of battle’s dread array. --O ye blue waters! ye, of old that bore The free, the conquering, hymn’d by choral strains, How sleep ye now around the silent shore, The lonely realm of ruins and of chains! How are the mighty vanish’d in their pride! E’en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. VII. Hush’d are the Pæans whose exulting tone Swell’d o’er that tide[13]--the sons of battle sleep-- The wind’s wild sigh, the halcyon’s voice alone Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues Of morn’s rich firmament, serenely bright, Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse With all their purple mellowness of light, Oh! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there? VIII. Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, ’Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh; Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow, Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky; --Yet o’er the low, dark dwellings of the dead, Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile, And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread In green luxuriance o’er the ruin’d pile; And mantling woodbine veil the wither’d tree;-- And thus it is, fair land! forsaken Greece, with thee. IX. For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, Are but as heaven’s warm radiance on the tomb, The rose’s blush that masks the canker-worm. And thou art desolate--thy morn hath pass’d! So dazzling in the splendour of its sway, That the dark shades the night hath o’er thee cast Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair, Thy fate hath been unmatch’d--in glory and despair. X. For thee, lost land! the hero’s blood hath flow’d, The high in soul have brightly lived and died; For thee the light of soaring genius glow’d O’er the fair arts it form’d and glorified. Thine were the minds whose energies sublime So distanced ages in their lightning-race, The task they left the sons of later time Was but to follow their illumined trace. --Now, bow’d to earth, thy children, to be free, Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee. XI. Lo! to the scenes of fiction’s wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies,[14] To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales, Whose incense mounts to Asia’s vivid skies. There shall he rest?--Alas! his hopes in vain Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm: Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm; And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, Where patriarchs reign’d of old in pastoral repose. XII. Where Syria’s mountains rise, or Yemen’s groves, Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, Wears but two forms--the tyrant and the slave! There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde Where sweeps the sand-storm o’er the burning wild; There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword O’er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled; And the vale’s bosom, and the desert’s gloom, Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. XIII. But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,[15] The lost descendant of the immortal brave? Amidst the wild magnificence of shades That o’er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, In the green depth of thine untrodden glades Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last? Yes! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne’er hath been. XIV. There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress’d In tints like those that float o’er poet’s dreams; Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain pours Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, The exiled Greek hath fix’d his sylvan home: So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian huntsman’s feet. XV. The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves; And isles of flowers, bright-floating o’er the tide,[16] That images the fairy worlds it laves, And stillness, and luxuriance. O’er his head The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers; And from those green arcades a thousand tones Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature’s temple moans. XVI. And there, no traces left by brighter days For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief; Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath mark’d the boundless plain With marble records of his fame and power; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower: Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. XVII. But doth the exile’s heart serenely there In sunshine dwell?--Ah! when was exile blest? When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or summer air, Chase from his soul the fever of unrest? --There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, And shrines itself in mental solitude, An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. That coldly smiles midst pleasure’s brightest ray, As the chill glacier’s peak reflects the flush of day. XVIII. Such grief is theirs, who, fix’d on foreign shore, Sigh for the spirit of their native gales, As pines the seaman, midst the ocean’s roar, For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee, Loved Greece! all sunk and blighted as thou art Though thought and step in western wilds be free, Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart: The deserts spread between, the billows foam, Thou, distant and in chains, are yet his spirit’s home. XIX. In vain for him the gay liannes entwine, Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine, As eve’s last blush is dying on the lakes. Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, Or breathes the freshness of Cithæron’s height, Or dreams how softly Athens’ towers would smile, Or Sunium’s ruins, in the fading light; On Corinth’s cliff what sunset hues may sleep, Or, at that placid hour, how calm th’ Ægean deep! XX. What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine? (The all of thine no tyrant could destroy!) E’en to the stranger’s roving eye, they shine Soft as a vision of remember’d joy. And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, A passing wanderer o’er each Attic hill, Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, To laughing climes, where all is splendour still; And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. XXI. Realm of sad beauty! thou art as a shrine That Fancy visits with Devotion’s zeal, To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel Amidst the tombs of heroes--for the brave Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, Foremost in honour’s phalanx, died to save The land redeem’d and hallow’d by their toil; And there is language in thy lightest gale, That o’er the plains they won seems murmuring yet their tale. XXII. And he, whose heart is weary of the strife Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems With proud remembrances that cannot die. Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by; And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish’d years. XXIII. Through that deep solitude be his to stray, By Faun and Oread loved in ages past, Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast. Romantic Tempe! thou art yet the same-- Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time:[17] Years, that have changed thy river’s classic name,[18] Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime; And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves, In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves. XXIV. Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, Where the rich arbute’s coral berries glow,[19] Or midst th’ exuberance of thy forest bowers, Casting deep shadows o’er the current’s flow, Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, As rock and stream some glancing light have caught, And gaze, till Nature’s mighty forms impress His soul with deep sublimity of thought; And linger oft, recalling many a tale, That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whispering through thy dale. XXV. He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old From Delphi’s chasm the mystic vapour rose, And trembling nations heard their doom foretold By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and snows. Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, And silence now the hallow’d haunt possess, Still is the scene of ancient rites august, Magnificent in mountain loneliness; Still inspiration hovel’s o’er the ground, Where Greece her councils held,[20] her Pythian victors crown’d. XXVI. Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood, When by the waves that break on Œta’s shore, The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood! Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea’s plain, Bloom the wild laurels o’er the warlike dead,[21] Or lone Platæa’s ruins yet remain To mark the battle-field of ages fled: Still o’er such scenes presides a sacred power, Though Fiction’s gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower. XXVII. Oh! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell Where mortal worth has hallow’d grove or stream, To sway the heart with some ennobling spell; For mightiest minds have felt their blest control In the wood’s murmur, in the zephyr’s sigh, And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul, And a high power, to Nature’s majesty! And who can rove o’er Grecian shores, nor feel, Soft o’er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal? XXVIII. Yet many a sad reality is there, That Fancy’s bright illusions cannot veil. Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air, But Slavery’s mien will tell its bitter tale; And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws Delusive quiet o’er full many a scene-- Deep as the brooding torpor of repose That follows where the earthquake’s track hath been; Or solemn calm on Ocean’s breast that lies, When sinks the storm, and death has hush’d the seamen’s cries. XXIX. Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl’d By Fate’s rude tempest from its radiant sphere, Doom’d to resign the homage of a world, For Pity’s deepest sigh and saddest tear? Oh! hast thou watch’d the awful wreck of mind That weareth still a glory in decay? Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind-- Thought, science, genius--to the storm a prey; And o’er the blasted tree, the wither’d ground, Despair’s wild nightshade spread, and darkly flourish round? XXX. So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought, On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime: Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought, So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime. There the proud monuments of Valour’s name, The mighty works Ambition piled on high, The rich remains by Art bequeath’d to Fame-- Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and symmetry, Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish’d there! XXXI. There, while around lie mingling in the dust The column’s graceful shaft, with weeds o’er grown, The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust. The warrior’s urn, the altar’s mossy stone-- Amidst the loneliness of shatter’d fanes, Still matchless monuments of other years-- O’er cypress groves or solitary plains, Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears: As on some captive city’s ruin’d wall The victor’s banner waves, exulting o’er its fall. XXXII. Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, Landmark of slavery, towering o’er the waste, There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres And o’er the blooms of fancy and of taste Spreads the chill blight;--as in that orient isle Where the dark upas taints the gale around,[22] Within its precincts not a flower may smile, Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground; Nor wild birds’ music float on zephyr’s breath, But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. XXXIII. Far other influence pour’d the Crescent’s light O’er conquer’d realms, in ages pass’d away; Full and alone it beam’d, intensely bright, While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. Then rose th’ Alhambra, with its founts and shades, Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers: Its sculptured lions,[23] richly wrought arcades, Aërial pillars, and enchanted towers; Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale. XXXIV. Then foster’d genius lent each caliph’s throne Lustre barbaric pomp could ne’er attain; And stars unnumber’d o’er the orient shone, Bright as that Pleïad, sphered in Mecca’s fane.[24] From Bagdat’s palaces the choral strains Rose and re-echoed to the desert’s bound, And Science, woo’d on Egypt’s burning plains, Rear’d her majestic head with glory crown’d; And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore From Syria’s palmy groves to Andalusia’s shore. XXXV. Those years have past in radiance--they have past, As sinks the daystar in the tropic main; His parting beams no soft reflection cast, They burn--are quench’d--and deepest shadows reign. And Fame and Science have not left a trace In the vast regions of the Moslem’s power,-- Regions, to intellect a desert space, A wild without a fountain or a flower, Where towers Oppression midst the deepening glooms, As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the tombs. XXXVI. Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia pour’d Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium’s wall; When Europe sheath’d, in apathy, her sword, And heard unmoved the fated city’s call. No bold crusaders ranged their serried line Of spears and banners round a falling throne; And thou, O last and noblest Constantine![25] Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain-- Thine empire’s proud exchange the grave, and not the chain! XXXVII. Hush’d is Byzantium--’tis the dead of night-- The closing night of that imperial race![26] And all is vigil--but the eye of light Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace: There is a murmuring stillness on the train Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; And to the cross, in fair Sophia’s fane, For the last time is raised Devotion’s eye; And, in his heart while faith’s bright visions rise, There kneels the high-soul’d prince, the summon’d of the skies. XXXVIII. Day breaks in light and glory--’tis the hour Of conflict and of fate--the war-note calls-- Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. Far over Marmora’s waves th’ artillery’s peal Proclaims an empire’s doom in every note; Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel, Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float; From camp and wave rush on the Crescent’s host, And the Seven Towers[27] are scaled, and all is won and lost. XXXIX. Then, Greece! the tempest rose that burst on thee, Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage! Oh! where were then thy sons, the great, the free, Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age? Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows, And bright the memory of thy days of pride, In mountain might though Corinth’s fortress rose, On, unresisted, roll’d th’ invading tide! Oh! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, If Freedom guard them not with Mind’s unconquer’d power. XL. Where were th’ avengers then, whose viewless might Preserved inviolate their awful fane,[28] When through the steep defiles, to Delphi’s height, In martial splendour pour’d the Persian’s train? Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, Arm’d with the elements, to vengeance wake, Call the dread storms to darken round their towers, Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break; Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang. XLI. Where was the spirit of the victor-throng Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander’s tide, Whose names are bright in everlasting song, The lords of war, the praised, the deified? Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, Who from the dead at Marathon arose[29] All arm’d; and beaming on the Athenians’ gaze, A battle-meteor, guided to their foes? Or they whose forms to Alaric’s awe-struck eye,[30] Hovering o’er Athens, blazed in airy panoply? XLII. Ye slept, O heroes! chief ones of the earth![31] High demigods of ancient days! ye slept: There lived no spark of your ascendant worth When o’er your land the victor Moslem swept. No patriot then the sons of freedom led, In mountain pass devotedly to die; The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled, And the high soul’s unconquer’d buoyancy; And by your graves, and on your battle-plains, Warriors! your children knelt to wear the stranger’s chains. XLIII. Now have your trophies vanish’d, and your homes Are moulder’d from the earth, while scarce remain E’en the faint traces of the ancient tombs That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, The lyres are hush’d that swell’d your fame afar, The halls that echo’d to their sounds are gone, Perish’d the conquering weapons of your war;[32] And if a mossy stone your names retain, ’Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. XLIV. Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands, That with those names tradition hallows yet, Oft shall the wandering son of other lands Linger in solemn thought and hush’d regret. And still have legends mark’d the lonely spot Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies; And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, Hovering around, to fancy’s vision rise. Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again, Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory’s reign. XLV. Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains, Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, And many a chief of old illustrious line, Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth To kindle those that now in bondage pine? No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath, And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death. XLVI. Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, How rich in charms were that romantic clime, With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair, And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime! Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign, Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain-- Meet home for those retired divinities That love, where nought of earth may e’er intrude, Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. XLVII. There in rude grandeur daringly ascends Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, Frowning o’er vales in woodland verdure bright. Wild and august in consecrated pride, There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers, Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide The rock-built palace of immortal powers; Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, Amidst th’ eternal pomp of forests and of snows. XLVIII. Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem The chosen haunts where Freedom’s foot would roam; She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, And make the rocky fastnesses her home. And in the rushing of the mountain flood, In the wild eagle’s solitary cry, In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood, There is a voice of stern sublimity, That swells her spirit to a loftier mood Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. XLIX. But from those hills the radiance of her smile Hath vanish’d long, her step hath fled afar; O’er Suli’s frowning rocks she paused a while,[33] Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war. And brightly glow’d her ardent spirit there, Still brightest midst privation: o’er distress It cast romantic splendour, and despair But fann’d that beacon of the wilderness; And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell. L. Dark children of the hills! ’twas then ye wrought Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand; As midst your craggy citadels ye fought, And women mingled with your warrior band. Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood[34] High o’er the river’s darkly-rolling wave, And hurl’d, in dread delirium, to the flood Her free-born infant, ne’er to be a slave. For all was lost--all, save the power to die The wild indignant death of savage liberty. LI. Now is that strife a tale of vanish’d days, With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. And the dread struggle’s fearful memory still O’er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws; Sheds darker shadows o’er the frowning hill, More solemn quiet o’er the glen’s repose; Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, And the hoarse river’s voice a murmur not its own. LII. For stillness now--the stillness of the dead-- Hath wrapt that conflict’s lone and awful scene; And man’s forsaken homes, in ruin spread, Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. And there, o’er wastes magnificently rude, What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, Where Freedom’s banner may be rear’d again: Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, The children of her sons inherit but their name. LIII. Go, seek proud Sparta’s monuments and fanes! In scatter’d fragments o’er the vale they lie; Of all they were not e’en enough remains To lend their fall a mournful majesty.[35] Birth-place of those whose names we first revered In song and story--temple of the free! O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear’d, Are such thy relics, and can this be thee? Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, And e’en in ruin claim’d the wonder of mankind. LIV. For thine were spirits cast in other mould Than all beside--and proved by ruder test; They stood alone--the proud, the firm, the bold, With the same seal indelibly imprest. Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, One image stamp’d the rough, colossal race, In rugged grandeur frowning o’er mankind, Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace; As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower. LV. Such were thy sons--their life a battle-day! Their youth one lesson how for thee to die! Closed is that task, and they have passed away Like softer beings train’d to aims less high. Yet bright on earth _their_ fame who proudly fell, True to their shields, the champions of thy cause, Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell How died the brave, obedient to thy laws![36] O lofty mother of heroic worth, How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth? LVI. Hadst thou but perish’d with the free, nor known A second race, when glory’s noon went by, Then had thy name in single brightness shone A watchword on the helm of liberty! Thou shouldst have pass’d with all the light of fame, And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame, And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes; And thou, surrounded by thy warriors’ graves, Hast drain’d the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves. LVII. Now all is o’er--for thee alike are flown Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud; And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low; From their cold altars have thy Lares fled; O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow, And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread; And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound, A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound. LVIII. Taÿgetus still lifts his awful brow High o’er the mouldering city of the dead, Sternly sublime; while o’er his robe of snow Heaven’s floating tints their warm suffusions spread. And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads By tombs and ruins o’er the silent plain; While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds Rise as of old, when hail’d by classic strain; There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave,[37] And a frail shrub survives to bloom o’er Sparta’s grave. LIX. Oh, thus it is with man! A tree, a flower, While nations perish, still renews its race, And o’er the fallen records of his power Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. The laurel shoots when those have pass’d away, Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free; The rose is flourishing o’er beauty’s clay, The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be; Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled, And all that round us blooms is blooming o’er the dead. LX. And still the olive spreads its foliage round Morea’s fallen sanctuaries and towers. Once its green boughs Minerva’s votaries crown’d, Deem’d a meet offering for celestial powers. The suppliant’s hand its holy branches bore;[38] They waved around the Olympic victor’s head; And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, Its leaves the Spartan’s honour’d bier o’erspread. Those rites have vanish’d--but o’er vale and hill Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow’d still.[39] LXI. Where now thy shrines, Eleusis! where thy fane Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high? The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, The long procession’s awful pageantry? Quench’d is the torch of Ceres[40]--all around Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign; There never more shall choral hymns resound O’er the hush’d earth and solitary main, Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. LXII. And oh, ye secret and terrific powers! Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt, How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, Where Superstition trembled as she knelt! Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made The elements your voice, the wind and wave; Spirits! whose influence darken’d many a shade, Mysterious visitants of fount and cave! How long your power the awe-struck nations sway’d, How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey’d! LXIII. And say, what marvel, in those early days, While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not, If man around him cast a fearful gaze, Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot? Awful is nature in her savage forms, Her solemn voice commanding in its might, And mystery then was in the rush of storms, The gloom of woods, the majesty of night; And mortals heard Fate’s language in the blast, And rear’d your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past! LXIV. Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh But with prophetic sound--a waving tree, A meteor flashing o’er the summer sky, A bird’s wild flight reveal’d the things to be. All spoke of unseen natures, and convey’d Their inspiration; still they hover’d round, Hallow’d the temple, whisper’d through the shade, Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound; Of them the fount, the forest, murmur’d still, Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill. LXV. Now is the train of Superstition flown! Unearthly beings walk on earth no more; The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. Fled are the phantoms of Livadia’s cave, There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep; Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,[41] That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime! But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time! LXVI. Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams; Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, Her vales, that foster’d Art’s divinest dreams! But that bright spirit o’er the land that shone, And all around pervading influence pour’d, That lent the harp of Æschylus its tone, And proudly hallow’d Lacedæmon’s sword, And guided Phidias o’er the yielding stone, With them its ardours lived--with them its light is flown. LXVII. Thebes, Corinth, Argos!--ye renown’d of old, Where are your chiefs of high romantic name? How soon the tale of ages may be told! A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, The work of centuries. We gaze on you, O cities! once the glorious and the free, The lofty tales that charm’d our youth renew, And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be? Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb, And find the mosque alone--a record of their doom! LXVIII. How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour’d, Fair Elis! o’er thy consecrated vales?[42] There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword, And banners floated on the balmy gales. Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas; On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke: Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow’d beneath the yoke. LXIX. And through Arcadia’s wild and lone retreats Far other sounds have echo’d than the strain Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain! There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, On his green banks renew’d, the classic dance, And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays, Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance; Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell Midst Pan’s deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell. LXX. But thou, fair Attica! whose rocky bound All art and nature’s richest gifts enshrined, Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind; Who, as the summit of some Alpine height Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light,[43] And smile the longest in its lingering ray; Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream. LXXI. Let Fancy’s vivid hues awhile prevail-- Wake at her call--be all thou wert once more! Hark! hymns of triumph swell on every gale-- Lo! bright processions move along thy shore; Again thy temples, midst the olive-shade, Lovely in chaste simplicity arise; And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies; And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien, In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright scene. LXXII. Again renew’d by Thought’s creative spells, In all her pomp thy city, Theseus! towers: Within, around, the light of glory dwells On art’s fair fabrics, wisdom’s holy bowers. There marble fanes in finish’d grace ascend, The pencil’s world of life and beauty glows; Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes; And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, The sage’s blest retreats, by calm Ilissus’ tide. LXXIII. Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, Raised by the magic of Morgana’s wand,[44] On summer seas that undulating lave Romantic Sicily’s Arcadian strand; That pictured scene of airy colonnades, Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest, Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, Gleaming and floating on the ocean’s breast; Athens! thus fair the dream of thee appears, As Fancy’s eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. LXXIV. Still be that cloud withdrawn--oh! mark on high, Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, That fane, august in perfect symmetry, The purest model of Athenian taste. Fair Parthenon! thy Doric pillars rise In simple dignity, thy marble’s hue Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue; And art o’er all thy light proportions throws The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. LXXV. And lovely o’er thee sleeps the sunny glow, When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold Each latent grace, developing in light; Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold, Each tint that passes, tremulously bright; And seem indeed whate’er devotion deems, While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams. LXXVI. But oh! what words the vision may portray, The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine? There stands thy goddess, robed in war’s array, Supremely glorious, awfully divine! With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest, And sculptured ægis, to perfection wrought; And on each heavenly lineament imprest, Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought-- The pure intelligence, the chaste repose-- All that a poet’s dream around Minerva throws. LXXVII. Bright age of Pericles! let fancy still Through time’s deep shadows all thy splendour trace, And in each work of art’s consummate skill Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race: That spirit, roused by every proud reward That hope could picture, glory could bestow, Foster’d by all the sculptor and the bard Could give of immortality below. Thus were thy heroes form’d, and o’er their name, Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. LXXVIII. Mark in the throng’d Ceramicus, the train Of mourners weeping o’er the martyr’d brave: Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, Holy the amaranth strew’d upon their grave![45] And hark! unrivall’d eloquence proclaims Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice! Hark! Pericles records their honour’d names![46] Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice: What hath life brighter than so bright a doom? What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb? LXXIX. Praise to the valiant dead! for them doth art Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth; Theirs are enshrinèd names, and every heart Shall bear the blazon’d impress of their worth. Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise, Their fields of fight shall epic song record; And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, Their name shall be their country’s rallying word! While fane and column rise august to tell How Athens honours those for her who proudly fell. LXXX. City of Theseus! bursting on the mind, Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled! Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Thus hallow’d by the memory of the dead: Alone in beauty and renown--a scene Whose tints are drawn from freedom’s loveliest ray. ’Tis but a vision now--yet thou hast been More than the brightest vision might portray; And every stone, with but a vestige fraught Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought. LXXXI. Fall’n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung To choral melodies and tragic lore; Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, The song that hail’d Harmodius peals no more. Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand, Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor’s hand, The magic voice of eloquence is still; Minerva’s veil is rent[47]--her image gone; Silent the sage’s bower--the warrior’s tomb o’erthrown. LXXXII. Yet in decay thine exquisite remains Wondering we view, and silently revere, As traces left on earth’s forsaken plains By vanish’d beings of a nobler sphere! Not all the old magnificence of Rome, All that dominion there hath left to time-- Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, Can bid such reverence o’er the spirit steal, As aught by thee imprest with beauty’s plastic seal. LXXXIII. Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, Palmyra rises, desolately grand-- Though with rich gold[48] and massy sculpture graced, Commanding still, Persepolis may stand In haughty solitude--though sacred Nile The first-born temples of the world surveys, And many an awful and stupendous pile Thebes of the hundred gates e’en yet displays; City of Pericles! oh who, like thee, Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be? LXXXIV. Thou led’st the way to that illumined sphere Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear, Oh, still triumphant in that high career! Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. And still to thee th’ enlighten’d mind hath flown As to her country,--thou hast been to earth A cynosure,--and, e’en from victory’s throne, Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth; And nations, rising to their fame afar, Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. LXXXV. Glory to those whose relics thus arrest The gaze of ages! Glory to the free! For they, they only, could have thus imprest Their mighty image on the years to be! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot,-- To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Of high-soul’d genius is th’ unrivall’d lot. Honour to thee, O Athens! thou hast shown What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. LXXXVI. Oh! live there those who view with scornful eyes All that attests the brightness of thy prime? Yes; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, And breathe th’ inspiring ether of thy clime! Their path is o’er the mightiest of the dead, Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts; Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. Such are the conquerors of Minerva’s land, Where Genius first reveal’d the triumphs of his hand! LXXXVII. For them in vain the glowing light may smile O’er the pale marble, colouring’s warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o’er the dust of heroes lift its head. No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear’d; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered-- As if exulting sternly to erase Whate’er might prove _that_ land had nursed a nobler race. LXXXVIII. And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Athens! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart Though now no more th’ exploring stranger’s sight, Fix’d in deep reverence on Minerva’s fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain’d of forms adored in vain; A few short years--and, vanish’d from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been. LXXXIX. Fair Parthenon! yet still must Fancy weep For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o’er thee sleep In all their beauty still--and thine is gone! Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that rear’d Thy walls; and thou--their fate must soon be thine! But when shall earth again exult to see Visions divine like theirs renew’d in aught like thee? XC. Lone are thy pillars now--each passing gale Sighs o’er them as a spirit’s voice, which moan’d That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale Of the bright synod once above them throned. Mourn, graceful ruin! on thy sacred hill, Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared: Yet art thou honour’d in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared; Each hallow’d stone, from rapine’s fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet unborn. XCI. Yes! in those fragments, though by time defaced And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm th’ enlighten’d eye of taste, On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part Of the crush’d myrtle, or the bruisèd rose, E’en thus th’ essential energy of art There in each wreck imperishably glows![49] The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. XCII. Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, The holy festival’s triumphal throng, In fair procession to Minerva’s fane, With many a sacred symbol, move along. There every shade of bright existence trace, The fire of youth, the dignity of age; The matron’s calm austerity of grace, The ardent warrior, the benignant sage; The nymph’s light symmetry, the chief’s proud mien-- Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene. XCIII. Art unobtrusive there ennobles form,[50] Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows; There e’en the steed, withhold expression warm,[51] Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole; Those varied groups the same bright impress bear; One beam and essence of exalting soul Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; And well that pageant of the glorious dead Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. XCIV. O conquering Genius! that couldst thus detain The subtle graces, fading as they rise, Eternalise expression’s fleeting reign, Arrest warm life in all its energies, And fix them on the stone--thy glorious lot Might wake ambition’s envy, and create Powers half divine: while nations are forgot, A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish’d fate! And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now scarce claim’d a name on earth. XCV. Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere But once beheld, and never to return? No--we may hail again thy bright career, Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn! Though thy least relics, e’en in ruin, bear A stamp of heaven, that ne’er hath been renew’d-- A light inherent--let not man despair: Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.[52] XCVI. Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced-- Yet there the germ of future glory lies! Their virtual grandeur could not be erased; It clothes them still, though veil’d from common eyes. They once were gods and heroes[53]--and beheld As the blest guardians of their native scene; And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell’d With awe that own’d their sovereignty of mien. Ages have vanish’d since those hearts were cold, And still those shatter’d forms retain their godlike mould. XCVII. Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne They have look’d down on thousand storms of time; Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown, They still remain’d, still tranquilly sublime! Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr’d. The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot-- Not e’en their dust could weeping Athens guard; But these were destined to a nobler lot! And they have borne, to light another land, The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously expand. XCVIII. Phidias! supreme in thought! what hand but thine, In human works thus blending earth and heaven, O’er nature’s truth had spread that grace divine, To mortal form immortal grandeur given? What soul but thine, infusing all its power In these last monuments of matchless days, Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower, And Hope aspire to more exalted praise; And guide deep Thought to that secluded height Where excellence is throned in purity of light? XCIX. And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, Caught from these models, may illume the west? What British Angelo may rise to fame,[54] On the free isle what beams of art may rest? Deem not, O England! that by climes confined, Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray;[55] Deem not the eternal energies of mind Sway’d by that sun whose doom is but decay! Shall thought be foster’d but by skies serene? No! thou hast power to be what Athens e’er hath been. C. But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown, And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, O’er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone, Their soaring flight had left a world behind! And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, Or each pure grace of Raphael’s pencil caught, Leaving no record of its power, is gone! While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost CI. Yet rise, O Land, in all but art alone! Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won! Fame dwells around thee--Genius is thine own; Call his rich blooms to life--be thou their sun! So, should dark ages o’er thy glory sweep, Should thine e’er be as now are Grecian plains, Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains; Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, And cry, “This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race!” [12] “The Pæstan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity of blooming twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_. [13] In the naval engagements of the Greeks, “it was usual for the soldiers before the fight to sing a pæan, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo.”--See Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 155. [14] The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Châteaubriand in his _Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem_--“Parvenu au dernier degré du malheur, le Moraïte s’arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du Jourdain et dans les déserts de Palmyre.” [15] In the same work, Châteaubriand also relates his having met with several Greek emigrants who had established themselves in the woods of Florida. [16] “La grâce est toujours unie à la magnificence dans les scènes de la nature: et tandis que le courant du milieu entraine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chênes, on voit sur les deux courants latéraux, remonter, le long des rivages des îles flottantes de Pistia et de Nénuphar, dont les roses jaunes s’élèvent comme de petits papillons.”--_Description of the Banks of the Mississippi_, Chateaubriand’s _Atala_. [17] “Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase, _vale_ of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction.... The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it.... To those who have visited St Vincent’s rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon; and the channel between the cliffs is equally contracted in its dimensions: but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath.”--Holland’s _Travels in Albania, &c._ [18] The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria. [19] “Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm; where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of the stream.... The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality.”--Holland’s _Travels in Albania, &c._ [20] The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylæ, and presided at the Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. [21] “This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_. [22] For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Darwin’s _Botanic Garden_. [23] “The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the court of the Lions; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order.... But its principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon’s temple.”--Burgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_. [24] “Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poëtes Arabiques sont désignés par les écrivains orientaux sous le nom de _Pleïade Arabique_, et leurs ouvrages étaient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque.”--Sismondi, _Littérature du Midi_. [25] “The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 226. [26] See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II.--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 225. [27] “This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is mentioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods of the empire.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_. [28] See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of Delphi.--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p. 396-7. [29] “In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army thought they saw the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the barbarians.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of Theseus_. [30] “From Thermopylæ to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal antagonist; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable ægis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities of Greece.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. v. p. 183. [31] “Even all the _chief ones of the earth_.”--Isaiah, xiv. [32] “How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!”--Samuel, book ii. chap. i. [33] For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare with Ali Pasha, see Holland’s _Travels in Albania_. [34] “It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy.”--Holland’s _Travels_, &c. [35] The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very striking. [36] The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylæ has been thus translated:--“Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here.” [37] “In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis.”--Pouqueville’s _Travels in the Morea_. [38] It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with wool. [39] The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with veneration by the people of the Morea. [40] It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, during which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna.--Porter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. i. p. 392. [41] The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercynian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained.--See Holland’s _Travels_. [42] Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again when they had passed its boundary. [43] “We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation.”--Mitford’s _Greece_, vol. i. p. 35. [44] Fata Morgana. This remarkable aërial phenomenon, which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne:-- “On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful spectacle: the sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thousands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike; these again changed into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_. [45] All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles.--Potter’s _Antiquities of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 232. [46] Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great applause; and when he came down from the rostrum the women paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists.--Langhorne’s _Plutarch, Life of Pericles_. [47] The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival; and it was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to Minerva.--See Chandler’s _Travels_, Stuart’s _Athens_, &c. [48] The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, according to Winckelmann, in high preservation. [49] “In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure,” is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles. [50] “Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill.”--Canova’s _Letter to the Earl of Elgin_. [51] Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse’s head in Lord Elgin’s collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds:--“We feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are insensibly carried on with the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble.”--West’s _Second Letter to Lord Elgin_. [52] Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular--because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist.--See the _Evidence given in reply to Interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles_. [53] The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, “because there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statues.”--See _The Evidence, &c._ [54] “Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens?”--West’s _Second Letter to Lord Elgin_. [55] In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts.--See Hoare’s _Epochs of the Arts_, p. 84, 85. EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. _Blackwood’s Magazine._--“In our reviews of poetical productions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, ‘The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy’--namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. That the author’s fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the _reading_ public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough; and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own intrinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all. * * * * * “But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have forfeited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease _to pay_; and although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward. “Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude. “With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly contrasted ancient with modern Greece. “The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most celebrated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts may be limited.” _Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The grand act of retribution--the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre--occasioned Mrs Hemans’ first publication. ‘Modern Greece’ next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her strength.” TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. “Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome _tentando di dilettare_, quand’ altri v’aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”--Savioli. SONNET 70. “Na metade do ceo subido ardia.” High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign, And for the living fount, the gelid stream, Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain: Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray; Hush’d were their melodies--and grove and glade Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay: When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain, To seek the maid who but despised his pain, Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved: “Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried, “By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied An echo’s murmuring voice--“_Thou art not loved!_” SONNET 282. FROM PSALM CXXXVII. “Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.” Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream I sat, retracing days for ever flown, While rose thine image on the exile’s dream, O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone: When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, Thus to their captive spoke--“Why sleep thy lays? Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, And all thy triumphs in departed days! Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm? Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.” With sighs I answer’d,--“When the cup of woe Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow, The mourner’s cure is not to sing--but die.” PART OF ECLOGUE 15. “Se lá no assento da maior alteza.” If in thy glorious home above Thou still recallest earthly love, If yet retain’d a thought may be Of him whose heart hath bled for thee; Remember still how deeply shrined Thine image in his joyless mind: Each well-known scene, each former care, Forgotten--thou alone art there! Remember that thine eye-beam’s light Hath fled for ever from his sight, And, with that vanish’d sunshine, lost Is every hope he cherish’d most. Think that his life, from thee apart, Is all but weariness of heart; Each stream, whose music once was dear, Now murmurs discord to his ear. Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days, Now, in the light of beauty drest, Brings but new sorrows to his breast. Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, The sun’s meridian blaze is dim; And harsh were e’en the bird of eve, But that her song still loves to grieve. All it hath been, his heart forgets, So alter’d by its long regrets; Each wish is changed, each hope is o’er, And joy’s light spirit wakes no more. SONNET 271. “A formosura desta fresca serra.” This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown’d, These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight; Soft on these hills the sun’s declining ray; This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze; And all that Nature’s lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne’er in thy absence can delight my breast: Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles: And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. SONNET 186. “Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia.” Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show; That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, Where the rose mantled o’er the living snow; The rich redundance of that golden hair, Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day; That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, Where now those treasures?--mouldering into clay! Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, Hath young Perfection wither’d in its morn, Touch’d by the hand that gathers but to blight? Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears! Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night! SONNET 108. “Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando.” Fair Tajo! thou whose calmly-flowing tide Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, Enlivening all where’er thy waves may glide, Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs and swains. Sweet stream! I know not when my steps again Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, I have no hope to meliorate my pain, No dream that whispers--I may yet return! My frowning destiny, whose watchful care Forbids me blessings and ordains despair, Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, And blend my tears with other waves than thine! SONNET 23. TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. “Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao.” Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave, O fondly loved! my bosom’s dearest care! Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair! Yes! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, Dark o’er thy head th’ eternal billows roll; But while one ray of life or thought is mine, Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. And if the tones of my uncultured song Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure; Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure. SONNET 19. “Alma minha gentil, que te partiste.” Spirit beloved! whose wing so soon hath flown The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, How is yon Heaven eternally thine own, Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here! Oh! if allow’d in thy divine abode Of aught on earth an image to retain, Remember still the fervent love which glow’d In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. And if thou deem’d that all my faithful grief, Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies! Oh! ask of Heaven, which call’d thee soon away, That I may join thee in those realms of day, Swiftly as _thou_ hast vanish’d from mine eyes. “Que estranho caso de amor!” How strange a fate in love is mine! How dearly prized the pains I feel! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, With avarice I conceal: For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe-- And mine is grief that none must know. To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove; ’Twould plunge in ruin and despair Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know. Thus buried in my bosom’s urn, Thus in my inmost heart conceal’d, Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unreveal’d. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know. SONNET 58. “Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata.” Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart Yet long enough protract his votary’s days To see the lustre from those eyes depart, The lode-stars[56] now that fascinate my gaze; To see rude Time the living roses blight That o’er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright To silvery whiteness, from their native gold; Oh! then thy heart an equal change will prove, And mourn the coldness that repell’d my love, When tears and penitence will all be vain; And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. [56] “Your eyes are lode-stars.”--Shakespeare. SONNET 178. “Já cantei, já chorei a dura guerra.” Oft have I sung and mourn’d the bitter woes Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, While he the tale forbade me to disclose, That taught his votaries their deluded state. Nymphs! who dispense Castalia’s living stream, Ye, who from Death oblivion’s mantle steal, Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, Each grief by love inflicted to reveal: That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, May hear experience breathe a warning lay-- How false his smiles, his promises how vain! Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, When the sad task is o’er, my plaintive lyre, For ever hush’d, shall slumber in your fane. SONNET 80. “Como quando do mar tempestuoso.” Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, But just escaped from shipwreck’s billowy grave, Trembles to hear its horrors named again. How warm his vow, that Ocean’s fairest mien No more shall lure him from the smiles of home! Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, Once more he turns, o’er boundless deeps to roam. Lady! thus I, who vainly oft in flight Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, Make the firm vow to shim thee and be free: But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, Still draws me back where countless perils reign, And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. SONNET 239. FROM PSALM CXXXVII. “Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando.” Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears Of vain desire, we sat; remembering thee, O hallow’d Sion! and the vanish’d years, When Israel’s chosen sons were blest and free: Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung Mute on the willows of the stranger’s land; When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, Our foes demanded from their captive band. “How shall our voices, on a foreign shore,” (We answer’d those whose chains the exile wore,) “The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew? If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, Thee, O Jerusalem! my native soil! _May my right hand forget its cunning too!_” SONNET 128. “Huma admiravel herva se conhece.” There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power, And most expands when most her idol burns: But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, His faithful plant’s reflected charms decay; Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour’d weep, Still fondly pining for the vanish’d ray. Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight! When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower: But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, Born but to live within thine eye-beam’s power. “Polomeu apartamento.” Amidst the bitter tears that fell In anguish at my last farewell, Oh! who would dream that joy could dwell, To make that moment bright? Yet be my judge, each heart! and say, Which then could most my bosom sway, Affliction or delight? It was when Hope, oppress’d with woes, Seem’d her dim eyes in death to close, That rapture’s brightest beam arose In sorrow’s darkest night. Thus, if my soul survive that hour, ’Tis that my fate o’ercame the power Of anguish with delight. For oh! her love, so long unknown, She _then_ confess’d was all my own, And in that parting hour alone Reveal’d it to my sight. And now what pangs will rend my soul, Should fortune still, with stern control, Forbid me this delight! I know not if my bliss were vain, For all the force of parting pain Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, When exiled from her sight: Yet now what double woe for me, Just at the close of eve, to see The dayspring of delight! SONNET 205. “Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso.” He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways, Ah! sure too well hath merited his pain, Too justly finds him all he thus portrays: For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. Believe not him who dares the tale oppose; Oh! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. If Love bring evils, view them all in me! Here let the world his utmost rigour see, His utmost power exerted to annoy: But all his ire is still the ire of love; And such delight in all his woes I prove, I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy. SONNET 133. “Doces e claras aguas do Mondego.” Waves of Mondego! brilliant and serene, Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays, Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, Witching my soul, in long-departed days; Yes, I forsake your banks! but still my heart Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, And, suffering not one image to depart, Find lengthening distance but endear you more. Let Fortune’s will, through many a future day, To distant realms this mortal frame convey, Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave; Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, On thought’s light pinion still shall fly to you, And still, bright waters! in your current lave. SONNET 181. “Onde acharei lugar taō apartado.” Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, Where loneliness so undisturb’d may reign, That not a step shall ever there intrude Of roving man, or nature’s savage train-- Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, But darkly suited to my spirit’s gloom? That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief Entomb’d in life, and hopeless of relief, In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. For oh! since nought my sorrows can allay, There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. SONNET 278. “Eu vivia de lagrimas isento.” Exempt from every grief,’twas mine to live In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, A thousand joys propitious Love can give Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power; No care intruding to disturb my breast, I dwelt entranced in Love’s Elysian bower: But Fate, such transports eager to destroy, Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, And bade the phantoms of delight begone: Bade hope and happiness at once depart, And left but memory to distract my heart, Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. “Mi nueve y dulce querella.” No searching eye can pierce the veil That o’er my secret love is thrown; No outward signs reveal its tale, But to my bosom known. Thus, like the spark whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight, It dwells within, alone. METASTASIO. “Dunque si sfoga in pianto.” In tears, the heart oppress’d with grief Gives language to its woes; In tears, its fulness finds relief, When rapture’s tide o’erflows! Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek On this terrestrial sphere; When e’en Delight can only speak, Like Sorrow--in a tear? “Al furor d’avversa Sorte.” He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien, Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene, To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued. In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, forms The lofty spirit and enduring heart! “Quella onda che ruina.” The torrent wave, that breaks with force Impetuous down the Alpine height, Complains and struggles in its course, But sparkles, as the diamond bright. The stream in shadowy valley deep May slumber in its narrow bed; But silent, in unbroken sleep, Its lustre and its life are fled. “Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie.” Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expand Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d, And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread: That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground, To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne; Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d, There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn. Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower! Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower, And each rough season’s chill vicissitude, Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. “Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine.” Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these? Think’st thou that _I_ thy threatening mien shall dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize? Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway! _My_ constant soul should triumph unsubdued, Were the wide universe destruction’s prey. Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? No! I have long thine utmost power defied, And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper’d steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. “Parlagli d’un periglio.” Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?-- Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?-- He is a child of wayward mind! But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once--the task is o’er; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, No more an infant, blind no more. “Sprezza il furor del vento.” Unbending midst the wintry skies, Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stem in rugged strength, defies The rushing of the storm. Then sever’d from his native shore, O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before, He proudly struggles there. “Sol può dir che sia contento.” Oh! those alone whose sever’d hearts Have mourn’d through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, When Fate unites them once again. Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, Whose language hails that moment bright, When past afflictions but endear The presence of delight! “Ah! frenate le piante imbelle!” Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain! I go misfortune to defy, To smile at fate with proud disdain, To triumph--not to die! I with fresh laurels go to crown My closing days at last, Securing all the bright renown Acquired in dangers past. VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. “Italia! Italia! O tu cui diè la sorte.” Italia! O Italia! thou, so graced With ill-starr’d beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Then pierce thee with the death-pang’s bitterness! Not _then_ would foreign hosts have drain’d the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed: Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew’d, Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger’s hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued! PASTORINI. “Genova mia! se con asciutto ciglio.” If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, My native Genoa! with a tearless eye, Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold; But know--I deem rebellious every sigh! Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! And in each trace of devastation’s way, Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, “_Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!_” LOPE DE VEGA. “Estese el cortesano.” Let the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare; Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth. Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend, At Grandeur’s altar to attend, Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown; Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown! Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain. FRANCISCO MANUEL. ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. “No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!” Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here, Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear-- To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight; Pause not, but tread this consecrated road-- ’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still? Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life. DELLA CASA. VENICE. “Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.” These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, ’twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, They sought these island precincts--to be free. Ne’er in their souls ambition’s flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr’d each artless breast: Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay, O’erwhelm’d by luxury, and by wealth opprest! IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. “L’anima bella, che dal vero Eliso.” The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour’d sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven’s full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in _her_ my eyes behold, And now, e’en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest. QUEVEDO. ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. “Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!” Amidst these scenes, O pilgrim! seek’st thou Rome? Vain is thy search--the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb; Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower’d sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives--the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave, Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem’d for years eternal framed to last: Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains. EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. “Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.” Thou, who hast fled from life’s enchanted bowers, In youth’s gay spring, in beauty’s glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, Hast found thy haven in devotion’s fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs To shim the midnight perils of the main-- Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh! how shouldst _thou_ the exulting pæan raise, Now heaven’s bright harbour opens on thy gaze! TORQUATO TASSO. “Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.” Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose To the mild sunshine only half display’d, That shunn’d its bashful graces to disclose, And in its veil of verdure sought a shade: Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne’er vied with aught so bright,) Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, O’er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom’d no grace to fade; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array’d, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. BERNARDO TASSO. “Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.” This green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d, Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair! A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free. PETRARCH. “Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.” Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined, Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind: And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long, First calls the brightest and the best away; And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay! Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace, In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze: But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. “Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.” If to the sighing breeze of summer hours Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers, The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. “Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,” (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) “While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!” VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. “O Muerte! que sueles ser.” Thou, the stem monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, O Death! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; The pangs that bid existence close, Ah! sure are far less keen than those Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. FRANCESCO LORENZINI. “O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.” Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light Wave gently round the tree I planted here, Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight To the pure ether of her lofty sphere; Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale! To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form. Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, Graced with her name, a consecrated tree! So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind, Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free! GESNER. MORNING SONG. “Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.” Hail! morning sun, thus early bright; Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! Through the dark woods that fringe the height, Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray. Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, Bright on the water’s glittering fall, And life, and joy, and health appear, Sweet Morning! at thy call. Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring From beds of fragrance, where they lay, And roving wild on dewy wing, Drive slumber far away. Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, Now from each mind withdraw their spell; While the young loves delighted meet, On Rosa’s cheek to dwell. Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own; Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower, Ere her light sleep is flown. There, o’er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day; Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o’er her bosom play; And whisper, when her eyes unveil, That I, since morning’s earliest call, Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale By the lone waterfall. GERMAN SONG. “Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.” Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell How Love may still be known full well-- His looks the traitor prove. Dost thou not see that absent smile, That fiery glance replete with guile? Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love. When varying still the sly disguise, Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, Or with complaint would move; To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, Changing each hour, he knows not why. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love. There’s magic in his every wile, His lips, well practised to beguile, Breathe roses when they move; See! now with sudden rage he burns, Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. Oh! doubt not then--’tis Love. He comes, without the bow and dart, That spare not e’en the purest heart; His looks the traitor prove; That glance is fire, that mien is guile, Deceit is lurking in that smile-- Oh! trust him not--’tis Love! CHAULIEU. “Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.” Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, Still bid its voice of murmurs bring Peace to my musing hours. Sweet Fontenay! where first for me The dayspring of existence rose, Soon shall my dust return to thee, And midst my sires repose. Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn, Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye-- Fair trees! that here beheld me born, Soon shall ye see me die. GARCILASO DE VEGA. “Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.” Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May Ere envious Age is hastening on his way With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow; The rose will fade when storms assail the year, And Time, who changeth not his swift career, Constant in this, will change all else below! LORENZO DE MEDICI. VIOLETS. “Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.” We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d; Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade! There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe, To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood, Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below With print relentless drew celestial blood! Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes; We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales By guided rivulets or summer gales-- Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs! PINDEMONTE. ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. “Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?” Whither, celestial maid, so fast away? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? How canst thou leave thy native realms of day For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? O thou, Canova! soaring high above Italian art--with Grecian magic vying! We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace. [A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period--such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.” “Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,--the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and ‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”--_Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains_, 1836. In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:-- “At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”--_Athenæum_, Feb. 1831.] MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. LINES WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. O wanderer! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies; Pause for a while, and deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. Unmix’d with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature’s voice is heard alone: When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound-- That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung? Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe? Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead?-- Oh! pause awhile--the world disown, And dwell with Nature’s self alone! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul’s departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o’er, Beyond her magic to restore; Yet shall her spells o’er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. DIRGE OF A CHILD. No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being! seen and gone! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, O blest departed One! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush’d into dawn and pass’d away. Yes! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm! The sunbeam’s smile, the zephyr’s breath, All that it knew from birth to death. Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call’d thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O’er thy sweet innocence: And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass’d, with all thy loveliness! Oh I hadst thou still on earth remain’d, Vision of beauty! fair, as brief! How soon thy brightness had been stain’d With passion or with grief! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies. We rear no marble o’er thy tomb-- No sculptured image there shall mourn; Ah! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee. Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn’d with Nature’s brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit! visit our repose; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes! What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven?[57] INVOCATION. Hush’d is the world in night and sleep-- Earth, sea, and air are still as death; Too rude to break a calm so deep Were music’s faintest breath. Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass’d; Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled: Whore Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet. But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray, Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom! And waft _his_ spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life’s realities. No voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower: Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour. [57] Vide Annotation from _Quarterly Review_, p. 62. TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR E--D P--K--M.[58] Brave spirit! mourn’d with fond regret, Lost in life’s pride, in valour’s noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon! Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind Which mark’d and closed thy brief career, And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, Lies wither’d on thy bier. The soldier’s death hath been thy doom, The soldier’s tear thy mead shall be; Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear’d for thee. Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul’d chief! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevail’d o’er grief We scarce could mourn the dead. Noontide of fame! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior’s grave: When shall affection weep again So proudly o’er the brave? There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles’ mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria’s blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been. We mourn not that a hero’s life Thus in its ardent prime should close; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer’d foes! Yet hast thou still (though victory’s flame In that last moment cheer’d thee not) Left Glory’s isle another name, That ne’er may be forgot: And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory’s ear, And long may England mourn a son _Without reproach or fear_. [58] Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. “Six thousand combatants on the British side,” says Mr Alison, “were in the field: a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery.”--_History of Europe_, vol. x. p. 743. The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action:--“The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy’s line at more than two hundred yards’ distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy’s line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired.”--_Edinr. An. Regist._ 1815, p. 356. TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H--Y E--LL--S, WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. “Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is around them.”--Ossian. Weep’st thou for him, whose doom was seal’d On England’s proudest battle-field? For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory’s full resistless tide? Oh, mourn him not! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour’s son No brighter lot. He heard his band’s exulting cry, He saw the vanquish’d eagles fly; And envied be his death of fame! It shed a sunbeam o’er his name That nought shall dim: No cloud obscured his glory’s day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him! And breathe no dirge’s plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm-- The avenging angel--rear’d her form In tenfold power. Yet, gallant heart! to swell thy praise, Vain were the minstrel’s noblest lays; Since he, the soldier’s guiding star, The Victor-chief, the lord of war, Has own’d thy fame: And oh! like _his_ approving word, What trophied marble could record A warrior’s name? GUERILLA SONG. FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT MINA. Oh! forget not the hour when through forest and vale We return’d with our chief to his dear native halls; Through the woody sierra there sigh’d not a gale, And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement-walls; And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight. We enter’d that home--all was loneliness round, The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound: Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave! For the spoilers had pass’d, like the poison-wind’s breath, And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. Oh! forget not that hour--let its image be near, In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine O’er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine. THE AGED INDIAN. Warriors! my noon of life is past, The brightness of my spirit flown; I crouch before the wintry blast, Amidst my tribe I dwell alone; The heroes of my youth are fled, They rest among the warlike dead. Ye slumberers of the narrow cave! My kindred chiefs in days of yore! Ye fill an unremember’d grave, Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one. Soon shall that one depart from earth, To join the brethren of his prime; Then will the memory of your birth Sleep with the hidden things of time. With him, ye sons of former days! Fades the last glimmering of your praise. His eyes, that hail’d your spirits’ flame, Still kindling in the combat’s shock, Have seen, since darkness veil’d your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase. Descendants of the mighty dead! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand! Oh, let me join their spirits fled-- Oh! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara’s heart-- He shrinks not from the friendly dart. These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown;-- Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone? Warriors! why still the stroke deny? Think ye Ontara fears to die? He fear’d not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent’s force, When through the desert’s pathless maze His way was as an eagle’s course! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight! Shall, then, the warrior tremble _now_? Now when his envied strength is o’er-- Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore? When age hath dimm’d his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die? Sons of the brave! delay no more-- The spirits of my kindred call. ’Tis but one pang, and all is o’er! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed time. EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. Soft skies of Italy! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o’er the dwellings of eternal snow! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain-stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight’s deep repose: While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o’er solitudes afar. DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN “WAVERLEY.”[59] Son of the mighty and the free! High-minded leader of the brave! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior’s bier had been thy lot, E’en though on red Culloden’s plain, We then had mourn’d thee not. But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair! Yet, oh! if gallant spirit’s power Hath e’er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark’d _thy_ parting hour, Last of a mighty line! O’er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile: Not e’en thy dust is there. On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent’s roar; Unmark’d, the wild deer sport around: Thou lead’st the chase no more! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal’d the choral strain; They hear the wind’s deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush’d again. No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon’d folds on high; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark’d shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine-- Hush’d be the strain _thou_ canst not hear, Last of a mighty line! [59] These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading. “A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor:-- “‘_A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work; and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to_ _Your Sincere Admirer._’ “The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register.” Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the “_very ingenious young friend of mine_” and “_your sincere admirer_,” on the one hand; and the disclaimer by “_a literary friend of ours_,” on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hermans to Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register--of which he himself wrote that year the historical department.--_Vide_ Lockhart’s Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80. THE CRUSADERS’ WAR-SONG. Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high-- Lead on to Salem’s towers! Who would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb’d but shrined, O Palestine! Souls of the slain in holy war! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory’s car, To mingle with the blest; Tell us how short the death-pang’s power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower. Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train! Pour forth your loftiest lays; Each heart shall echo to the strain Breathed in the warrior’s praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th’ inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. Salem! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, O blessed Palestine! Chieftains, lead on! our hearts beat high For combat’s glorious hour; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem’s loftiest tower! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where _but_ to die insures eternal life. THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. [It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourning!” The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them.--See the _Quarterly Review_ article of “Culloden Papers.”] Oh, ne’er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o’er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur “Farewell.” We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” And wildly, Clanronald! we echo’d the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand; Young son of the brave! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, When they joined in wild chorus the cry of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle’s wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o’er thy grave-- While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” Thou art fallen, O fearless one! flower of thy race! Descendant of heroes! thy glory is set: But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet! Nor vainly have echo’d the words of the chief, “To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief!” TO THE EYE. Throne of expression! whence the spirit’s ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy’s fire, affection’s mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne’er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart: Thy power, bright orb! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnet-influence touch the secret soul! Light of the features! in the morn of youth Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth; And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, Hath taught e’en _thee_ to flatter and betray, Th’ ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. While yet thou seem’st the cloudless mirror given But to reflect the purity of heaven, Oh! then how lovely, there unveil’d, to trace Th’ unsullied brightness of each mental grace! When Genius lends thee all his living light, Where the full beams of intellect unite; When love illumes thee with his varying ray, Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; Or Pity’s melting cloud thy beam subdues, Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews; Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, Bid some new feeling to existence start From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. And oh! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, That soars triumphant o’er the bounds of time, Fires thy keen glance with inspiration’s blaze, The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, Flash through the mist of dim mortality;) Who does not own, that through thy lightning-beams A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams? That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die! THE HERO’S DEATH. Life’s parting beams were in his eye, Life’s closing accents on his tongue, When round him, pealing to the sky, The shout of victory rung! Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, A smile so bright illumed his face-- Oh! never, of the light it shed, Shall memory lose a trace! His was a death whose rapture high Transcended all that life could yield; His warmest prayer was so to die, On the red battle-field! And they may feel, who loved him most, A pride so holy and so pure: Fate hath no power o’er those who boast A treasure thus secure! STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. [“Hélas! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu’on peut imaginer de plus glorieux.... Le passé et le présent nous garantissoient l’avenir.... Telle étoit l’agréable histoire que nous faisions; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n’y avoit que la durée de sa vie; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir être en peine, car qui eût pu seulement penser, que les années eussent dû manquer à une jeunesse qui sembloit si vive?”--Bossuet.] I. Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng, Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright? Prepare the pageant and the choral song, The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light! And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh? Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep? Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry! Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d, And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast! II. Was it a dream? so sudden and so dread That awful fiat o’er our senses came! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, Whose early grandeur promised years of fame? Oh! when hath life possess’d, or death destroy’d More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? When hath the spoiler left so dark a void? For all is lost--the mother and her child! Our morning-star hath vanish’d, and the tomb Throws its deep lengthen’d shade o’er distant years to come. III. Angel of Death! did no presaging sign Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare? No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, Danger and fear seem’d past--but thou wert there! Prophetic sounds along the earthquake’s path Foretell the hour of nature’s awful throes; And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, Sends forth some herald from its dread repose: But _thou_, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen, Cam’st like the lightning’s flash, when heaven is all serene. IV. And she is gone!--the royal and the young, In soul commanding, and in heart benign! Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, Glow’d with a spirit lofty as her line. Now may the voice she loved on earth so well Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell Wake from that breast one sympathy again: The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. V. Oh, many a bright existence we have seen Quench’d in the glow and fulness of its prime; And many a cherish’d flower, ere now, hath been Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier; And we have wept when soaring genius died, Check’d in the glory of his mid career! But here our hopes were centred--all is o’er: All thought in this absorb’d,--she was--and is no more! VI. We watch’d her childhood from its earliest hour, From every word and look blest omens caught; While that young mind developed all its power, And rose to energies of loftiest thought. On her was fix’d the patriot’s ardent eye-- One hope still bloom’d, one vista still was fair; And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, She was our dayspring--all was cloudless _there_; And oh! how lovely broke on England’s gaze, E’en through the mist and storm, the fight of distant days. VII. Now hath one moment darken’d future years, And changed the track of ages yet to be!-- Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Kneel, and adore th’ inscrutable decree! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Wisdom should _then_ have temper’d hope’s excess; And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, We might have trembled at its loveliness. Joy is no earthly flower--nor framed to bear, In its exotic bloom, life’s cold, ungenial air. VIII. All smiled around thee: Youth, and Love, and Praise, Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! On thee was riveted a nation’s gaze, As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. Heiress of empires! thou art pass’d away Like some fair vision, that arose to throw O’er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, Then leave the rest to solitude and woe! Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again! Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee were vain? IX. Yet there is one who loved thee--and whose soul With mild affections nature form’d to melt; His mind hath bow’d beneath the stern control Of many a grief--but _this_ shall be unfelt! Years have gone by--and given his honour’d head A diadem of snow; his eye is dim; Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread-- The past, the future, are a dream to him! Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone[60] He dwells on earth, while thou in life’s full pride art gone! X. The Chastener’s hand is on us--we may weep, But not repine--for many a storm hath pass’d, And, pillow’d on her own majestic deep, Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast! And War hath raged o’er many a distant plain, Trampling the vine and olive in his path; While she, that regal daughter of the main, Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath! As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. XI. Her voice hath been th’ awakener--and her name The gathering-word of nations. In her might, And all the awful beauty of her fame, Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower-- That torch whose flame, far streaming o’er the flood, Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour. Away, vain dreams of glory!--in the dust Be humbled, Ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just! XII. Hark! ’twas the death-bell’s note! which, full and deep, Unmix’d with aught of less majestic tone, While all the murmurs of existence sleep, Swell’d on the stillness of the air alone! Silent the throngs that fill the darken’d street, Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; And all is still, where countless thousands meet, Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart! All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, As in each ravaged home th’ avenging one had been. XIII. The sun goes down in beauty--his farewell, Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright; And his last mellow’d rays around us dwell, Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. They smile and fade--but, when the day is o’er, What slow procession moves with measured tread?-- Lo! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, A solemn train--the mourners and the dead! While, throned on high, the moon’s untroubled ray Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away. XIV. But other light is in that holy pile, Where, in the house of silence, kings repose; There, through the dim arcade and pillar’d aisle, The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, And all around the stamp of woe may bear; But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, Grief unexpress’d, unsoothed by them--is there. No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust returns. XV. We mourn--but not _thy_ fate, departed One! We pity--but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o’er us[61]--“the bright day is done,” And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought-- He, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth? XVI. Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul; Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense Strength e’en to _feel_ at once their dread control. But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony! Its deathlike torpor vanish’d--and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom. XVII. And such _his_ lot whom thou hast loved and left, Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d! So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d. Years may pass on--and, as they roll along, Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng, May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined. XVIII. Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee: Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, But all it was--oh! never more shall be. The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow, Shall spring again, when beams and showers return, The faded cheek again with health may glow, And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn; But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom, Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. XIX. But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er, And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run; While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, Tells that thy crown--though not on earth--is won. Thou, of the world so early left, hast known Nought but the bloom and sunshine--and for thee, Child of propitious stars! for thee alone, The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free. Not long such bliss to mortal could be given: It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven. XX. What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye, The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came? Ours is that loss--and thou wert blest to die! Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast; But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears, And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last! And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. XXI. Daughter of Kings! from that high sphere look down Where still, in hope, affection’s thoughts may rise; Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown Which earth display’d to claim thee from the skies. Look down! and if thy spirit yet retain Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in vain, And in their hours of loneliness--be near! Blest was thy lot e’en here--and one faint sigh, Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that blest eternity![63] [60] “I saw him last on this terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness; Begirt with his court--and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness. * * * * * “The time since he walk’d in glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried, Was an age of the mightiest change to _us_, But to _him_ a night unvaried. * * * * * “A daughter beloved--a queen--a son-- And a son’s sole child had perish’d; And sad was each heart, save the only one By which they were fondest cherish’d.” --“The Contrast,” written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 1820, by Horace Smith, Esq. [61] “The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.”--Shakspeare. [62] “The course of true love never did run smooth.” Shakspeare. [63] These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, and first appeared in _Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. iii. April 1818. EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW. “The next volume in order consists principally of translations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans’ acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from whom she has chosen her subjects;--they are Camoens, Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco Manuel, Della Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega--names embracing almost every language in which the muse has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any of them for citation, as our readers might not be possessed of or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are about to transcribe is on a subject often treated--and no wonder; it would be hard to find another which embraces so many of the elements of poetic feeling; so soothing a mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope; such an assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playfulness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable brightness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty; but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to the blessedness of departed infants; and when we think what they now are and what they might have been, what they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what they have now gained and what they might have lost, we may, indeed, yearn to follow them; but we must be selfish indeed to wish them again ‘constrained’ to dwell in these tenements of pain and sorrow. The ‘Dirge of a Child,’ which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in more beautiful order and language:-- “No bitter tears for thee be shed,” etc.--Vide page 55. WALLACE’S INVOCATION TO BRUCE.[64] “Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief!” The morn rose bright on scenes renown’d, Wild Caledonia’s classic ground, Where the bold sons of other days Won their high fame in Ossian’s lays, And fell--but not till Carron’s tide With Roman blood was darkly dyed. The morn rose bright--and heard the cry Sent by exulting hosts on high, And saw the white-cross banner float (While rung each clansman’s gathering-note) O’er the dark plumes and serried spears Of Scotland’s daring mountaineers; As, all elate with hope, they stood, To buy their freedom with their blood. The sunset shone--to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d; Deep slumber--not to pass away When breaks another morning’s ray, Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes’ dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman--but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride. Vainly they fell--that martyr host-- All, save the land’s high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! _they_ calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England’s triumph telling Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer’s lowly bier An envying glance--but not a tear. But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear or weak despair Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield, Glitters not _there_ alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead; But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other fight hath fill’d thine eye With inspiration’s majesty, Caught from th’ immortal flame divine Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, Feels his reluctant mind controll’d By thine of more heroic mould: Though struggling all in vain to war With that high soul’s ascendant star, He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye, Would mock the name of Liberty. Heard ye the Patriot’s awful voice?-- “Proud Victor! in thy fame rejoice! Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, The harvest of the battle-plain, And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot Eternity shall cancel not? Rejoice!--with sounds of wild lament O’er her dark heaths and mountains sent, With dying moan and dirge’s wail, Thy ravaged country bids thee hail! Rejoice!--while yet exulting cries From England’s conquering host arise, And strains of choral triumph tell Her Royal Slave hath fought too well! Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest Brooding o’er Scotland’s mountain-crest! Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, O’er martyr’d chiefs her daughters mourn, And not a breeze but wafts the sound Of wailing through the land around. Yet deem not thou, till life depart, High hope shall leave the patriot’s heart; Or courage to the storm inured, Or stern resolve by woes matured, Oppose, to Fate’s severest hour, Less than unconquerable power! No! though the orbs of heaven expire, _Thine_, Freedom! is a quenchless fire; And woe to him whose might would dare The energies of _thy_ despair! No!--when thy chain, O Bruce! is cast O’er thy land’s charter’d mountain-blast, Then in my yielding soul shall die The glorious faith of Liberty!” “Wild hopes! o’er dreamer’s mind that rise!” With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, (Yet his dark cheek is flush’d with shame, And his eye fill’d with troubled flame;) “Vain, brief illusions! doom’d to fly England’s red path of victory! Is not her sword unmatch’d in might? Her course a torrent in the fight? The terror of her name gone forth Wide o’er the regions of the north? Far hence, midst other heaths and snows, Must freedom’s footstep now repose. And thou--in lofty dreams elate, Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! ’Tis vain--the land is lost and won: Sheathed be the sword--its task is done. Where are the chiefs that stood with thee First in the battles of the free? The firm in heart, in spirit high?-- They sought yon fatal field to die. Each step of Edward’s conquering host Hath left a grave on Scotland’s coast.” “Vassal of England, yes! a grave Where sleep the faithful and the brave; And who the glory would resign Of death like theirs, for life like thine? They slumber--and the stranger’s tread May spurn thy country’s noble dead; Yet, on the land they loved so well, Still shall their burning spirit dwell, Their deeds shall hallow minstrel’s theme, Their image rise on warrior’s dream, Their names be inspiration’s breath, Kindling high hope and scorn of death, Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, The flame that shall avenge their doom! This is no land for chains--away! O’er softer climes let tyrants sway. Think’st thou the mountain and the storm Their hardy sons for bondage form? Doth our stern wintry blast instil Submission to a despot’s will? No! _we_ were cast in other mould Than theirs by lawless power controll’d; The nurture of our bitter sky Calls forth resisting energy; And the wild fastnesses are ours, The rocks with their eternal towers. The soul to struggle and to dare Is mingled with our northern air, And dust beneath our soil is lying Of those who died for fame undying. “Tread’st thou that soil! and can it be No loftier thought is roused in thee? Doth no high feeling proudly start From slumber in thine inmost heart? No secret voice thy bosom thrill, For thine own Scotland pleading still? Oh! wake thee yet--indignant, claim A nobler fate, a purer fame, And cast to earth thy fetters riven, And take thine offer’d crown from heaven. Wake! in that high majestic lot May the dark past be all forgot; And Scotland shall forgive the field Where with her blood thy shame was seal’d. E’en I--though on that fatal plain Lies my heart’s brother with the slain; Though, reft of his heroic worth, My spirit dwells alone on earth; And when all other grief is past, Must _this_ be cherish’d to the last-- Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, With faith unspotted as his own; Nor in thy noon of fame recall _Whose_ was the guilt that wrought his fall.” Still dost thou hear in stern disdain? Are Freedom’s warning accents vain? No! royal Bruce! within thy breast Wakes each high thought, too long suppress’d. And thy heart’s noblest feelings live, Blent in that suppliant word--“Forgive!” “Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done! Wallace! thy fairest palm is won; And, kindling at my country’s shrine, My soul hath caught a spark from thine. Oh! deem not, in the proudest hour Of triumph and exulting power-- Deem not the light of peace could find A home within my troubled mind. Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, Dark, silent, secret, there have been, Known but to Him whose glance can trace Thought to its deepest dwelling-place! --’Tis past--and on my native shore I tread, a rebel son no more. Too blest, if yet my lot may be In glory’s path to follow thee; If tears, by late repentance pour’d, May lave the blood-stains from my sword!” Far other tears, O Wallace! rise From the heart’s fountain to thine eyes; Bright, holy, and uncheck’d they spring, While thy voice falters, “Hail! my King! Be every wrong, by memory traced, In this full tide of joy effaced: Hail! and rejoice!--thy race shall claim A heritage of deathless fame, And Scotland shall arise at length Majestic in triumphant strength, An eagle of the rock, that won A way through tempests to the sun. Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, The prophet-spirit of thy land: By torrent-wave, in desert vast, Those visions o’er my thought have pass’d; Where mountain vapours darkly roll, That spirit hath possess’d my soul; And shadowy forms have met mine eye. The beings of futurity; And a deep voice of years to be Hath told that Scotland shall be free! He comes! exult, thou Sire of Kings! From thee the chief, th’ avenger springs! Far o’er the land he comes to save, His banners in their glory wave, And Albyn’s thousand harps awake On hill and heath, by stream and lake, To swell the strains that far around Bid the proud name of Bruce resound! And I--but wherefore now recall The whisper’d omens of my fall? They come not in mysterious gloom-- There is no bondage in the tomb! O’er the soul’s world no tyrant reigns, And earth alone for man hath chains! What though I perish ere the hour When Scotland’s vengeance wakes in power? If shed for her, my blood shall stain The field or scaffold not in vain: Its voice to efforts more sublime Shall rouse the spirit of her clime; And in the noontide of her lot, My country shall forget me not!” * * * * * _Art_ thou forgot? and hath thy worth Without its glory pass’d from earth? Rest with the brave, whose names belong To the high sanctity of song! Charter’d our reverence to control, And traced in sunbeams on the soul, _Thine_, Wallace! while the heart hath still One pulse a generous thought can thrill-- While youth’s warm tears are yet the meed Of martyr’s death or hero’s deed, Shall brightly live from age to age, Thy country’s proudest heritage! Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, Thy step hath hallow’d rock and cave, And cold the wanderer’s heart must be That holds no converse there with thee! Yet, Scotland! to thy champion’s shade Still are thy grateful rites delay’d; From lands of old renown, o’erspread With proud memorials of the dead, The trophied urn, the breathing bust, The pillar guarding noble dust, The shrine where art and genius high Have labour’d for eternity-- The stranger comes: his eye explores The wilds of thy majestic shores, Yet vainly seeks one votive stone Raised to the hero all thine own. Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore! Withhold that guerdon now no more. On some bold height of awful form, Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, Sublimely mingling with the skies, Bid the proud Cenotaph arise: Not to _record_ the name that thrills Thy soul, the watchword of thy hills; Not to assert, with needless claim, The bright _for ever_ of its fame; But, in the ages yet untold, When _ours_ shall be the days of old, To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride In him, for thee who lived and died. [64] _Advertisement by the Author._--“A native of Edinburgh, and member of the Highland Society of London, with a view to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable national monument to the memory of Wallace, lately offered prizes for the three best poems on the subject of that illustrious patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The following poem obtained the first of these prizes. It would have appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the public, under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of the prize; but his privilege has, with pride as well as pleasure, been yielded to a lady of the author’s own country, who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the poet; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of the theme in which she has triumphed. “It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the country which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings.” [“Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accordingly did, though without being in the slightest degree sanguine of success; so that the news of the prize having been decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The number of candidates, for this distinction, was so overwhelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the strangest aspirants imaginable; and one of them is mentioned as being as long as _Paradise Lost_. At length, however, the Herculean labour was accomplished; and the honour awarded to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards to receive at the hands of the Scottish public.”--_Memoir_, p. 31-2. Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, of very considerable excellence. We would especially mention “Wallace and Bruce, a Vision,” published in _Constable’s Magazine_ for Dec. 1819; and “Wallace,” by James Hogg, subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected Works--Edin. 1822, p. 143-160. “The Vision” is thus prefaced:--“Though far from entering into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse but the _amor patriæ_, and seeks no other praise but what is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient kingdom, and no higher name than that of ‘a kindly Scot.’” The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of the merits of his rival. “This poem,” (Wallace,) says he, “was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia Hemans; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I would have given hers the preference by many degrees; and I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the people that were the hero’s foes, oppressors, and destroyers. I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any poem that ever was written.” Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such a man as the Author of “The Queen’s Wake”--a production entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, independently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, “Kilmeny,” “Glenavin,” “Earl Walter,” “The Abbot Mackinnon,” and “The Witch of Fife”--more especially the first and the last--possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind; and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor Hogg was the very reverse of Antæus--he was always in power except when he touched the earth.] [These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of publication:-- “When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides; and at its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie--Ireland her Tighe--England her Hemans.”--_Blackwood’s Magazine_, vol. v. Sept. 1819. “Mrs Hemans so soon again!--and with a palm in her hand! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so unequivocally confirmed. “On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of the other side of the Tweed--a circumstance, we learn, which was known from the references before the prizes were determined. Mrs Hemans’s was the first prize, against fifty-seven competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing like a fair chance with a native--if we can suppose any poet in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sympathy which bind them together in one great family.”--_Edin. Monthly Review_, vol. ii. The estimation into which the poetry of Mrs Hemans was rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following passage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled “Common Sense,” then published, and currently believed to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and characterised. He then proceeds-- ----“Next I’d place Felicia Hemans, second in the race; I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir Oft about rubbish, never mention her. They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding-- Mistress Felicia’s works are worth the reading.” “Mrs Hemans,” adds the critical satirist in a note, “is a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves well of the republic of letters.” The worthy bishop has lived to read “The Records of Woman;” and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British classics.] TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. THE ABENCERRAGE. [The events with which the following tale is interwoven are related in the _Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada_. They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isabella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facilitated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred; and it still retains their name, being called the “Sala de los Abencerrages.” Many of the most interesting old Spanish ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic period.] “Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colère dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance seule peut écarter de sa tête le poids d’infamie dont il est accablé.--Il se venge, parce qu’à ses yeux il n’y a qu’une âme basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce que s’il la sentoit s’éteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu.” Sismondi. Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, Thou fair Alhambra! there the feast is o’er; And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more. Hush’d are the voices that in years gone by Have mourn’d, exulted, menaced, through thy towers; Within thy pillar’d courts the grass waves high, And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, Through tall arcades unmark’d the sunbeam smiles, And many a tint of soften’d brilliance throws O’er fretted walls and shining peristyles. And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, Some charm’d abode of beings all unknown, Powerful and viewless, children of the air. For there no footstep treads th’ enchanted ground, There not a sound the deep repose pervades, Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, Through the light domes and graceful colonnades. Far other tones have swell’d those courts along In days romance yet fondly loves to trace The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, The revels, combats of a vanish’d race. And yet awhile, at Fancy’s potent call, Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold; Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. ----The sun declines: upon Nevada’s height There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light; Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, And Darro’s wave reflects each passing dye That melts and mingles in th’ empurpled sky. Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour; Hush’d are the winds, and nature seems to sleep In light and stillness; wood, and tower, and steep, Are dyed with tints of glory, only given To the rich evening of a southern heaven-- Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught --Yes, Nature sleeps; but not with her at rest The fiery passions of the human breast, Hark! from th’ Alhambra’s towers what stormy sound, Each moment deepening, wildly swells around? Those are no tumults of a festal throng, Not the light zambra[65] nor the choral song: The combat rages--’tis the shout of war, ’Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. Within the Hall of Lions,[66] where the rays Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze; There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands: There the strife centres--swords around him wave, There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave; While echoing domes return the battle-cry, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!” And onward rushing, and prevailing still, Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. But first and bravest of that gallant train, Where foes are mightiest, charging ne’er in vain; In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, His Aben-Zurrahs[67] there young Hamet leads; While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, “Revenge and freedom! let the tyrant die!” Yes! trace the footsteps of the warrior’s wrath By helm and corslet shatter’d in his path, And by the thickest harvest of the slain, And by the marble’s deepest crimson stain: Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise; And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, And where the ground is reddest--he is there. Yes! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. They perish’d--not as heroes should have died, On the red field, in victory’s hour of pride, In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, And proudly smiling as the death-pang came: Oh! had they _thus_ expired, a warrior’s tear Had flow’d, almost in triumph, o’er their bier. For thus alone the brave should weep for those Who brightly pass in glory to repose. --Not such their fate: a tyrant’s stern command Doom’d them to fall by some ignoble hand, As, with the flower of all their high-born race, Summon’d Abdallah’s royal feast to grace, Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, They sought the banquet’s gilded hall--to die. Betray’d, unarm’d, they fell--the fountain wave Flow’d crimson with the life-blood of the brave, Till far the fearful tidings of their fate Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, And of that lineage each surviving son Rush’d to the scene where vengeance might be won. For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life, Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o’er. But lo! descending o’er the darken’d hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased--though scarce they know, Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foe; Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. Where lurks Abdallah?--midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number’d with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled--a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o’er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega’s[68] green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass’d th’ Alhambra’s calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight--there, from grot and cave, Gush’d in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who flies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange-groves; Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that rise, Wild notes of nature’s vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain’s head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment’s pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada’s fanes In silence gazing, fix’d awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o’er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful--as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O’er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread--above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. Lo! from the Alhambra’s towers the vivid glare Streams through the still transparence of the air! Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire; And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, From dim perspective start to ruddy light. Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah’s soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life--such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal’d Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent--yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o’er the scene, Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach’d that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower’d it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all--except the heart he brings--is peace. There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin’s blast Hath o’er the dwellings of the desert pass’d.[70] Fearful the calm--nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters--murmuring round In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. O’er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread In mingled fragments--glittering to the light Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, And smile in placid beauty o’er the dead: O’er features where the fiery spirit’s trace E’en death itself is powerless to efface; O’er those who flush’d with ardent youth awoke, When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep; In the low silent house, the narrow spot, Home of forgetfulness--and soon forgot. But slowly fade the stars--the night is o’er-- Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne’er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day--oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O’er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O’er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o’er a world of woe; And flowers renew’d in spring’s green pathway bloom, Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. Within Granada’s walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather’d to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr’d brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e’en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar--and he must brood O’er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush’d--another day In still solemnity hath pass’d away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest’s path. And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads; Where’er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng. No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye, Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, And in each look of those whose love hath fled From all on earth to slumber with the dead, Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown On the bleak wilderness of life alone-- In youth’s quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, May well be read a dark and fearful tale Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, And passion like the hush’d volcano’s power, That waits in stillness its appointed hour. No more the clarion from Granada’s walls, Heard o’er the Vega, to the tourney calls; No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye: Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread, And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled. --Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep-- Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep! Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall, Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall, Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er-- Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive, Whom he hath wrong’d too deeply to forgive, That race of lineage high, of worth approved, The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved-- Thine Aben-Zurrahs--they no more shall wield In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield: Condemn’d to bid the cherish’d scenes farewell Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, And far o’er foreign plains as exiles roam, Their land the desert, and the grave their home. Yet there is one shall see that race depart In deep though silent agony of heart: One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown, And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear That smile in which the spirit hath no share-- Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow O’er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. That name in vain stern reason would efface: Hamet! ’tis thine, thou foe to all her race! And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love-- Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume, And make the heart of all delight the tomb, Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, And the spring-morn of early genius blight: Not such her grief--though now she wakes to weep, While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.[71] A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray’d-- Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne’er may be forgot? ’Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought: Thence the bright spirit’s eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read Stem thoughts and fierce resolves--now veil’d in shade, And now in characters of fire portray’d. Changed e’en his voice--as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. “Zayda! my doom is fix’d--another day And the wrong’d exile shall be far away; Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, His home of youth, and, more than all--from thee. Oh! what a cloud hath gather’d o’er my lot Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot! Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, And not a rose hath faded from thy bower; But I--my hopes the tempest hath o’erthrown, And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise! Heroic visions of my early days! In me the glories of my race must end-- The exile hath no country to defend! E’en in life’s morn my dreams of pride are o’er, Youth’s buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, And one wild feeling in my alter’d breast Broods darkly o’er the ruins of the rest. Yet fear not thou--to thee, in good or ill, The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still! But when my steps are distant, and my name Thou hear’st no longer in the song of fame; When Time steals on, in silence to efface Of early love each pure and sacred trace, Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,-- Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth And all the fervour of affection’s youth? If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play In lonely beauty o’er thy wanderer’s way.” “Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind To grief so long, so silently resign’d! Let the light spirit, ne’er by sorrow taught The pure and lofty constancy of thought, Its fleeting trials eager to forget, Rise with elastic power o’er each regret! Foster’d in tears, _our_ young affection grew, And I have learn’d to suffer and be true. Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower; No! ’tis the child of tempests, and defies, And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies! Too well I feel, with grief’s prophetic heart, That ne’er to meet in happier days we part. We part! and e’en this agonising hour, When love first feels his own o’erwhelming power, Shall soon to memory’s fix’d and tearful eye Seem almost happiness--for thou wert nigh! Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, As days to days all wearily succeed, When doom’d to weep in loneliness, ’twill be Almost like rapture to have wept with thee! “But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow All that of joy my blighted lot can know. Oh! be thou still the high-soul’d and the brave, To whom my first and fondest vows I gave; In thy proud fame’s untarnish’d beauty still The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. So shall it soothe me, midst my heart’s despair, To hold undimm’d one glorious image there!” “Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well, Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel; Yet must my soul to thee unveil’d be shown, And all its dreams and all its passions known. Thou shalt not be deceived--for pure as heaven Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. I said my heart was changed--and would thy thought Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, Crush’d by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains; And such that heart where desolation’s hand Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand! But Vengeance, fix’d upon her burning throne, Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone; And I, in stem devotion at her shrine, Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul; They, the betray’d, the sacrificed, the brave, Who fill a blood-stain’d and untimely grave, Must be avenged! and pity and remorse In that stem cause are banish’d from my course. Zayda! thou tremblest--and thy gentle breast Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest; Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, Pass brightly o’er my soul with softening power, And, oft recall’d, thy voice beguile my lot, Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne’er forgot. “But the night wanes--the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh; Yet, loved one! weep not thus--in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!” Is the voice hush’d, whose loved expressive tone Thrill’d to her heart--and doth she weep alone? Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o’er, When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more? The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, Showering the dewy rose-leaves o’er her hair; But ne’er for her shall dwell reviving power In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, To wake once more that calm serene delight, The soul’s young bloom, which passion’s breath could blight-- The smiling stillness of life’s morning hour, Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious shade, In the rich foliage of the South array’d, Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave On high o’er many an Aben-Zurrah’s grave. Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, To canopy the dead; nor wanting there Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, Nor wood-bird’s note, nor fall of plaintive stream-- Wild music, soothing to the mourner’s dream. There sleep the chiefs of old--their combats o’er, The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. Unheard by them th’ awakening clarion blows; The sons of war at length in peace repose. No martial note is in the gale that sighs Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest bloom-- As, in his native vale, some shepherd’s tomb. There, where the trees their thickest foliage spread Dark o’er that silent valley of the dead; Where two fair pillars rise, embower’d and lone, Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o’ergrown, Young Hamet kneels--while thus his vows are pour’d, The fearful vows that consecrate his sword: --“Spirit of him who first within my mind Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, And taught my steps the line of light to trace Left by the glorious fathers of my race, Hear thou my voice!--for thine is with me still, In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, In the deep calm of midnight they are near, Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, Still murmuring ‘vengeance!’--nor in vain the call, Few, few shall triumph in a hero’s fall! Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, Within my heart there lives one only aim; There, till th’ oppressor for thy fate atone, Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. I will not weep--revenge, not grief, must be, And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee; But the dark hour of stern delight will come, And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb. “Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass’d away, Without thy fame, in life’s fair dawning day. Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine In the proud annals of thy lofty line; Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays That hold communion with the after-days. Yet, by the wreaths thou might’st have nobly won, Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun; By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray’d, Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid: War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, And to avenge thy death devote my life. “Hear ye my vows, O spirits of the slain! Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain! At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died!” [65] Zambra, a Moorish dance. [66] The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which supported an alabaster basin in the centre. [67] Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne’s Travels through Spain. [68] The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians. [69] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 68 footnote 3. An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.--See Bruce’s _Travels_. [70] Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney’s Travels:--“These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal.” [71] “Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber.”--Shakspeare. CANTO II. ----“Oh! ben provvide il Cielo Ch’ Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.” Alfieri. Fair land! of chivalry the old domain, Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain! Though not for thee with classic shores to vie In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought; Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows, Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose. No sound of battle swells on Douro’s shore, And banners wave on Ebro’s banks no more. But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead? Blest be that soil! where England’s heroes share The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there; Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days-- By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among. How oft those rocks have echo’d to the tale Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles’ vale; Of him, renown’d in old heroic lore, First of the brave, the gallant Campeador; Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died When Rio Verde roll’d a crimson tide; Or that high name, by Garcilaso’s might On the Green Vega won in single fight.[72] Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O’er that Green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O’er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above; And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright With gold, reflecting every tint of light, And many a floating plume and blazon’d shield Diffused romantic splendour o’er the field. There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart: The clang of echoing steel, the charger’s neigh, The measured tread of hosts in war’s array; And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath Speaks but of glory on the road to death; In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power To wake the stormy joy of danger’s hour; To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, Rouse from despondence, and support in pain; And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. High o’er the camp, in many a broider’d fold, Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: There, imaged on the cross, _his_ form appears Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears--[73] _His_ form, whose word recall’d the spirit fled, Now borne by hosts to guide them o’er the dead! O’er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified:--and there Ebro’s dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.[74] But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp’d upon thy princely mien; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,[75] Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines _thy_ helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation’s fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! still first in every fight, Hamet the Moor! Castile’s devoted knight! There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, But not the light that shone in days gone by; There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, But not the soul’s expression once thine own, Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway? No eye but Heaven’s may pierce that curtain’d breast, Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress’d. There hath been combat on the tented plain; The Vega’s turf is red with many a stain; And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. But all is peaceful now: the west is bright With the rich splendour of departing light; Mulhacen’s peak, half lost amidst the sky, Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, And tints, that mock the pencil’s art, o’erspread Th’ eternal snow that crowns Veleta’s head;[76] While the warm sunset o’er the landscape throws A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, And Hamet wanders from the camp away. In silent musings rapt:--the slaughter’d brave Lie thickly strewn by Darro’s rippling wave. Soft fall the dews--but other drops have dyed The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, The wounded sought a shelter--and expired.[77] Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, By the bright windings of the stream he strays, Till, more remote from battle’s ravaged scene, All is repose and solitude serene. There, ’neath an olive’s ancient shade reclined, Whose rustling foliage waves in evening’s wind, The harass’d warrior, yielding to the power, The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm Shed o’er his troubled soul unwonted balm; His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, The past, the future, are awhile forgot; And Hope, scarce own’d, yet stealing o’er his breast, Half dares to whisper, “Thou shalt yet be blest!” Such his vague musings--but a plaintive sound Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; A low, halt-stifled moan, that seems to rise From life and death’s contending agonies. He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? --A youthful warrior on his deathbed laid. All rent and stain’d his broider’d Moorish vest, The corslet shatter’d on his bleeding breast; In his cold hand the broken falchion strain’d, With life’s last force convulsively retain’d; His plumage soil’d with dust, with crimson dyed, And the red lance in fragments by his side: He lies forsaken--pillow’d on his shield, His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal’d. Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish’d now The light once throned on that commanding brow; And o’er that fading eye, still upward cast, The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene Sheds the pale olive’s waving boughs between, Too well can Hamet’s conscious heart retrace, Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, Whose every feature to his soul conveys Some bitter thought of long-departed days. “Oh! is it thus,” he cries, “we meet at last? Friend of my soul in years for ever past! Hath fate but led me hither to behold The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,-- Receive thy latest agonising breath, And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death? Yet let me bear thee hence--while life remains, E’en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, Some healing balm thy sense may still revive; Hope is not lost--and Osmyn yet may live! And blest were he whose timely care should save A heart so noble, e’en from glory’s grave.” Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed The dying warrior faintly lifts his head; O’er Hamet’s mien, with vague uncertain gaze, His doubtful glance awhile bewilder’d strays; Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; And the mind’s grandeur, in its parting hour, Looks from that brow with more than wonted power. “Away!” he cries, in accents of command, And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. “Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free-- E’en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. ’Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for _thy_ hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory’s bed. Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o’er, And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar: Be thine existence with a blighted name, Mine the bright death which seals a warrior’s fame!” The glow hath vanish’d from his cheek--his eye Hath lost that beam of parting energy; Frozen and fix’d it seems--his brow is chill; One struggle more--that noble heart is still. Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes, Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, More keen, more bitter, than th’ envenom’d dart Thy dying words have left in Hamet’s heart? _Thy_ pangs were transient; _his_ shall sleep no more, Till life’s delirious dream itself be o’er; But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought In the high spirit and unbending thought! Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride; While his soul rises, gathering all its force, To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been His own, unchanged, through many a stormy scene; Zayda! to thee his heart for refuge flies; Thou still art faithful to affection’s ties. Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem; And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. Within Granada’s walls are hearts and hands Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands; Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, To win his silent way to Zayda’s bower, When night and peace are brooding o’er the world, When mute the clarions, and the banners furl’d. That hour is come--and, o’er the arms he bears, A wandering fakir’s garb the chieftain wears: Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide The lofty port, and glance of martial pride; But night befriends--through paths obscure he pass’d, And hail’d the lone and lovely scene at last; Young Zayda’s chosen haunt, the fair alcove, The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove: Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, As form’d alone for happy hearts to meet. For happy hearts!--not such as hers, who there Bends o’er her lute with dark unbraided hair; That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, Tell that despair her bosom’s guest hath been. So lost in thought she seems, the warrior’s feet Unheard approach her solitary seat, Till his known accents every sense restore-- “My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?” She starts, she turns--the lightning of surprise, Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes; But that is fleeting--it is past--and how Far other meaning darkens o’er her brow: Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe-- “Hence, Aben-Zurrah! death surrounds thee here!” “Zayda! what means that glance, unlike thine own? What mean those words, and that unwonted tone? I will not deem thee changed--but in thy face, It is not joy, it is not love, I trace! It was not thus in other days we met: Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget? Oh! speak once more--these rising doubts dispel: One smile of tenderness, and all is well!” “Not thus we met in other days!--oh, no! Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country’s foe! Those days are past--we ne’er shall meet again With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. But _thy_ dark soul no gentler feelings sway, Leader of hostile bands! away, away! On in thy path of triumph and of power, Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower.” “And _thou_, too, changed! thine earthly vow forgot! This, this alone, was wanting to my lot! Exiled and scorn’d, of every tie bereft, Thy love, the desert’s lonely fount, was left; And thou, my soul’s last hope, its lingering beam, Thou! the good angel of each brighter dream, Wert all the barrenness of life possest To wake one soft affection in my breast! That vision ended--fate hath nought in store Of joy or sorrow e’er to touch me more. Go, Zegri maid! to scenes of sunshine fly, From the stem pupil of adversity! And now to hope, to confidence, adieu! If thou art faithless, who shall e’er be true?” “Hamet! oh, wrong me not!--I too could speak Of sorrows--trace them on my faded cheek, In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm! But words were idle--read my sufferings there, Where grief is stamp’d on all that once was fair. “Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d, All that thy mien express’d, thy spirit seem’d, My love had been devotion!--till in death Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. But not the chief who leads a lawless band To crush the altars of his native land; Th’ apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace Hath stain’d the trophies of a glorious race; Not _him_ I loved--but one whose youthful name Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour’s cloud O’er that young name had gather’d as a shroud, I then had mourn’d thee proudly, and my grief In its own loftiness had found relief; A noble sorrow, cherish’d to the last, When every meaner woe had long been past. Yes! let affection weep--no common tear She sheds when bending o’er a hero’s bier. Let nature mourn the dead--a grief like this, To pangs that rend _my_ bosom, had been bliss!” “High-minded maid! the time admits not now To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. Yet this believe--no meaner aim inspires My soul, no dream of power ambition fires. No! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, Behold me but th’ avenger of the dead! One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, And in thy love alone hath sought repose. Zayda! wilt _thou_ his stern accuser be? False to his country, he is true to thee! Oh, hear me yet!--if Hamet e’er was dear, By our first vows, our young affection, hear! Soon must this fair and royal city fall, Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall; Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe? Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far From horrors thronging in the path of war: Fly, and repose in safety--till the blast Hath made a desert in its course--and pass’d!” “Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come Hasten’d by thee, to seal thy country’s doom, With _thee_ from scenes of death shall Zayda fly To peace and safety?--Woman, too, can die! And die exulting, though unknown to fame, In all the stainless beauty of her name! Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay’d, to share The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour Call’d into life my spirit’s latent power; But I have energies that idly slept, While withering o’er my silent woes I wept; And now, when hope and happiness are fled, My soul is firm--for what remains to dread? Who shall have power to suffer and to bear If strength and courage dwell not with Despair? “Hamet! farewell--retrace thy path again, To join thy brethren on the tented plain. There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell! Yes! on that soil hath Glory’s footstep been, Names unforgotten consecrate the scene! Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, Whose voices call thee in the whispering air? Unheard, in vain they call--their fallen son Hath stain’d the name those mighty spirits won, And to the hatred of the brave and free Bequeath’d his own through ages yet to be!” Still as she spoke, th’ enthusiast’s kindling eye Was lighted up with inborn majesty, While her fair form and youthful features caught All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, Severely beauteous.[78] Awe-struck and amazed, In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, As on some lofty vision--for she seem’d One all-inspired--each look with glory beam’d, While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, Her soul at once in all its light arose. Oh! ne’er had Hamet deem’d there dwelt enshrined In form so fragile that unconquer’d mind; And fix’d, as by some high enchantment, there He stood--till wonder yielded to despair. “The dream is vanish’d--daughter of my foes! Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. Thy words have pierced his soul; yet deem thou not Thou couldst be once adored, and e’er forgot! Oh, form’d for happier love, heroic maid! In grief sublime, in danger undismay’d, Farewell, and be thou blest!--all words were vain From him who ne’er may view that form again-- Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be, He _hath_ been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!” And is the warrior gone?--doth Zayda hear His parting footstep, and without a tear? Thou weep’st not, lofty maid!--yet who can tell What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell? _They_ feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, Who best each feeling’s agony control. Yes! we may judge the measure of the grief Which finds in misery’s eloquence relief; But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe Whence breathes no language, whence no tears may flow? The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, Scorning itself that thus it _could_ be moved? He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, Views all its weakness, pities all its throes; He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, Beholding anguish--all unknown to them. Fair city! thou that midst thy stately fanes And gilded minarets, towering o’er the plains, In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies; While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave, Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave: Mourn, for thy doom is fixed--the days of fear, Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! Within, around thee, are the trophied graves Of kings and chiefs--their children shall be slaves. Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell; For midst thy councils discord still presides, Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides-- Last of a line whose regal spirit flown Hath to their offspring but bequeath’d a throne, Without one generous thought, or feeling high, To teach his soul how kings should live and die. A voice resounds within Granada’s wall, The hearts of warriors echo to its call.[80] Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught To reach the source of pure exalted thought? See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, A form, majestic as a prophet, stand! His mien is all impassion’d, and his eye Fill’d with a light whose fountain is on high; Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, And inspiration beams upon his brow; While, thronging round him, breathless thousands gaze, As on some mighty seer of elder days. “Saw ye the banners of Castile display’d, The helmets glittering, and the line array’d? Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts?” he cries; “Children of conquerors! in your strength arise! O high-born tribes! O names unstain’d by fear! Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear![81] Be every feud forgotten, and your hands Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands.[82] Wake, princes of the land! the hour is come, And the red sabre must decide your doom. Where is that spirit which prevail’d of yore, When Tarik’s bands o’erspread the western shore?[83] When the long combat raged on Xeres’ plain,[84] And Afric’s tecbir swell’d through yielding Spain?[85] Is the lance broken, is the shield decay’d, The warrior’s arm unstrung, his heart dismay’d? Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth? To guard the regions where our fathers’ blood Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each flood; Where long their dust hath blended with the soil Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil? “O ye sierras of eternal snow! Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain! ye saw their might In many a fierce and unforgotten fight-- Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace With each memorial of the past around, Each mighty monument of days renown’d? May this indignant heart ere then be cold, This frame be gather’d to its kindred mould! And the last life-drop circling through my veins Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains! “And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal’d, One mighty effort, one deciding field! If vain each hope, we still have choice to be In life the fetter’d, or in death the free!” Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats high, And ardour flashes from each kindling eye; Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught The glow of lofty hope and daring thought; And all is hush’d around--as every sense Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. But when his voice hath ceased, th’ impetuous cry Of eager thousands bursts at once on high; Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around, And fair Alhambra’s inmost halls resound. “Lead us, O chieftain! lead us to the strife, To fame in death, or liberty in life!” O zeal of noble hearts! in vain display’d! Now, while the burning spirit of the brave Is roused to energies that yet might save-- E’en now, enthusiasts! while ye rush to claim Your glorious trial on the field of fame, Your king hath yielded! Valour’s dream is o’er;[86] Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more; And for your children’s portion, but remains That bitter heritage--the stranger’s chains. [72] Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. [73] “El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._ [74] Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening or the west; in a word, the _Hesperia_ of the Greeks.--See Casiri’s _Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana_, and Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. [75] “Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._ [76] The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta. [77] It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field. [78] “Severe in youthful beauty.”--Milton. [79] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found on original page 76 footnote 2. Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream small particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. When Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, the city presented him with a crown made of gold, which had been collected from the Darro.--See Bourgoanne’s and other Travels. [80] “At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and impassioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were prepared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws; should be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolested with their effects to Africa; and that he himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent in money if he preferred retiring to Barbary.”--See Jacob’s _Travel in Spain_. [81] Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors of Granada, all of high distinction. [82] The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards; others had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) and all was jealousy and animosity. [83] Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. “The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) describes the mountain of Tarik; and the intrenchments of his camp were the first outline of those fortifications which, in the hands of our countrymen, have resisted the art and power of the house of Bourbon. The adjacent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the Arabs; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco, who had been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous strangers, first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. At the royal summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the head of their followers; and the title of king of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the nations of Spain.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. ix. p. 472, 473. [84] “In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate of the kingdom; the stream of the Guadalete, which falls into the bay, divided the two camps, and marked the advancing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. On the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens, they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead bodies.--‘My brethren,’ said Tarik to his surviving companions, ‘the enemy is before you, the sea is behind; whither would ye fly? Follow your general; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Romans.’ Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The two princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most important post: their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the Christians; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to consult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three following days.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474. [85] The _tecbir_, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle. CANTO III. “Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto.” Hippolito Pindemonte. Heroes of elder days! untaught to yield, Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field; Ye that around the oaken cross of yore[87] Stood firm and fearless on Asturia’s shore, And with your spirit, ne’er to be subdued, Hallow’d the wild Cantabrian solitude; Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, In the last chastening of your Moslem foes! Rejoice!--for Spain, arising in her strength, Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. And thou, the warrior _born in happy hour_,[88] Valencia’s lord, whose name alone was power, Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, Conqueror of kings! exult, O Cid! on high; For still ’twas thine to guard thy country’s weal, In life, in death, the watcher for Castile! Thou, in that hour when Mauritania’s bands Rush’d from their palmy groves and burning lands, E’en in the realm of spirits didst retain A patriot’s vigilance, remembering Spain![89] Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, As through her echoing streets, in dread array, Beings once mortal held their viewless way-- Voices from worlds we know not--and the tread Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, Thou and thy buried chieftains: from the grave Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, And join thy warriors with unearthly might To aid the rescue in Tolosa’s fight. Those days are past--the crescent on thy shore, O realm of evening! sets, to rise no more.[90] What banner streams afar from Vela’s tower?[91] The cross, bright ensign of Iberia’s power! What the glad shout of each exulting voice? “Castile and Aragon! rejoice, rejoice!” Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, And Spain’s proud host, with pennon, shield, and lance, Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. Oh! ne’er in lofty dreams hath Fancy’s eye Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, At joust or tourney, theme of poet’s lore, High masque or solemn festival of yore. The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise O’erarch’d by cloudless and cerulean skies; Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers: And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, With helmets glittering as they move along, With broider’d scarf and gem-bestudded mail, And graceful plumage streaming on the gale; Shields, gold-emboss’d, and pennons floating far, And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, All brighten’d by the rich transparent hues That southern suns o’er heaven and earth diffuse-- Blend in one scene of glory, form’d to throw O’er memory’s page a never-fading glow, And there, too, foremost midst the conquering brave, Your azure plumes, O Aben-Zurrahs! wave. There Hamet moves; the chief whose lofty port Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court; Calm, stern, collected--yet within his breast Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess’d? If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer’s mien. Hear’st thou the solemn yet exulting sound Of the deep anthem floating far around? The choral voices, to the skies that raise The full majestic harmony of praise? Lo! where, surrounded by their princely train, They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, Borne on their trophied car--lo! bursting thence A blaze of chivalrous magnificence! Onward their slow and stately course they bend To where th’ Alhambra’s ancient towers ascend, Rear’d and adorn’d by Moorish kings of yore, Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. They reach those towers--irregularly vast And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast:[92] They enter--to their wondering sight is given A genii palace--an Arabian heaven![93] A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, Its forms and colour seem alike of air. Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o’er, The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. There round the court, where Moorish arches bend, Aërial columns, richly deck’d, ascend; Unlike the models of each classic race, Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, But answering well each vision that portrays Arabian splendour to the poet’s gaze: Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all--a mingling glow Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins Of precious marble, and the vivid stains Of rich mosaics o’er the light arcade, In gay festoons and fairy knots display’d. On through th’ enchanted realm, that only seems Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, The royal conquerors pass--while still their sight On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, O’er bowery terraces and myrtle shades; Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high The vast sierra mingling with the sky. There, scattering far around their diamond spray, Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, Through pillar’d halls, where, exquisitely wrought, Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene A wild, romantic, oriental mien: While many a verse, from eastern bards of old, Borders the walls in characters of gold.[94] Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence brood, And all be lone--a splendid solitude. Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, From mingling voices of exulting throngs; Tambour and flute, and atabal are there,[95] And joyous clarions pealing on the air; While every hall resounds, “Granada won! Granada! for Castile and Aragon!”[96] ’Tis night--from dome and tower, in dazzling maze, The festal lamps innumerably blaze;[97] Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, From every lattice tremulously streams, Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil; Red flame the torches on each minaret’s height, And shines each street an avenue of light; And midnight feasts are held, and music’s voice Through the long night still summons to rejoice. Yet there, while all would seem to heedless eye One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, Gall’d by the chain, though deck’d awhile with flowers; Stern passions working in th’ indignant breast, Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress’d, Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet-- Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret. From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, Who lingering gazes o’er the lovely scene, Anguish and shame contending in his mien He who of heroes and of kings the son, Hath lived to lose whate’er his fathers won; Whose doubts and fears his people’s fate have seal’d, Wavering alike in council and in field; Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, To Afric’s wilds the royal exile flies;[98] Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain O’er all he never must behold again. Fair spreads the scene around--for him _too_ fair, Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. The Vega’s meads, the city’s glittering spires, The old majestic palace of his sires, The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, Bosom’d in citron and pomegranate groves; Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, All in one moment bursting on his sight, Speak to his soul of glory’s vanish’d years, And wake the source of unavailing tears. --Weep’st thou, Abdallah?--Thou dost well to weep, O feeble heart! o’er all thou couldst not keep! Well do a woman’s tears befit the eye Of him who knew not as a man to die.[99] The gale sighs mournfully through Zayda’s bower, The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. No voice, no step, is in her father’s halls, Mute are the echoes of their marble walls; No stranger enters at the chieftain’s gate, But all is hush’d, and void, and desolate. There, through each tower and solitary shade, In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid: Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown; And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows The stream whose music lull’d her to repose. But oh! to him, whose self-accusing thought Whispers ’twas _he_ that desolation wrought; He who his country and his faith betray’d, And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale: And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, And seems to murmur--“Thou hast driven her hence!” And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, --Where hath lost love been once recall’d again? In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, His name can rouse no feeling now--but scorn. O bitter hour! when first the shuddering heart Wakes to behold the void within--and start! To feel its own abandonment, and brood O’er the chill bosom’s depth of solitude. The stormy passions that in Hamet’s breast Have sway’d so long, so fiercely, are at rest; The avenger’s task is closed:[100]--he finds too late It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. He was a lofty spirit, turn’d aside From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and pride, And onward, in its new tumultuous course, Borne with too rapid and intense a force To pause one moment in the dread career, And ask if such could be its native sphere. Now are those days of wild delirium o’er, Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more; The feverish energies of passion close, And his heart sinks in desolate repose, Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not less From its own deep and utter loneliness. There is a sound of voices on the air, A flash of armour to the sunbeam’s glare, Midst the wild Alpuxarras;[101]--there, on high, Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke, Have fled indignant from the Spaniard’s yoke. O ye dread scenes! where nature dwells alone, Severely glorious on her craggy throne; Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, Veil’d by the mists and girdled by the storms,-- Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, That hold communion with the torrent-waves; And ye, th’ unstain’d and everlasting snows, That dwell above in bright and still repose; To you, in every clime, in every age, Far from the tyrant’s or the conqueror’s rage, Hath Freedom led her sons--untired to keep Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights To gaze exulting from unconquer’d heights, And build her eyrie in defiance proud, To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. Now her deep voice, the soul’s awakener, swells, Wild Alpuxarras! through your inmost dells. There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, As at the clarion’s call, her children throng. She with enduring strength has nerved each frame, And made each heart the temple of her flame, Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow Unquenchably, surviving all below. There high-born maids, that moved upon the earth More like bright creatures of aërial birth, Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share The fate of brothers and of sires; to bear, All undismay’d, privation and distress, And smile the roses of the wilderness: And mothers with their infants, there to dwell In the deep forest or the cavern cell, And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be, If now no more the mighty, still the free. And midst that band are veterans, o’er whose head Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed: They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, O royal city! and the wreck of all They loved and hallow’d most:--doth aught remain For these to prove of happiness or pain? Life’s cup is drain’d--earth fades before their eye; Their task is closing--they have but to die. Ask ye why fled they hither?--that their doom Might be, to sink unfetter’d to the tomb. And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, And buoyancy of spirit, form’d to dare And suffer all things--fall’n on evil days, Yet darting o’er the world an ardent gaze, As on the arena where its powers may find Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, The high in heart, unconquer’d, uncontroll’d: By day, the huntsmen of the wild--by night, Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire’s light, They from their bleak majestic home have caught A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, While all around them bids the soul arise To blend with nature’s dread sublimities. --But these are lofty dreams, and must not be Where tyranny is near:--the bended knee, The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires; Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. What warrior-band is toiling to explore The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow’d o’er, Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, Where the deep echo slept in loneliness? These are the sons of Spain!--Your foes are near, O exiles of the wild sierra! hear! Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost caves Pour like the torrent in its might of waves! Who leads the invaders on?--his features bear The deep-worn traces of a calm despair; Yet his dark brow is haughty--and his eye Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. ’Tis he! ’tis he again! the apostate chief; He comes in all the sternness of his grief. He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, Against his country’s children though he leads Castilian bands again to hostile deeds: His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. So shall remorse and love the heart release, Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. The mountain-echoes are awake--a sound Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. Within the steep defile that winds between Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, Whose bright transparence ne’er was stain’d till then; While swell the war-note and the clash of spears To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada! wait In dread suspense the tidings of their fate. But he--whose spirit, panting for its rest, Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast-- Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance Aim’d at another’s breast, would still advance-- Courts death in vain; each weapon glances by, As if for him ’twere bliss too great to die. Yes, Aben-Zurrah! there are deeper woes Reserved for thee ere nature’s last repose; Thou know’st not yet what vengeance fate can wreak, Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell The sons of battle in that narrow dell; Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass’d, And age, the weary, found repose at last; Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, Borne down by numbers and o’erpower’d by toil. Dispersed, dishearten’d, through the pass they fly, Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high; While Hamet’s band in wonder gaze, nor dare Track o’er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. Yet he, to whom each danger hath become A dark delight, and every wild a home, Still urges onward--undismay’d to tread Where life’s fond lovers would recoil with dread. But fear is’ for the happy--_they_ may shrink From the steep precipice or torrent’s brink; They to whom earth is paradise--their doom Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb: Not such his lot, who, school’d by fate severe, Were but too blest if aught remain’d to fear.[102] Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw Eternal shadows o’er the glen below; And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, He holds his venturous track:--supported now By some o’erhanging pine or ilex bough; Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. Now hath his footstep gain’d the summit’s head, A level span, with emerald verdure spread, A fairy circle--there the heath-flowers rise, And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies; And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side: But all is wild beyond--and Hamet’s eye Roves o’er a world of rude sublimity. That dell beneath, where e’en at noon of day Earth’s charter’d guest, the sunbeam, scarce can stray; Around, untrodden woods; and far above, Where mortal footstep ne’er may hope to rove, Bare granite cliffs, whose fix’d, inherent dyes Rival the tints that float o’er summer skies:[103] And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven’s eternity. There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia’s desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam’s tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone. That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain’s forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight’s reign:--those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach’d the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses--for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle’s cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring round-- That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. --What earthly feeling unabash’d can dwell In nature’s mighty presence?--midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness. Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow’d by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o’er thee as a spirit’s moan? As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead! E’en thus it rose--and springing from his trance His eager footsteps to the sound advance. He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor; Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o’er He rushes on--and lo! where Zayda rends Her locks, as o’er her slaughter’d sire she bends, Lost in despair;--yet, as a step draws nigh, Disturbing sorrow’s lonely sanctity, She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, And every woe forgetting--but the last. “Com’st thou to weep with me?--for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain’d bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps--but never shall those eyes unclose; ’Twas not my voice that lull’d him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.--Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o’er his grave my tears with Hamet’s flow?” But scarce her voice had breathed that well-known name, When, swiftly rushing o’er her spirit, came Each dark remembrance--by affliction’s power Awhile effaced in that o’erwhelming hour, To wake with tenfold strength: ’twas then her eye Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, And o’er her wasted cheek a burning glow Spreads, while her lips’ indignant accents flow. “Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow’s might Bow’d down my soul, and quench’d its native light-- That I should thus forget! and bid _thy_ tear With mine be mingled o’er a father’s bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, In the last combat with thy ruthless band? The morn beheld that conflict of despair:-- ’Twas then he fell--he fell!--and thou wert there! Thou! who thy country’s children hast pursued To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. Was it for this I loved thee?--Thou hast taught My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought! ’Twill soon be past--I bow to heaven’s decree, Which bade each pang be minister’d by thee.” “I had not deem’d that aught remain’d below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart. Oh, hear me yet!--I would have died to save My foe, but still thy father, from the grave; But in the fierce confusion of the strife, In my own stern despair and scorn of life, Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, Save that to perish there in vain I sought. And let me share thy sorrows!--hadst thou known All I have felt in silence and alone, E’en _thou_ mightst then relent, and deem, at last, A grief like mine might expiate all the past “But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear’d in luxury’s guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast _thou_ suffer’d! what hast thou endured! Daughter of palaces! and can it be That this bleak desert is a home for thee! These rocks _thy_ dwelling! thou, who shouldst have known Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone! Oh, yet forgive!--be all my guilt forgot, Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!” “That lot is fix’d--’twere fruitless to repine: Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. I may forgive--but not at will the heart Can bid its dark remembrances depart. No, Hamet! no!--too deeply are these traced; Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced! Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep Her lonely vigils o’er the grave to weep. E’en now, prophetic of my early doom, Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb; And ne’er in vain did hopeless mourner feel That deep foreboding o’er the bosom steal! Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side Of him for whom I lived, and would have died; Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, In pain and peril--I forsook him not. “And now, farewell!--behold the summer-day Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, With the last rites his bier to sanctify. Oh, yet in time, away!--’twere not _my_ prayer Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare! This hour they come--and dost thou scorn to fly? Save me that one last pang--to see thee die!” E’en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread; Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. They reach the cave--they enter--slow their pace, And calm deep sadness marks each mourner’s face; And all is hush’d, till he who seems to wait In silent stern devotedness his fate, Hath met their glance--then grief to fury turns: Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns, And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath. Blood must atone for blood, and death for death! They close around him: lofty still his mien, His cheek unalter’d, and his brow serene. Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda’s cry; Fruitless her prayer, unmark’d her agony. But as his foremost foes their weapons bend Against the life he seeks not to defend, Wildly she darts between--each feeling past, Save strong affection, which prevails at last. Oh, not in vain its daring!--for the blow Aim’d at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band, Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand: While, every thought of hate and vengeance o’er, They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. She, she alone is calm:--a fading smile, Like sunset, passes o’er her cheek the while; And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell Those last faint rays, the parting soul’s farewell. “Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this ’twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill’d, But sterner duties call’d--and were fulfill’d. And I am blest!--To every holier tie My life was faithful,--and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever’d on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!--And ye, at Zayda’s dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose.” Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and death Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. One pang--’tis past--her task on earth is done, And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. But he for whom she died--oh! who may paint The grief to which all other woes were faint? There is no power in language to impart The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, By the dread Searcher of the soul survey’d: These have no words--nor are by words portray’d. A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear Far o’er the Alpuxarras;--wild its tone, And rocks and caverns echo, “Thou art gone!” “Daughter of heroes! thou art gone To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown! It was not form’d for earth. Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, Which brightly pass’d and left no trace. “But calmly sleep!--for thou art free, And hands unchain’d thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee, Life’s few and evil days! Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, The lingering death of liberty. “Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom Didst early to the storm resign: We bear it still--and dark _their_ doom Who cannot weep for thine! For us, whose every hope is fled, The time is past to mourn the dead. “The days have been, when o’er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow’d; Now, as a home from grief and fear, We hail thy dark abode! We, who but linger to bequeath Our sons the choice of chains or death. “Thou art with those, the free, the brave, The mighty of departed years; And for the slumberers of the grave Our fate hath left no tears. Though loved and lost, to weep were vain For thee, who ne’er shalt weep again. “Have we not seen despoil’d by foes The land our fathers won of yore? And is there yet a pang for those Who gaze on _this_ no more? Oh, that like them ’twere ours to rest! Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!” A few short year’s, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet’s grave. Sever’d in life, united in the tomb-- Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves th’ eternal moan; Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. And oft beside the midnight watch-fire’s blaze, Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days, (When freedom fled, to hold, sequester’d there, The stern and lofty councils of despair,) Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those Who thus have suffer’d, and who thus repose. [86] The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli’s capitulation. “Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y temiendo no ser ya el Dueño de un pueblo amotinádo, se apresuró á concluir una capitulation, la menos dura que podia obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio entregor á Granada el dia seis de Enero.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i. p. 298. [87] The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. [88] See Southey’s Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is frequently styled, “he who was born in happy hour.” [89] “Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been brought against Spain, since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his country in that great danger; for the night before the battle was fought at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the tramp of a great army passing through; and it passed on to the royal monastery of St Isidro, and there was a great knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the captains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors.”--Southey’s _Chronicle of the Cid_. [90] The name of Andalusia, the _region of evening_, or _of the west_, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so called, but to the whole peninsula. [91] “En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes de la Cruz, de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremoláran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de _la Vela_; y un exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectaculos.”--_Paseos en Granada_, vol. i. p. 299. [92] Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds: “Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seemingly without the least intention of forming _one_ habitation out of them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand; yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indisputably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing to be met with any where else can convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii.”--Swinburne’s _Travels through Spain_. [93] “Passing round the corner of the emperor’s palace, you are admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I stept over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden transported into a species of fairy land. The first place you come to is the court called the Communa, or _del Mesucar_, that is, the common baths: an oblong square, with a deep basin of clear water in the middle; two flights of marble steps leading down to the bottom; on each side a parterre of flowers, and a row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle paved with marble; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, in proportions and style different from all the regular orders of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated with fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate that the most patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless he made himself master of the general plan.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in Spain_. [94] The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscriptions in Arabic characters. “In examining this abode of magnificence,” says Bourgoanne, “the observer is every moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces; and whatever duration these may have, time, with which every thing passes away, has too much contributed to confirm to them that title.”--See Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_. [95] Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. [96] “Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levantò la señal de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, à grandes bozes dizieron, ‘Granada! Granada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.’ La serenissima reyna D. Isabel, que viò ia señal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hincò de rodillas, y diò infinitas gracias à Dios por la victoria que le avia dado contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey luego à canto de organo cantò _Te Deum laudamus_. Fuè tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muça, tomaron mil dulzaynas y añafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._ [97] “Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron galanamente alcancias y cañas. Andava Granada aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la terra.”--_Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada._ Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace. [98] “Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey Chico con ellos, que no quisò estar en España, y en Africa le mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdiò a Granada.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._ [99] Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, the Sultaness Ayxa,--“Thou dost well to weep like a woman, over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not how to defend and die for like a man.” [100] “El rey mandò, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen en Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra los Abencerrages.”--_Guerras Civiles de Granada._ [101] “The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their summits; they are about seventeen leagues in length, from Veles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. In these mountains the wretched remains of the Moors took refuge.”--Bourgoanne’s _Travels in Spain_. [102] “Plût à Dieu que je craignisse!”--_Andromaque._ [103] Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the mountains of the Bergstrasse. “The nearer we approached these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aërial colouring; the real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime.” THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. [“In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death.”--Sismondi, _History of the Italian Republics_, vol. i.] “L’orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs qui tiennent encore la tête levée.”--Mad. de Stael. Midst Tivoli’s luxuriant glades, Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt, in days departed long, The sons of battle and of song, No tree, no shrub its foliage rears But o’er the wrecks of other years, Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene. There the wild fig-tree and the vine O’er Hadrian’s mouldering villa twine;[104] The cypress, in funereal grace, Usurps the vanish’d column’s place; O’er fallen shrine and ruin’d frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus-leaves the marble hide They once adorn’d in sculptured pride; And nature hath resumed her throne O’er the vast works of ages flown. Was it for this that many a pile, Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, To Anio’s banks the image lent Of each imperial monument?[105] Now Athens weeps her shatter’d fanes, Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains; And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear’d From Tibur’s vale have disappear’d. We need no prescient sibyl there The doom of grandeur to declare; Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, Reveals some oracle of Time; Each relic utters Fate’s decree-- The future as the past shall be. Halls of the dead! in Tibur’s vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician’s dome, The bard’s retreat, the hero’s home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world’s departed lord, In scenes where verdure’s rich array Still sheds young beauty o’er decay, And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. Sunk is thy palace--but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.[106] Though vanish’d with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o’er that temple of the dead Serene but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory’s self, a grave In time’s abyss or Tiber’s wave;[107] Yet dreams more lofty and more fair Than art’s bold hand hath imaged e’er. High thoughts of many a mighty mind Expanding when all else declined, In twilight years, when only they Recall’d the radiance pass’d away, Have made that ancient pile their home, Fortress of freedom and of Rome. There he, who strove in evil days Again to kindle glory’s rays, Whose spirit sought a path of light For those dim ages far too bright-- Crescentius--long maintain’d the strife Which closed but with its martyr’s life, And left th’ imperial tomb a name, A heritage of holier fame. There closed De Brescia’s mission high, From thence the patriot came to die;[108] And thou, whose Roman soul the last Spoke with the voice of ages past,[109] Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled To mingle with the glorious dead, That midst the world’s degenerate race They vainly sought a dwelling-place, Within that house of death didst brood O’er visions to thy ruin woo’d. Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, Rienzi, be thy faults forgot! For thou, when all around thee lay Chain’d in the slumbers of decay-- So sunk each heart, that mortal eye Had scarce a _tear_ for liberty-- Alone, amidst the darkness there, Couldst gaze on Rome--yet not despair![110] ’Tis morn--and nature’s richest dyes Are floating o’er Italian skies; Tints of transparent lustre shine Along the snow-clad Apennine; The clouds have left Soracte’s height, And yellow Tiber winds in light, Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew’d The wide Campagna’s solitude. ’Tis sad amidst that scene to trace Those relics of a vanish’d race; Yet, o’er the ravaged path of time-- Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, Where nature still, though empires fall, Holds her triumphant festival-- E’en desolation wears a smile, Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while; And heaven’s own light, earth’s richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb. But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air, Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia’s brightest glow. Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes, And they, the Pleiades of earth, The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth, Lie spread beneath; not now her glance Roves o’er that vast sublime expanse; Inspired, and bright with hope,’tis thrown On Adrian’s massy tomb alone; There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, His faithful few Crescentius led; While she, his anxious bride, who now Bends o’er the scene her youthful brow, Sought refuge in the hallow’d fane, Which then could shelter, not in vain. But now the lofty strife is o’er, And Liberty shall weep no more. At length imperial Otho’s voice Bids her devoted sons rejoice; And he, who battled to restore The glories and the rights of yore, Whose accents, like the clarion’s sound, Could burst the dead repose around, Again his native Rome shall see The sceptred city of the free! And young Stephania waits the hour When leaves her lord his fortress-tower-- Her ardent heart with joy elate, That seems beyond the reach of fate; Her mien, like creature from above, All vivified with hope and love. Fair is her form, and in her eye Lives all the soul of Italy; A meaning lofty and inspired, As by her native day-star fired; Such wild and high expression, fraught With glances of impassion’d thought, As fancy sheds, in visions bright, O’er priestess of the God of Light; And the dark locks that lend her face A youthful and luxuriant grace, Wave o’er her cheek, whose kindling dyes Seem from the fire within to rise, But deepen’d by the burning heaven To her own land of sunbeams given. Italian art that fervid glow Would o’er ideal beauty throw, And with such ardent life express Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,-- Dreams which, surviving Empire’s fall, The shade of glory still recall. But see!--the banner of the brave O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave. ’Tis lower’d--and now Stephania’s eye Can well the martial train descry, Who, issuing from that ancient dome, Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. Now from her watch-tower on the height, With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light, She flies--and swift her way pursues Through the lone convent’s avenues. Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread With records of the conquering dead, And paths which track a glowing waste, She traverses in breathless haste; And by the tombs where dust is shrined Once tenanted by loftiest mind, Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate Of Rome, the proud, the desolate! Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d, Rush on the gathering multitude. --Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet That thus the Roman thousands meet? With names that bid their thoughts ascend, Crescentius! thine in song to blend; And of triumphal days gone by Recall th’ inspiring pageantry? --There is an air of breathless dread, An eager glance, a hurrying tread; And now a fearful silence round, And now a fitful murmuring sound, Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony!-- Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes. Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien but fetter’d hands? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there fives a mind Which was not form’d for chains to bind, But cast in such heroic mould As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old. Crescentius! freedom’s daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won? Oh, worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium’s pride! Thus must the beam of glory close O’er the seven hills again that rose, When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, The soul of Rome indignant woke? Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111] Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112] Th’ illusions, that around her cast Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113] Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray, Shed o’er her midnight of decay; Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine Must rivet every chain--but thine. Calm is his aspect, and his eye Now fix’d upon the deep blue sky, Now on those wrecks of ages fled Around in desolation spread-- Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, Recording triumphs pass’d away; Works of the mighty and the free, Whose steps on earth no more shall be, Though their bright course hath left a trace Nor years nor sorrows can efface. Why changes now the patriot’s mien, Erewhile so loftily serene? Thus can approaching death control The might of that commanding soul? No!--Heard ye not that thrilling cry Which told of bitterest agony? _He_ heard it, and at once, subdued, Hath sunk the hero’s fortitude. _He_ heard it, and his heart too well Whence rose that voice of woe can tell; And midst the gazing throngs around One well-known form his glance hath found-- One fondly loving and beloved, In grief, in peril, faithful proved. Yes! in the wildness of despair, She, his devoted bride, is there. Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies, The light of frenzy in her eyes: But ere her arms can clasp the form Which life ere long must cease to warm-- Ere on his agonising breast Her heart can heave, her head can rest-- Check’d in her course by ruthless hands, Mute, motionless, at once she stands; With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, Frozen and fix’d in horror’s trance; Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, And thought o’erwhelm’d, and feeling dead; And the light waving of her hair, And veil, far floating on the air, Alone, in that dread moment, show She is no sculptured form of woe. The scene of grief and death is o’er, The patriot’s heart shall throb no more: But _hers_--so vainly form’d to prove The pure devotedness of love, And draw from fond affection’s eye All thought sublime, all feeling high-- When consciousness again shall wake, Hath now no refuge but to break. The spirit long inured to pain May smile at fate in calm disdain, Survive its darkest hour, and rise In more majestic energies. But in the glow of vernal pride, If each warm hope _at once_ hath died, Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, Dead to the sunbeam and the shower; A broken gem, whose inborn light Is scatter’d--ne’er to re-unite. [104] “J’étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des _Thermes_ voisins du _Pécile_, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renversé le pan d’un mur en s’élevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte de l’édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades des ruines, s’ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient se réfugier quelques merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maçonnerie étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des marbres: çà et là de hauts cyprès remplaçaient les colonnes tombées dans ces palais de la Mort; l’acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds, sur des débris, comme si la nature s’était plu à reproduire sur ces chefs-d’œuvre mutilés d’architecture, l’ornement de leur beauté passée.”--Chateaubriand’s _Souvenirs d’ Italie_. [105] The gardens and buildings of Hadrian’s villa were copies of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions--the Lycæum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. [106] The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome against the Goths. “The lover of the arts,” says Gibbon, “must read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers.” He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its summit. [107] “Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues, out étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais quand on songe que les chefs-d’œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là devant nous, et qu’un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes, l’on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs.”--Mad. de Stael. [108] Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. “Le préfet demeura dans le château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu’ une moitié de Rome. C’est là qu’habitoient les hommes qu’il avoit si souvent appelés à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur législateur. Le tumulte de l’exécution et la flamme du bûcher réveillèrent les Romains; ils s’armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux qui, n’ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses cendres comme de précieuses reliques.” [109] “Posterity will compare the virtues and fadings of this extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude, the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots.”--Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_, &c. vol. xii. p. 362. [110] “Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu’à Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n’avoit été élevé au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse: mais le sénat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire qu’il s’attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple--il alla au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce _qu’il n’avoit pas désespéré de la republique_.”--Montesquieu’s _Grandeur et Décadence des Romains_. [111] Of the sacred bucklers, or _ancilia_ of Rome, which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account:--“In the eighth year of Numa’s reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy; Rome also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from Egeria and the Muses: that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the city, and should be kept with great care; that eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the meadows about it, where he frequently conversed with the Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities; and that the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of this account.”--_Life of Numa._ [112] “Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the _crowning city_, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth?”--_Isaiah_, chap. 23. [113] “Un mélange bizarre de grandeur d’àme et de foiblesse entroit dès cette époque (l’onzième siècle) dans le caractère des Romains. Un mouvement généreux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-à-coup à l’abattement; ils passoient de la liberté la plus orageuse, à la servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques déserts de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le sentiment de leur impuissance; au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passée, les citoyens éprouvoient d’une manière trop décourageante leur propre nullité. Le nom des Romains qu’ils portoient ranimoit fréquemment leur enthousiasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd’hui; mas bientôt la vue de Rome, du forum désert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au pâturage des troupeaux, des temples désolés, des monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit à sentir qu’ils n’étoient plus les Romains d’autrefois.”--Sismondi, _Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. i. p. 172. PART II. Hast thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty’s farewell? Italia! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O’er all that hath been great on earth. Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child: Though fane and tomb alike are low, Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow; And, robed in that exulting ray, Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay-- Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, In nature’s pomp magnificent! What marvel if, when all was lost, Still on thy bright enchanted coast, Though many an omen warn’d him thence, Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114] Still gazing on the lovely sky, Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die? Like him, _who_ would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell? Hath not thy pure and genial air Balm for all sadness but despair?[115] No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace Not all thy magic can efface! Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn The world and all its gifts to spurn; Time may steal on with silent tread, And dry the tear that mourns the dead, May change fond love, subdue regret, And teach e’en vengeance to forget: But thou, Remorse! there is no charm _Thy_ sting, avenger, to disarm! Vain are bright suns and laughing skies To soothe thy victim’s agonies: The heart once made thy burning throne, Still, while it beats, is thine alone. In vain for Otho’s joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes’ rich array Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave! Where, through Gargano’s woody dells, O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116] A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. ’Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there; Around that dweller of the wild There “bright appearances” have smiled, And angel-wings at eve have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echoes made An Eden of the lonely shade! Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps; Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown And veil’d his low sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aërial vesper-hymns may hear Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine’s departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o’er her breast. And thither Otho now repairs, To soothe his soul with vows and prayers; And if for him, on holy ground, The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, Midst rocks and forests, by the bed Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, She dwells, remote from heedless eye, With nature’s lonely majesty. Vain, vain the search!--his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest: The weary pilgrimage is o’er, The hopes that cheer’d it are no more. Then sinks his soul, and day by day Youth’s buoyant energies decay. The light of health his eye hath flown, The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. Joyless as one on whom is laid Some baleful spell that bids him fade, Extending its mysterious power O’er every scene, o’er every hour: E’en thus _he_ withers; and to him Italia’s brilliant skies are dim. He withers--in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair-- _He_ only seems to perish there. Yet sometimes will a transient smile Play o’er his faded cheek awhile, When breathes his minstrel boy a strain Of power to lull all earthly pain-- So wildly sweet, its notes might seem Th’ ethereal music of a dream, A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone! Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe; And if at times its wakening swell Some tale of glory seems to tell, Soon the proud notes of triumph die, Lost in a dirge’s harmony. Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved, Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved, Ere the sad strain could catch from thence Such deep impassion’d eloquence! Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy-- He is no child of hope and joy! Though few his years, yet have they been Such as leave traces on the mien, And o’er the roses of our prime Breathe other blights than those of time. Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d. Oh! there are sorrows which impart A sternness foreign to the heart, And, rushing with an earthquake’s power, That makes a desert in an hour, Rouse the dread passions in their course, As tempests wake the billows’ force!-- ’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind? His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow: And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d Dwells the sad secret in his breast; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well conceals-- He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone In music’s eloquence alone; His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d Through his full song and swelling chord. He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain; And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber’s banks along, Where Empire’s desolate remains Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains; Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home; When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls; When hush’d is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown-- A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, ’Tis like a dirge for empires gone! Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!-- The feast is spread, and music’s call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O’er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep-- The still small voice of conscience--die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music’s power shall fly; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woe; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart--but not the mien! Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow, Still darker lower the shadows now; Changed are his features, now o’erspread With the cold paleness of the dead; Now crimson’d with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d; Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay’d, He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter--“This is death!” Then rush’d that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill’d with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer’s mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried:-- “Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now! Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from me! Yet these are but a moment’s throes-- Howe’er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath-- _My_ life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time! “Deem’st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied--but destroy’d! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought-- That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!--once a hero’s bride! Otho! thou know’st the rest--_he died_. Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst _thou_ trust in aught again? “He died, and I was changed--my soul, A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow-- The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d, The debt of blood shall soon be paid! Thine hour is come--the time hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene; _That_ feeling long is past--my fate Hath made me stern as desolate. “Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom? Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb! _He_ sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory--Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!” The day departs--that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away: From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber’s stream, And softly tints each Roman hill With glowing light, as clear and still As if, unstain’d by crime or woe, Its hours had pass’d in silent flow. The day sets calmly--it hath been Mark’d with a strange and awful scene: One guilty bosom throbs no more, And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er. And thou, ere yet another sun His burning race hath brightly run, Released from anguish by thy foes, Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose. Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky Fix yet once more thy parting eye! A few short hours--and all shall be The silent and the past for thee. Oh! thus with tempests of a day We struggle, and we pass away, Like the wild billows as they sweep, Leaving no vestige on the deep! And o’er thy dark and lowly bed The sons of future days shall tread, The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, By them unknown, by thee forgot. [114] “As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circæum with a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Cæsar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most perplexing and horrid thoughts; insomuch, that he was sometimes inclined to go privately into Cæsar’s house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero’s vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber-window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ‘Shall we,’ said they, ‘remain to be spectators of our master’s murder? Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention?’ Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea.”--Plutarch, _Life of Cicero_. [115] “Now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair.”--Milton. [116] Mount Gargano. “This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus: ‘Aquilonibus Querceta Gargani laborant, Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace. “There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and common oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation.”--Swinburne’s _Travels_. [117] Transcriber’s Note: Anchor not found in original page 90 footnote 3. “In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace?”--Milton. THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. [“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city--a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day--on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him.”--Langhorne’s _Plutarch_.] Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound Of mirth and music, at the close of day, Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, In gay magnificence the feast was spread; And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes, That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies. And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d In godlike beauty, awfully serene. Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined Round that luxurious board!--in every face Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth, But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth. Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom May still survive the wearers--and the rose Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb Receives the mighty to its dark repose! The day must dawn on battle, and may set In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high! Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet Lend her one hour for parting revelry. They who the empire of the world possess’d Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest. Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien, And read their annals on that brow of care! Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been: Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair. Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire The buoyant energies of days gone by; There is delusion in its meteor fire, And all within is shame, is agony! Away! the tear in bitterness may flow, But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe. Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee: in decay Not less than kingly--though of all bereft, Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away. Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate! But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made His desolation--thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d, To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride. Imperial being! e’en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light Inspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye, Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright With the deep glow of feverish energy. Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught With an immortal fire--in every beam It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream; For thou with death hast communed to attain Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118] And the stern courage by such musings lent, Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent With all the majesty of mighty woes: While he, so fondly, fatally adored, Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d Can deem the day-star of its glory set; Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee. But there is sadness in the eyes around, Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away. “Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries; “Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep; While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me. “Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er, O victors of Philippi! many a field Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more! By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d. Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread, Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d, Now bursts the tempest on his crested head! Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky, The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.” The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night-- Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep; From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep. For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams, The battle-signal to decide their doom, Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;-- Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb; Dreams dark and ominous, but _there_ to cease, When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound Of gathering tumult?--Near and nearer still Its murmur swells. Above, below, around. Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, Is heard upon the midnight air to float; And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth. These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strain Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; And the deep horror chilling every vein Owns them of stern terrific augury. Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away, O ye invisible and awful throng! Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along. Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119] [118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.--See Plutarch. [119] “To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!” _Richard III._ ALARIC IN ITALY. [After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ thus proceeds:--“Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep--the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis--could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.] Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? His steps have track’d that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dead,[120] Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He pass’d--the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains; And woke they not--the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylæ? And left they not their silent dwelling, When Scythia’s note of war was swelling? No! where the bold Three Hundred slept, Sad freedom battled not--but wept! For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand, And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; Nor one high soul from slumber broke When Athens own’d the northern yoke. But was there none for _thee_ to dare The conflict, scorning to despair? O City of the seven proud hills! Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills, As doth a clarion’s battle-call-- Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall? Did no Camillus from the chain Ransom thy Capitol again? Oh, who shall tell the days to be No patriot rose to bleed for thee! Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121] Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:-- How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th’ ascendant star of destiny! She woke--to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour’d from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine: Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O’er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying. Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! The time hath been when _thy_ distress Had roused up empires for redress! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder’d temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies. Ye who on bright Campania’s shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep-- Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed,[122] O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords. Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes-- While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art-- Oh! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye To visions of divinity; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace. Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites; And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors! your flowery bondage break, Sons of the stormy North, awake! The barks are launching from the steep-- Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123] And Afric’s burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war. Where shall his race of victory close? When shall the ravaged earth repose? But hark! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? A sterner conquerer hath been there! A conqueror--yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world’s release; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer--Death! Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now--a grave alone. But his--her lord from Alp to sea-- No common sepulchre shall be! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne’er descry! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch’s bed. Let not his royal dust be hid ’Neath star-aspiring pyramid; Nor bid the gather’d mound arise, To bear his memory to the skies. Years roll away--oblivion claims Her triumph o’er heroic names; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory’s ray; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, O leader of the free! That general doom awaits not thee: Thou, where no step may e’er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener’s final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, And hollow in the torrent’s bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done--the captive’s hand Hath well obey’d his lord’s command. Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there; To rest at length from victory’s toil, Alone, with all an empire’s spoil! Then the freed current’s rushing wave Rolls o’er the secret of the grave; Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep. Time hath past on since then--and swept From earth the urns where heroes slept; Temples of gods and domes of kings Are mouldering with forgotten things; Yet not shall ages e’er molest The viewless home of Alaric’s rest: Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, The guardian of his dust for ever. [120] After the taking of Athens by Sylla, “though such numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking country. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla: yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet--partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ‘he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the _living for the dead_.’”--Plutarch. [121] “At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremendous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 311. [122] The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that “this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade.”--See the notes to Melmoth’s _Pliny_. [123] Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and peculiar dominion of Ceres. THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. [“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage--this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,--‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames.”--_Ancient Universal History._] The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams-- Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124] --But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round--intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round; Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien-- She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those _her_ infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign? Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children’s martyrdom; Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. “Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. Think’st thou I love them not?--’Twas thine to fly-- ’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.” Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye. [124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy. HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. [From _Maccabees_, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony.--22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them.--23. Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed.--24. Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.--25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair covering; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold.--26. Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many sore stripes.--27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter.--28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly they acknowledged the power of God.--29. For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life.”] A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries Rose from her dwellings--youthful cheeks were pale, Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, And voices mingling in tumultuous wail; Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside The regal splendour of their fair array, With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride, And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay; While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine Who made of old renown and empire thine. But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate, The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold; And all the scene reveals its solemn state, Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold; And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode, The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God. Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest? Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne, And call the oracle’s recess thine own! Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host, Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast, Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been. Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might, To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill? Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain, Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again! Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store: What recks _his_ heart though age unsuccour’d die, And want consume the cheek of infancy? Away, intruders!--hark! a mighty sound! Behold, a burst of light!--away, away! A fearful glory fills the temple round, A vision bright in terrible array! And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame, His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame! His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane Seems waving fire--the kindling of his eye Is as a meteor--ardent with disdain His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty! Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear Some dread archangel through the fields of air. But who is he, in panoply of gold, Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form, Yet in its brightness awful to behold, And girt with all the terrors of the storm! Lightning is on his helmet’s crest--and fear Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. And by his side two radiant warriors stand, All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace-- Oh! more than kingly--godlike!--sternly grand, Their port indignant, and each dazzling face Beams with the beauty to immortals given, Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. Then sinks each gazer’s heart--each knee is bow’d In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight, Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd, Bursts on their leader in terrific might; And the stern angels of that dread abode Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. Darkness--thick darkness!--low on earth he lies, Rash Heliodorus--motionless and pale-- Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train, Is borne from that inviolable fane. The light returns--the warriors of the sky Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away; Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day; Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill! Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still. [125] “Hast thou given the horse strength? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder?”--_Job_, chap. xxxix. v. 19. NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. [“En même temps que les Génois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils étoient déchirés eux-mêmes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de l’année 1169, pour rétablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes à leur voix et plus puissantes qu’eux, furent obligés d’ourdir en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencèrent par s’assurer secrètement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant étoient entraînés dans les émeutes par leur parenté avec les chefs de faction; puis, se concertant avec le vénérable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevêque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyens au parlement: ils se flattoient que la surprise et l’alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de l’obscurité de la nuit, rendroit l’assemblée et plus complète et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement général, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil archevêque, entouré de son clergé en habit de cérémonies, et portant des torches allumées; tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Gênes, étoient exposées devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient à leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Dès que l’assemblée fut formée, le vieillard se leva, et de sa voix cassée il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs âmes, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberté, dont leurs discordes entraîneroient la ruine, de jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix à venir. “Les hérauts, dès qu’il eut fini de parler, s’avancèrent aussitôt vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l’une des factions, qui étoit présent à l’assemblée, et, secondés par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les prières de ses parens eux-mêmes, ils le sommèrent de se conformer au vœu des consuls et de la nation. “Roland, à leur approche, déchira ses habits, et, s’asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela à haute voix les morts qu’il avoit juré de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le déterminer à s’avancer, les consuls eux-mêmes, l’archevêque et le clergé, s’approchèrent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prières, ils l’entraînèrent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur l’évangile l’oubli de ses inimitiés passées. “Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo de Volta, n’étoient pas présens à l’assemblée, mais le peuple et le clergé se portèrent en foule à leurs maisons; ils les trouvèrent dejà ébranlés par ce qu’ils venoient d’apprendre, et, profitant de leur émotion, ils leur firent jurer une réconciliation sincère, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposée. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnèrent en témoignage d’allégresse, et l’archevêque de retour sur la place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, eu honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauvé leur patrie.”--_Histoire des Républiques Italiennes_, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.] In Genoa, when the sunset gave Its last warm purple to the wave, No sound of war, no voice of fear, Was heard, announcing danger near: Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate But slumber’d till its hour of fate, Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close, Sunk the wide city to repose. But when deep midnight reign’d around, All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound, Full swelling, while the hollow breeze Bore its dread summons o’er the seas. Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; Then mingled with th’ awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls; Arise to guard your native walls! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene. But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O’er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying: Now floating o’er each tall arcade, Around the pillar’d scene display’d, In light relieved by depth of shade: And now, with ruddy meteor glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow’d servants of the fane. Of life’s past woes the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch’s face Expression holy, deep, resign’d, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d, And left him of his race the last, Alone on earth--yet still his mien Is bright with majesty serene; And those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye Whose fount is immortality, And o’er his features pour’d a ray Of glory, not to pass away. He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone, On earth by nought but pity’s tie Detain’d a moment from on high! One to sublimer worlds allied, One from all passion purified, E’en now half mingled with the sky, And all prepared--oh! not to die-- But, like the prophet, to aspire, In heaven’s triumphal car of fire. He speaks--and from the throngs around Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound; Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance, They stand as in a spell-bound trance: He speaks--oh! who can hear nor own The might of each prevailing tone? “Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate Hath made your country desolate; Now by the love ye bear her name, By that pure spark of holy flame On freedom’s altar brightly burning, But, once extinguished, ne’er returning; By all your hopes of bliss to come When burst the bondage of the tomb; By Him, the God who bade us live To aid each other, and forgive-- I call upon ye to resign Your discords at your country’s shrine, Each ancient feud in peace atone, Wield your keen swords for her alone, And swear upon the cross, to cast Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!” No voice replies. The holy bands Advance to where yon chieftain stands, With folded arms, and brow of gloom O’ershadow’d by his floating plume. To him they lift the cross--in vain: He turns--oh! say not with disdain, But with a mien of haughty grief, That seeks not e’en from heaven relief. He rends his robes--he sternly speaks-- Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:-- “Father! not thus the wounds may close Inflicted by eternal foes. Deem’st thou _thy_ mandate can efface The dread volcano’s burning trace? Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene Be smiling as it once hath been? No! for the deeds the sword hath done Forgiveness is not lightly won; The words by hatred spoke may not Be as a summer breeze forgot! ’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath’d us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy!--blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget.” He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command; His voice is awful, and his eye Fill’d with prophetic majesty. “The dead!--and deem’st thou _they_ retain Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain? Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty? And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone? There _hath_ been blood--by Him ’twas shed To expiate every crime who bled; Th’ absolving God, who died to save, And rose in victory from the grave! And by that stainless offering given Alike for all on earth to heaven; By that inevitable hour When death shall vanquish pride and power, And each departing passion’s force Concentrate all in late remorse; And by the day when doom shall be Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee-- The doom that shall not be repeal’d, Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d-- I summon thee, O child of clay! To cast thy darker thoughts away, And meet thy foes in peace and love, As thou wouldst join the blest above.” Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing. Oh, not in vain the pleading cries Of anxious thousands round him rise! He yields: devotion’s mingled sense Of faith, and fear, and penitence, Pervading all his soul, he bows To offer on the cross his vows, And that best incense to the skies, Each evil passion’s sacrifice. Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing, High hearts with soft emotions glowing; Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, And ardent throngs in transport meeting; And eager footsteps forward pressing, And accents loud in joyous blessing; And when their first wild tumults cease, A thousand voices echo “Peace!” Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away, And the rich Orient burns with day; Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth, Rises the choral hymn of earth-- Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling, Of peace and holy rapture telling. Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep, The seaman hears them on the deep-- So mellow’d by the gale, they seem As the wild music of a dream. But not on mortal ear alone Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone; For beings of a purer sphere Bend with celestial joy, to hear. THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION. [“Not only the place of Richard’s confinement,” (when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) “if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies; and both might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provençal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince’s friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive.--(_Hist. Troubadours._) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release.”--See Russell’s _Modern Europe_, vol. i. p. 369. The Troubadour o’er many a plain Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain. O’er many a rugged mountain-scene And forest wild his track hath been: Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry; His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees; From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave; And yet, if still on earth thou art, Monarch of the lion-heart! The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish’d not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine: The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state-- No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126] To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening’s parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky. Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan, Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast, When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127] The weary minstrel paused--his eye Roved o’er the scene despondingly: Within the length’ning shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed. The rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood-- By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell; But all was lonely, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude. But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour’s wild song is waking. Full oft that song in days gone by Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry: It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone, Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone; On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders’ tents among; Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon; And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine. [126] It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of “Perceforest,” “ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un _heaulme_, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes entrassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre.” [127] Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the haunt of the _wild Jager_, or supernatural huntsman. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are recorded in Eustace’s _Classical Tour_; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle of Schnellerts.--See the “_Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le Rhin_,” and “_Autumn on the Rhine_.” THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG. “Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,” The Soldan cried to the captive knight, “And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight. “But be our faith by thy lips profess’d, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine.” “I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, And think’st thou I fear to die? “I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers, Have fall’n for the name Divine; And the faith that cheer’d _their_ closing hours Shall be the light of mine.” “Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom? Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb.” “I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour’s brow; _He_ spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now!” “Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine Again on its shores to rest? “Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er, Forgotten in foreign earth.” “Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There’s a brighter clime above!” The bard hath paused--for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. “Are there none within thy father’s hall, Far o’er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain?” “There are hearts that still, through all the past, Unchanging have loved me well; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell. “Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier Than th’ apostate’s living stain; There’s a land where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again.” ’Tis he! thy prince--long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host! ’Tis he!--to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour! away, away! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129] Arouse the sons of the noble soil To win their Lion from the toil. And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; The festal board shall be richly crown’d, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king. [128] The Plain of Esdräelon, called by way of eminence the “Great Plain;” in Scripture, and elsewhere, the “field of Megiddo,” the “Galilean Plain.” This plain, the most fertile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of “every nation which is under heaven” have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdräelon, and have beheld the various banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabor.--_Dr Clarke’s Travels._ [129] “This precious stone set in the sea.”--_Richard II._ THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. [“La défaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni à ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d’Anjou.) L’amour du peuple pour l’héritier légitime du trône avoit éclaté d’une manière effrayante; il pouvoit causer de nouvelles révolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie; et Charles, revêtant sa défiance et sa cruauté des formes de la justice, résolut de faire périr sur l’échafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, l’unique espérance de son parti. Un seul juge Provençal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n’ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, d’autres se renfermèrent dans un timide et coupable silence; et Charles, sur l’autorité de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sentence fut communiquée à Conradin, comme il jouoit aux échecs; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se préparer à son exécution, et le 26 d’Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marché de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles étoit présent, avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamné. Conradin étoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il détacha lui-même son manteau, et s’étant mis à genoux pour prier, il se releva en s’écriant: ‘Oh, ma mère, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu’on va te porter de moi!’ Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui l’entouroit; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple; alors, détachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d’un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tête au bourreau. Après lui, sur le même échafaud, Charles fit trancher la tête au Duc d’Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Bartolommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Donoratico de Pise. Par un raffinement de cruauté, Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, précédât son père, et mourût entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d’après ses ordres, furent exclus d’une terre sainte, et inhumés sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite bâtir sur le même lieu une église de Carmélites, comme pour apaiser ces ombres irritées.”--Sismondi’s _Républiques Italiennes_.] No cloud to dim the splendour of the day Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm’d the great of yore-- Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade. That race is gone--but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away. The beam of heaven expands--its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast. Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height, With all Italia’s sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb. Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak. Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err’d to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130] Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground; His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves; His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still. Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness’d many a dark reality. Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return.[131] There with the whisper of Campania’s gale Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes--while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132] And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133] Pass’d are those ages--yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore-- It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er! There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,-- A scene of death from thence must be survey’d. Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?--each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale: But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look. Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134] And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace; Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament: And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence--to despair! But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die Hath grown too full for utterance--Can it be! And is this pomp of death prepared for _thee_? Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone! Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne’er control? Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led, Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy--if to thee denied? There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves--the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. He mounts the scaffold--doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed, And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death! But no! the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels--but not to man; his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour? How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope--when hope on earth is gone? That solemn pause is o’er--the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven: The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky, Life all around him glows--and he must die? Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire, May sleep suppress’d a while--but not expire. One softer image rises o’er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! “Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?”--that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. The lifted axe is glittering in the sun-- It falls--the race of Conradin is run! Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven--and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!--but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee! The scene of death is closed--the throngs depart, A deep stem lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave; Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour’d, unadorn’d--but _unforgot_; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering--never to forgive! The sunset fades from purple heavens away-- A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay: Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135] Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak, Inured to woes--yet what were all the past! _She_ sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast, While one bright hope remain’d--who now shall tell Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came--and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief, Awhile she kneels--till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother’s cry is heard--“My Conradin! my child!” [130] The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long since been lost. [131] Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many years in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. [132] “Quelques souvenirs du cœur, quelques noms de femmes, réclament aussi vos pleurs. C’est à Misène, dans le lieu même où nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompée Cornélie conserva jusqu’à la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords: un jour, le même assassin qui lui ravit son époux la trouva digne de le suivre. L’île de Nisida fut témoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie.”--Madame de Stael, _Corinne_. [133] The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors; besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from Agrippina’s tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples.--See _Ancient Universal History_. [134] “Ce Charles,” dit Giovanni Villani, “fut sage et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, âpre et forte redouté de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensées qui l’égaloient aux plus grandes entreprises; inébranlable dans l’adversité, ferme et fidèle dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, _ni riant presque jamais_, décent comme un religieux, zélé catholique, âpre à rendre justice, féroce dans ses regards. Sa taille étoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivâtre, son nez fort grand. Il paroissoit plus fait qu’aucun autre chevalier pour la majesté royale. Il ne dormoit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour.”--Sismondi, _Républiques Italiennes_, vol. iii. [135] “The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin’s mother, who, landing on the beach with her son’s ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous conqueror.”--Swinburne’s _Travels in the Two Sicilies_. EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. _Quarterly Review._--“‘Tales and Historic Scenes’ is a collection, as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his _course_ of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexperience of the same age, in passing judgments,--in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more care must be taken: if the tale be fictitious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned, in determining how far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art. “The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn; and she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of their dialogue,--they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly free from exaggeration,-- ‘Oh! wert thou still what once I fondly deem’d,’” etc. _Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“The more we become acquainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are delighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie; but, even compared with the living _masters_ of the lyre, she is entitled to a very high distinction.... “Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it impossible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by inspiration--as it is poetically called--by a fine tact of sympathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours forth her enchanting song and ‘builds her lofty rhyme.’ The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of magnanimity; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals. “It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales.” _Constable’s Magazine._--“The Abencerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest--in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance.... The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descriptions here is exquisite.... Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from The Abencerrage. “If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature.” THE SCEPTIC.[136] “Leur raison, qu’ils prennent pour guide, ne presente à leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdités où ils tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verités dont la hauteur les étonne; et pour ne vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent l’une après l’autre d’incomprehensibles erreurs.”--Bossuet. When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! --And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?--a dark eternity! Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than _life_ can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base? Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice! But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared-- Proud child of reason! how art _thou_ prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train? Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will _she_ speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown! For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore; Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left; And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour, Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to _love_? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest Within that hallow’d shrine--a parent’s breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol--destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite? Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let “_for ever_” vibrate on thine ear! If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought--’tis gone! Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolise the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread “_for ever_”--and despair! And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course--explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky: Is the blue canopy serenely fair? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep! Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate! Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempests and in clouds; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath, And festal garlands veil the shafts of death! Where art thou _then_, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert _now_, a vale of gloom, O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb? Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze-- No gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image of the dead; And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit’s guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this; Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss. But who shall dare the gate of life to close, Or say, _thus far_ the stream of mercy flows? That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace Each distant isle, and visit every race, Pours from the throne of God its current free, Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee. Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead-- While still, suspended by a single hair, The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake! Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, And send his chastening Spirit from above, O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. But seek thou mercy through his name alone, To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown; Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, As man to suffer, and to heal as God; And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. Call thou on Him! for he, in human form, Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm. He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last-- Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored; And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, Taught from his Cross the lesson--to forgive! Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose, Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. And haste!--ere bursts the lightning from on high, Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139] So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away, And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued; Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head. --He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade Of such deep night as man for man hath made, Through lingering years--if call’d at length to be Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun. Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d, If the Deliverer, in his might at last, Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight, Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. But this will pass away: that spark of mind, Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, Born to be foster’d with ethereal day. Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d, On wing of flame, the purifying blast, And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod, Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God! But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky? Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock, Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock? Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent. Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy--seek an answer there! Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave Forsook the struggling soul she could not save! Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur--mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent’s own: Earth has more awful ruins--one lost mind, Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. But who with eye unshrinking shall explore That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more? Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll Around the shatter’d temple of the soul, Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie, And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140] Sunk are its idols now--and God alone May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown! Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, Is heard an oracle that cries--“Beware! Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies! One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies! Haste, ere the hour of doom--draw nigh to Him Who dwells above, between the cherubim!” Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career-- Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere, Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run With science in the chariot of the sun; Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, And search the laws that nature’s springs control, There tracing all--save Him who guides the whole! Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast Through the dim shades, the portals of the past; By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, The depths of time exploring, to retrace The glorious march of many a vanish’d race. Or did thy power pervade the living lyre Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high, Full and alone, their mighty harmony; While woke each passion from its cell profound, And nations started at th’ electric sound? Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now, Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? What though thy name, through distant empires heard, Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word? Was it for _this_ thy still unwearied eye Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, To make the secrets of all ages thine, And commune with majestic thoughts that shine O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?--hath thy mind Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind, For _this_ to woo their homage! Thou hast sought All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, Won every wreath--but that which will not die, Nor aught neglected--save eternity! And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path? Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men, With an immortal’s courage, to sustain The transient agonies of earthly pain? --One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved When the loud fury of the billow raved; But him thou knew’st not--and the light he lent Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from--vainly to forget! --Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! The dagger, grasp’d in death--the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony; The soul’s dark traces left in many a line Graved on _his_ mein, who died--“and made no sign!” Approach not, gaze not--lest thy fever’d brain Too deep that image of despair retain. Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love! O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!--Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!--Thou, With whom all time is one eternal _now_, Who know’st no past nor future--Thou whose breath Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death! Look on us! guide us!--wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set--and we are lost in night; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink, A treacherous song allure us--and we sink! Oh! by _His_ love, who, veiling Godhead’s light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally By that dread union--Man with Deity; Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead; Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control The earthquakes of that universe--the soul; Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, “Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain. Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling[141]--when we see Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge-- When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper--Peace![142] For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet In glory’s arms exultingly to meet-- A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien, As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall! --Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands: they retire From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect’s little world of cares, Descends in silence--while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown, --Start not, thou trifler!--such may be thine own. But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before, We fain would stifle--but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song: Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?--a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes! Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d. In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, And say--“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree, Made for creation, be reversed for _thee_?” Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why-- It is enough that nature shrinks to die. Enough, _that_ horror, which thy words upbraid, Is her dread penalty, and must be paid! Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined And mystic questions of the parting mind, Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst, In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, When freed from mortal films--what viewless world Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d-- What awful and unbodied beings guide Her timid flight through regions yet untried; Say if at once, her final doom to hear, Before her God the trembler must appear, Or wait that day of terror, when the sea Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee? Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore The unknown, the unseen, the future--though the heart, As at unearthly sounds, before them start; Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, They have their source in immortality! Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies, An equal to the mortal conflict rise? When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes--oh whence shall aid Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d? Whence, but from thee, Messiah!--thou hast drain’d The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror--all became thine own! But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power? No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, From man averted--and thy path on high Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony: For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice! But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God; Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star. He rose! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart! And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left? But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter despised by thee, Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look, Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke, When o’er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d, And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey Hath call’d our fairest and our best away? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix’d--frozen--silent--all mortality? But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,” Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land; And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless, Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation’s blessings on thy head, O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead? But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child Yearn’d with vain longing--still thy patient eye To its last light beam’d holy constancy! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies--thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint--and settled in repose; While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own, And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel when her ark was lost! “It is the will of God!”--yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought--“It is the will of God!” Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee? Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E’en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height,[144] And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood, When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God--and shall she now Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow? From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers! Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant’s records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days, When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, And fondly say--“My child, for thee He died!” [136] “The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in which her revered friend[137] took a peculiar interest. It had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advantageous to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who entered very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to command frankly whatever assistance his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered dedication; but was afterwards deterred from putting it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manœuvre to propitiate the good graces of the _Quarterly Review_; and from the slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy.”--_Memoir_, p. 31. “One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_; and there is something in its tone so far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the same time so prophetic of the happy influence her writings were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the concluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the reviewer thus proceeds,--‘These extracts must, we think, convey to every reader a favourable impression of the talents of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which her high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we imagine, of some of the most popular writers of the day, that they are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of their performances; it is the deep, and will be the lasting reproach of others, that in this point of view they have wantonly sought and realised the most profound literary abasement. With the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to most of them, the author before us is not only free from every stain, but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the era of a woman’s sway in literature shall become coeval with the return of its moral purity and elevation.’ From suffrages such as these, Mrs Hemans derived not merely present gratification, but encouragement and cheer for her onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it often fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feelings of the sorrowful, or taught the desponding where to look for comfort. In a letter written at this time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of the heaviest of human calamities--the loss of an exemplary mother--she thus describes her own appreciation of such heart-tributes:--‘It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know, that you should find any thing I have written at all adapted to your present feelings, and that The Sceptic should have been one of the last books upon which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast. Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will inform me which were the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure and pious mind: they will be far more highly valued by me than any thing I have ever written.’--_Ibid._ pp. 334-4. “It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy of The Sceptic. ‘I cannot refuse myself the gratification of saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs Hemans’s superior genius and refined taste. I rank her, as a poet, very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her _Modern Greece_ which evinces more just views, or more delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance, on a subject so worthy of it; and, anticipating the future by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the perusal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit.’”--_Ibid._ [137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph. [138] “He is patient, because He is eternal.”--St Augustine. [139] “Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge for you; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person at unawares.--And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from the avenger.”--_Numbers_, chap. xxxv. [140] “Every man in the chambers of his imagery.”--_Ezekiel_, chap. viii. [141] “Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out.”--_Isaiah_, chap. li. [142] “And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.”--_Kings_, book i. chap. 19. [143] The Princess Charlotte. [144] “And set up a sign of fire.”--_Jeremiah_, chap. vi. [What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thirteen years after the publication of the Sceptic, and when the author, towards the termination of her earthly career, was residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance occurred by which Mrs Hemans was greatly affected and impressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and begged earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of all but her immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told that she was unable to receive him; but he persisted in entreating for a few minutes’ audience, with such urgent importunity that at last the point was conceded. The moment he was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest satisfied without avowing--that to her he owed, in the first instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to “search the Scriptures.” Having poured forth his thanks and benedictions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her overwhelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and wondering humility.--_Memoir_, p. 255-6.] CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS. _North American Review._--“In 1820 Mrs Hemans published The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She considers the influence of unbelief on the affections and gentler part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may be found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality. Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she turns to the sterner tasks of life:-- ‘E’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man.’ But then the sceptic has no relief in memory; for memory recalls no joys but such as were transitory, and known to be such; and as for hope-- ‘She, who like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all, Will she speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel-tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.’ “The poet then asks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no home for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feelings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attachment to a vain idol, from which death may at any time divide him ‘_for ever_.’... For relief the infidel is referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites the fervour of devotion with poetic sensibility.... The poem proceeds to depict, in a forcible manner, the unfortunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of knowledge but that which gives salvation; and, having gained possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed with the majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, finds relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal rest. The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and support in the hour of dissolution; for the hour, when the soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another life, is an ‘awful one.’... This is followed by an allusion to the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic questions, that it cannot solve. But through the influence of religion-- ‘He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart.’ “After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, the poem closes with the picture of a mother teaching her child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine example of the Saviour. “We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for it illustrates the character of Mrs Hemans’s manner. We perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, gratifications, and sorrows of social life.”--Professor Norton. _Edinburgh Monthly Review._--“We have on more than one occasion expressed the very high opinion which we entertain of the talents of this lady; and it is gratifying to find that she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree the applause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibition of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy of her poetical career; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, and of very high promise. Not but that she has already performed more than has often been sufficient to win for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but because what she has already done shrinks, when compared with what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere incipient excellence--the intimation rather than the fulfilment of the high destiny of her genius. ... “The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spontaneous offspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an exquisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than the force of many of her masculine competitors, she never ceases to be strictly _feminine_ in the whole current of her thought and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of that free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some of the most remarkable among the female literati of our times have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have been very difficult to have reconciled the treatment, in the hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belongs to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its attractions, and wrapt in darkness and defiance. But Mrs Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, while she has left in the poem before us every trace of vigorous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of unbelief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and confiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility of hope and of faith has in it none of the weakness with which it has been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owns a divine and mysterious vigour residing under the very aspect of gentleness and devotion.” _Quarterly Review._--“Her last two publications are works of a higher stamp; works, indeed, of which no living poet need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled The Sceptic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to advocating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem must have owed its being to the circumstances of the times--to a laudable indignation at the course which literature in many departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and at the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but by no means exclusively, as has been falsely supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs Hemans, however, does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse; few poems, ostensibly philosophical or didactic, have ever been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force to confirm a wavering mind; it is simply resting the truth of religion on the necessity of it--on the utter misery and helplessness of man without it. This argument is in itself available for all the purposes of poetry: it appeals to the imagination and passions of man; it is capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of acting upon all our natural fears. Mrs Hemans has gone through this range with great feeling and ability; and when she comes to the mind which has clothed itself in its own strength, and relying proudly on that alone in the hour of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the contest, she rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed:-- ‘Oh, what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,’ etc.”] SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION, AN UNFINISHED POEM. I. Beings of brighter worlds! that rise at times As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, In those brief visions of celestial climes Which pass like sunbeams o’er the realms of thought, Dwell ye around us?--are ye hovering nigh, Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air? And in deep solitudes, where human eye Can trace no step, Immortals! are ye there? Oh! who can tell?--what power, but Death alone, Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown? II. But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers Of Eden wither’d, when reveal’d ye shone In all your brightness midst those holy bowers-- Holy, but not unfading, as your own! While He, the child of that primeval soil, With you its paths in high communion trode, His glory yet undimm’d by guilt or toil, And beaming in the image of his God, And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. III. Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays, Mingling their tones, from nature’s temple rose, When nought but that majestic song of praise Broke on the sanctity of night’s repose, With music since unheard: and man might trace By stream and vale, in deep embow’ring shade, Devotion’s first and loveliest dwelling-place, The footsteps of th’ Omnipotent, who made That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass’d. IV. Short were those days, and soon, O sons of Heaven! Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour, When from his paradise the alien driven Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower, Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell With meteor-swords: he saw the living flame, And his first cry of misery was--“Farewell!” His heart’s first anguish, exile: he became A pilgrim on the earth, whose children’s lot Is still for happier lands to pine--and reach them not. V. Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep? From all its founts the world of waters swell’d, And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep! For He, to whom the elements are slaves, In wrath unchain’d the oceans of the cloud, And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves Folded creation in their mighty shroud; Then left the earth a solitude, o’erspread With its own awful weeks--a desert of the dead. VI. But onward flow’d life’s busy course again, And rolling ages with them bore away-- As to be lost amidst the boundless main, Rich orient streams their golden sands convey-- The hallow’d lore of old--the guiding light Left by tradition to the sons of earth, And the blest memory of each sacred rite Known in the region of their father’s birth, When in each breeze around his fair abode Whisper’d a seraph’s voice, or lived the breath of God. VII. Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day, Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean’s breast, A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, Catching brief splendour from the purple west? So round thy parting steps, fair Truth! awhile With borrow’d hues unnumber’d phantoms shone; And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, Blending her rites with thine--while yet afar Thine eye’s last radiance beam’d, a slow-receding star. VIII. Yet still one stream was pure--one sever’d shrine Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands; And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. There still the father to his child bequeath’d The sacred torch of never-dying flame; There still Devotion’s suppliant accents breathed The One adored and everlasting Name; And angel guests would linger and repose Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees rose. IX. But far o’er earth the apostate wanderers bore Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade, Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, In thrilling whispers to the soul convey’d High inspiration: yet in every clime, Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought With beings, in their essence more sublime, To hold communion of mysterious thought; On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, And hear in every wind the accents of th’ Unseen. X. Yes! we have need to bid our hopes repose On some protecting influence: here confined, Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, Earth is too narrow for th’ immortal mind. Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, As exiles panting for their native coast, Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way, And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross’d. Death hovers round us: in the zephyr’s sigh, As in the storm, he comes--and lo! Eternity! XI. As one left lonely on the desert sands Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, He gazes as the pathless waste expands-- Around, beyond, interminably wide; While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky, Or suns of blasting light perchance illume The glistening Serab[145] which illudes his eye: Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown. XII. His thoughts explored the past--and where were they, The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by? He turn’d--a boundless void before him lay, Wrapp’d in the shadows of futurity. How knew the child of Nature that the flame He felt within him struggling to ascend, Should perish not with that terrestrial frame Doom’d with the earth on which it moved, to blend? How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed, If ’twere a Father’s love or Tyrant’s wrath decreed? XIII. Oh! marvel not if then he sought to trace In all sublimities of sight and sound, In rushing winds that wander through all space, Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom embrown’d, The oracles of Fate! or if the train Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer’s brain, When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, Were deem’d mysterious revelations, sent From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element. XIV. Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, Clothed with a deeper power?--earth’s wandering race, Exploring realms of solitude sublime, Not as _we_ see, beheld her awful face! Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met Their searching eyes; unpeopled kingdoms lay In savage pomp before them--all was yet Silent and vast, but not as in decay; And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, Look’d o’er a thousand shores, untrodden, voiceless, lone. XV. The forests in their dark luxuriance waved, With all their swell of strange Æolian sound; The fearful deep, sole region ne’er enslaved, Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. Then, brooding o’er the images, imprest By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, Midst dim remembrances of infancy, Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and streams. XVI. Then bled the victim--then in every shade Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine; Fear bow’d before the phantoms she portray’d, And Nature teem’d with many a mystic sign. Meteors, and storms, and thunders! ye whose course E’en yet is awful to th’ enlighten’d eye, As, wildly rushing from your secret source, Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high, Then o’er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass’d. XVII. But you, ye stars! in distant glory burning, Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky! To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, Would pierce the secrets of infinity-- To you the heart, bereft of other light, Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains, Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns, Cloudless and silent, circled with the race Of some unnumber’d orbs, that light the depths of space. XVIII. Shine on! and brightly plead for erring thought, Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored The wide creation, and beholding nought Like your eternal beauty, then adored Its living splendours; deeming them inform’d By natures temper’d with a holier fire-- Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm’d, Who to the source of spirit might aspire, And mortal prayers benignantly convey To some presiding Power, more awful far than they. XIX. Guides o’er the desert and the deep! to you The seaman turn’d, rejoicing at the helm, When from the regions of empyreal blue Ye pour’d soft radiance o’er the ocean-realm; To you the dweller of the plains address’d Vain prayers, that call’d the clouds and dews your own; To you the shepherd, on the mountain’s crest, Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone, As earth would light up all her hills, to vie With your immortal host, and image back the sky. XX. Hail to the queen of heaven! her silvery crown Serenely wearing, o’er her high domain She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. Earth should be hush’d in slumber--but the night Calls forth her worshippers; the feast is spread, On hoary Lebanon’s umbrageous height The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades Faintly as Nature’s light the ’wilder’d soul pervades. XXI. But when _thine_ orb, all earth’s rich hues restoring, Came forth, O sun! in majesty supreme, Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring Beauty and life in each triumphant beam, Through thine own East what joyous rites prevail’d! What choral songs re-echo’d! while thy fire Shone o’er its thousand altars, and exhaled The precious incense of each odorous pyre, Heap’d with the richest balms of spicy vales, And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales. XXII. Yet not with Saba’s fragrant wealth alone, Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew’d; For the dark children of the burning zone Drew frenzy from thy fervours, and bedew’d With their own blood thy shrine; while that wild scene, Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view’d, And though with glory mantled, and severe In his own fulness of beatitude, Yet mourn’d for those whose spirits from thy ray Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day. XXIII. But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers! Benignant seraphs! wont to leave the skies, And hold high converse, midst his native bowers, With the once glorious son of Paradise, Look’d ye from heaven in sadness! were your strains Of choral praise suspended in dismay, When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day? Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes. While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice? XXIV. And well the powers of evil might rejoice, When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry, And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice, The frantic mother bore her child to die! Around her vainly clung his feeble hands With sacred instinct: love hath lost its sway, While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands, And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale! Well may the drum’s loud peal o’erpower an infant’s wail? XXV. A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose; ’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows, Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns: Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found-- To life and love the buried god returns! Then wakes the timbrel--then the forests ring, And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing! XXVI. But fill’d with holier joy the Persian stood, In silent reverence, on the mountain’s brow, At early dayspring, while the expanding flood Of radiance burst around, above, below-- Bright, boundless as eternity: he gazed Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o’erflow’d In worship of th’ Invisible, and praised In thee, O Sun! the symbol and abode Of life, and power, and excellence--the throne Where dwelt the Unapproach’d, resplendently alone.[146] XXVII. What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave Mysterious sanctity to things which wear Th’ Eternal’s impress?--if the living wave, The circling heavens, the free and boundless air-- If the pure founts of everlasting flame, Deep in his country’s hallow’d vales enshrined, And the bright stars maintain’d a silent claim To love and homage from his awe-struck mind? Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream Of uncreated Power, far, far o’er these supreme. XXVIII. And with that faith was conquest. He whose name To Judah’s harp of prophecy had rung-- He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, He came, the victor Cyrus! As he pass’d, Thrones to his footstep rock’d, and monarchs lay Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast Their ancient idols down before _his_ way, Who in majestic march, from shore to shore, The quenchless flame revered by Persia’s children bore. [145] _Serab_, mirage. [146] At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the following stanza was here inserted:-- “Nor rose the Magian’s hymn, sublimely swelling In full-toned homage to the source of flame, From fabric rear’d by man, the gorgeous dwelling Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame. Be rear’d no temple, bade no walls contain The breath of incense or the voice of prayer; But made the boundless universe his fane, The rocks his altar-stone--adoring there The Being whose Omnipotence pervades All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades.” [In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the acquaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valuable friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in death--Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary character with whom she had ever familiarly associated; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment:--“I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you; his conversation is quite rich with anecdote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of _Ivanhoe_ did; and was something so perfectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of _the_ poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he proceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own.” The poem here alluded to was the one entitled _Superstition_ and _Revelation_, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to embrace a very extensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park:--“I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. ‘Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,’ and in the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbarous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consolation they could convey in the hour of affliction--or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical; but the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude.” Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every encouragement to proceed in it; supplying her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustrations which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries--the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job--to the still existing rites of the Hindoos--would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author’s time. The work was, therefore, laid aside; and the fragment now first published is all that remains of it, though the project was never distinctly abandoned.] ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147] THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.” [147] “About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional contributor to the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, then conducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal courtesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary intercourse. Several of her poems appeared in the above-mentioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign literature, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordinate to the poetical translations, which it is used to introduce.”--_Memoir_, p. 41. Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthusiastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts--they are present, and clothed with life--before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagination for himself; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dignity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved: but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the midst of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in proportion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments.[148] In these political poems--the object and purport of which are so different--the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The _Basvigliana_, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself. Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempting, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville’s death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But, as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastisement, and doomed to contemplate the misfortunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revolution. An angel of heaven conducts Basville from province to province, that he may behold the desolation of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in _terza rima_, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expressions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the _spectator-hero_ of the poem, acts precisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character--he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse--and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolutionist. The _Basvigliana_ is, perhaps, more remarkable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body:-- “Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose; Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed, Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead. “Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour; Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. “Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre, There live no flames of vengeance or of ire; And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.” Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide; But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, A lingering step, and oft reverted eye-- As when a child’s reluctant feet obey Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play. Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast, When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d, And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d, But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire; And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood. He waved his sword--its red, terrific light With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night; While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast, Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar; And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar, Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high Breaks not their calm and proud security. In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI. The air was heavy, and the brooding skies Look’d fraught with omens, as to harmonise With his pale aspect. Through the forest round Not a leaf whisper’d--and the only sound That broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moan Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, As if a storm within the woodland bowers Were gathering. On they moved--and lo! the towers Of a far city! Nearer now they drew; And all reveal’d, expanding on their view, The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes-- Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose! In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d, Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe, Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell, The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low, Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep A fearful watch around, and sadness deep That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard At intervals, in many a broken word-- Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast; Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, On their own thresholds striving to detain Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour Of fate and fury--Love hath lost his power! For evil spirits are abroad, the air Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, Fired by that thirst for victims which of old Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d, Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day. Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair, On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands And serpent scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by, With touch of fire contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d, O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast; What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold! To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high-- The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye, Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good, Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien, Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene; And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved! Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved-- Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil; The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread; While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest. * * * * * In that dread moment, to the fatal pile The regal victim came; and raised the while His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook Before the grandeur of that kingly look; And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. * * * * * Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past-- E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction’s power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad-- “Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”-- E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes-- “To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried; “And my lost people, Father! be their guide!” * * * * * But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given, And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven; Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones! [148] The observation of a French author (_Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes_) on the general versatility of poets, seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.” THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. The _Alcestis_ of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of _Alcestis_ must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy. The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language. ACT I.--Scene II. Alcestis, Pheres. _Alc._ Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears! For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate Bereave thee of thy son. _Phe._ What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo--is there then a hope? _Alc._ Yes! hope for _thee_--hope by the voice announced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine. _Phe._ But say! oh! say, Shall then my son be spared? _Alc._ He shall, to _thee_. Thus hath Apollo said--Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle--be thou secure. _Phe._ O sounds of joy! He lives! _Alc._ But not for this, Think not that e’en for _this_ the stranger Joy Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. _Phe._ Can there be grief when from his bed of death Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak! _Alc._ The gods Themselves have limitations to their power Impassable, eternal--and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate: Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus. _Phe._ In thy looks There is expression, more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores? _Alc._ O father! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; And since too soon, too well it must be known, Hear it from me. _Phe._ Throughout my curdling veins Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son! More than a daughter; and thine infant race, The cherish’d hope and glory of my age; And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast, High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, To some one of my race. _Alc._ Death hath his rights, Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noonday, struck:--Admetus, the revered, The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway-- By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his--and oh! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis?--Such was he, Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead, Though not an equal--(who can equal him?) Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. Another, of his lineage or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in _his_ place, Who thus alone is saved. _Phe._ What do I hear? Woe to us, woe!--what victim?--who shall be Accepted in his stead? _Alc._ The dread exchange E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou, O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim. _Phe._ All prepared the prey! And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!--and yet Thou had’st me weep no more! _Alc._ Yes! thus I said, And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those _his_ death had caused.--With some few tears, But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d Life for Admetus.--Would’st thou know the prey, The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one, Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods, Father!--’tis I. _Phe._ What hast thou done? Oh, heaven! What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live Bereft of thee?--Of thee, his light of life, His very soul!--Of thee, beloved far more Than his loved parents--than his children more-- More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be? _Thou_ perish, O Alcestis! in the flower Of thy young beauty!--perish, and destroy Not him, not _him_ alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee! Desolate Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think’st thou not of those whose tender years Demand thy care?--thy children! think of them! O thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die While I can die for thee! Me, me alone, The oracle demands--a wither’d stem, Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. My race is run--the fulness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart, And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endow’d;--all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live! Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis--live! Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass An aged sire’s devotedness. _Alc._ I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood. _Phe._ What canst thou say Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save Him who with thee would perish;--to the shrine E’en now I fly. _Alc._ Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. * * * * * Yes! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d My life by every tie--the more I feel Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour’d.... In thy presence here Again I utter’d the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard--he calls, He summons me away--and thou art saved, O my Admetus! In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to complete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proserpine’s statue. The following scene ensues between her and Admetus. _Alc._ Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch; For I myself e’en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health’s genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days: and he shall live-- Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly. _Eum._ Can it be indeed, Father, loved father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours! _Adm._ There is no joy! Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more! I know not of affection, and I feel No more a father. _Eum._ Oh! what words are these? Are we no more thy children? Are we not Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close; he must return the fond embrace. _Adm._ O children! O my children! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis!--was she not Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er Adored like her before? Yet this is she, The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left Her husband and her infants! This is she, O my deserted children! who at once Bereaves you of your parents. _Alc._ Woe is me! I hear the bitter and reproachful cries Of my despairing lord. With life’s last powers, Oh! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, That he may hear and see me. _Adm._ Is it thou? And do I see thee still? and com’st thou thus To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear The dying accents _thus_? Alas! return To thy sad couch--return! ’tis meet for me There by thy side for ever to remain. _Alc._ For me thy care is vain. Though meet for thee-- _Adm._ O voice! O looks of death! are these, are _these_, Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, Upon my drooping brow! How heavily, With what a weight of death thy languid voice Sinks on my heart! too faithful far, too fond. Alcestis! thou art dying--and for me! * * * * * Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports With its last power, supports my sinking head, E’en now, while death is on thee! Oh! the touch Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, The image of yon ruthless Deity, Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. * * * * * Vain is each obstacle--in vain the gods Themselves would check my fury. I am lord Of my own days--and thus I swear---- _Alc._ Yes! swear, Admetus! for thy children to sustain The load of life. All other impious vows, Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain’d, Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, It is from them the inspiration flows Which in my language breathes? They lend me power, They bid me through thy strengthen’d soul transfuse High courage, noble constancy. Submit, Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm; Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme To which I now approach, from whom but thee Should comfort be derived? Afflict me not, In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. O faithful and beloved, support me still! The choruses with which this tragedy is interspersed are distinguished for their melody and classic beauty. The following translation will give our readers a faint idea of the one by which the third act is concluded. _Alc._ My children! all is finish’d. Now, farewell! To thy fond care, O Pheres! I commit My widow’d lord: forsake him not. _Eum._ Alas! Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us? From thy side Are we for ever parted? _Phe._ Tears forbid All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, More lifeless than the dying victim, see The desolate Admetus. Farther yet, Still farther, let us bear him from the sight Of his Alcestis. _Alc._ O my handmaids! still Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose With sacred modesty these torpid limbs When death’s last pang is o’er. _Chorus._ Alas! how weak Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near. Peace, mourners, peace! Be hush’d, be silent, in this hour of dread! Our cries would but increase The sufferer’s pang; let tears unheard be shed, Cease, voice of weeping, cease! Sustain, O friend! Upon thy faithful breast, The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest! And thou assistance lend To close the languid eye, Still beautiful in life’s last agony. Alas, how long a strife! What anguish struggles in the parting breath, Ere yet immortal life Be won by death! Death! death! thy work complete! Let thy sad hour be fleet, Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh! No more keen pangs impart To her, the high in heart, Th’ adored Alcestis, worthy ne’er to die. _Chorus of Admetus._ ’Tis not enough, oh no! To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes; Still must our silent band Around him watchful stand, And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, That his ear catch not grief’s funereal cries. Yet, yet hope is not dead, All is not lost below, While yet the gods have pity on our woe. Oft when all joy is fled, Heaven lends support to those Who on its care in pious hope repose. Then to the blessed skies Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. Pray! bow the knee, and pray! What other task have mortals, born to tears, Whom fate controls with adamantine sway? O ruler of the spheres! Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on high, Our supplication hear! Nor plunge in bitterest woes Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye But as a child, which only knows Its father to revere. IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA; A TRAGEDY. BY ALESSANDRO MANZONI. Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in Carmagnola, from whence his _nom-de-guerre_ was derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a boy, and employed in the care of flocks and herds, the lofty character of his countenance was observed by a soldier of fortune, who invited the youth to forsake his rustic occupations, and accompany him to the busier scenes of the camp. His persuasions were successful, and Francesco entered with him into the service of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessandria. At the time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was amongst the most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke of Milan, (who rewarded her by an ignominious death for the regal dowery she had conferred upon him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the same time; and having, by his eminent services, firmly established the tottering power of that prince, received from him the title of Count, and was placed at the head of all his forces. The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip’s disposition, however, at length prevailed; and Carmagnola, disgusted with the evident proof of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, left his service and his territories, and after a variety of adventures took refuge in Venice. Thither the treachery of the Duke pursued him, and emissaries were employed to procure his assassination. The plot, however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was elected captain-general of the Venetian armies, during the league formed by that republic against the Duke of Milan. The war was at first carried on with much spirit and success, and the battle of Maclodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of the most important and decisive actions of those times. The night after the combat, the victorious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made a complaint on this subject to the Count, he inquired what was become of the captives; and upon being informed that all, except four hundred, had been set free, he gave orders that the remaining ones also should be released immediately, according to the custom which prevailed amongst the armies of those days, the object of which was to prevent a speedy termination of the war. This proceeding of Carmagnola’s occasioned much distrust and irritation in the minds of the Venetian rulers; and their displeasure was increased when the armada of the Republic, commanded by Il Trevisani, was defeated upon the Po, without any attempt in its favour having been made by the Count. The failure of their attempt upon Cremona was also imputed to him as a crime; and the Senate, resolving to free themselves from a powerful chief, now become an object of suspicion, after many deliberations on the best method of carrying their designs into effect, at length determined to invite him to Venice, under pretence of consulting him on their negotiations for peace. He obeyed their summons without hesitation or mistrust, and was every where received with extraordinary honours during the course of his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted to St Mark’s Place. When he was introduced into the ducal palace, his attendants were dismissed, and informed that he would be in private with the Doge for a considerable time. He was arrested in the palace, then examined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a wound he had received in the service of the Republic rendered still more agonising, and condemned to death. On the 5th May 1432 he was conducted to execution, with his mouth gagged, and beheaded between the two columns of St Mark’s Place. With regard to the innocence or guilt of this distinguished character, there exists no authentic information. The author of the tragedy, which we are about to analyse, has chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, and probability at least is on this side. It is possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior, accustomed to command, and impatient of control, might have been the principal cause of offence to the Venetians; or perhaps their jealousy was excited by his increasing power over the minds of an obedient army; and, not considering it expedient to displace him, they resolved upon his destruction. This tragedy, which is formed upon the model of the English and German drama, comprises the history of Carmagnola’s life, from the day on which he was made commander of the Venetian armies to that of his execution, thus embracing a period of about seven years. The extracts we are about to present to our readers, will enable them to form their own opinion of a piece which has excited so much attention in Italy. The first act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. The Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola should be consulted on the projected league between the Republic and the Florentines, against the Duke of Milan. To this all agree; and the Count is introduced. He begins by justifying his conduct from the imputations to which it might be liable, in consequence of his appearing as the enemy of the Prince whom he had so recently served:-- ----He cast me down From the high place my blood had dearly won; And when I sought his presence, to appeal For justice there, ’twas vain! My foes had form’d Around his throne a barrier: e’en my life Became the mark of hatred; but in this Their hopes have fail’d--I gave them not the time. My life!--I stand prepared to yield it up On the proud field, and in some noble cause For glory well exchanged; but not a prey, Not to be caught ignobly in the toils Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain’d With you a place of refuge; yet e’en here His snares were cast around me. Now all ties Are broke between us; to an open foe, An open foe I come. He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate engaged in deliberation. War is resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet. A leader--or a fugitive? To drag Slow years along in idle vacancy, As a worn veteran living on the fame Of former deeds--to offer humble prayers And blessings for protection--owing all Yet left me of existence to the might Of other swords, dependent on some arm Which soon may cast me off; or on the field To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life Rush proudly through my veins--to hail again My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice To wake! to rule! to conquer!--Which must be My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling Still poorly to ignoble safety here, Secluded as a homicide, who cowers Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own! Is there not one among the many lords Of this divided Italy--not one With soul enough to envy that bright crown Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not ’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp, Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize On him who best shall call the prowess forth Which slumbers in my arm? Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with caution towards his enemies in the Republic. _Car._ Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes? Ay, I could number all. _Mar._ And know’st thou, too, What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved, Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts, Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; But they remember _thee_. The high in soul Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not; Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul Revolts indignantly--thou know’st it well: But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet For the most lofty nature,--there is power Of winning meaner minds, without descent From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,-- And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine. The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of Milan’s camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours to convince them of its inexpediency. _Sfo._ Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul Which fires each soldier’s eye? _Tor._ I mark’d it well. I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside, That on my brow the warrior might not read Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, That this vain semblance of delusive joy Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought On wasted valour doom’d to perish here. * * * * * For these--what boots it to disguise the truth?-- These are no wars in which, for all things loved, And precious, and revered--for all the ties Clinging around the heart--for those whose smile Makes home so lovely--for his native land, And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights! These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim Is but to station his devoted bands, And theirs, thus fix’d--to die! It is _our_ fate To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on; But if delay’d, if between flight and death Pausing they stand--is there no cause to doubt What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times, When for the leader care augments, the more Bright glory fades away! Yet once again, This is no field for us. After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the battle is described, and its fatal effects lamented with all the feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less powerful impression in the situation it occupies at present. It is even necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the characters are represented as clothed with existence, and passing before us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric piece, where the author’s imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into this error by a definition of Schlegel’s, who, speaking of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, that “the chorus is to be considered as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action--as the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race. The chorus, in short, is the _ideal_ spectator.” But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed of _real_ characters, and expressed the sentiments of the people before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing: thus the _true_ spectator, after witnessing in representation the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more enlightened part of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had brought his chorus into action--introducing, for example, a veteran looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its vicissitudes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange a variety of national and moral reflections--it appears to us that the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the assertion that the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system of the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and one to which the following title would be much more appropriate. _The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode._ Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound, A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies! On every side hoarse echoes from the ground To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep--and banners, all around, Meet hostile banners waving to the skies; Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line. Lo! half the field already from the sight Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes! Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight, And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows! Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save Their native soil, or make its dust their grave? One race, alas! these foes--one kindred race, Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers--and each face That brotherhood reveals;--one common tongue Dwells on their lips--the earth on which we trace Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth--this chosen land, Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand. Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare, Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? Think’st thou they know?--they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d! --Sold to a leader, sold _himself_ to die, With him they strive--they fall--and ask not why. But are there none who love them? Have they none-- No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son Back to his home, from this polluted scene? And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb--why cannot _they_ assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age? Ask not!--the peasant at his cabin-door Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d. Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd In tranquil safety number o’er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain. There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know, By names of insult, those whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe! The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain; Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow-- A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain. But from th’ embattled front, already, lo! A band recedes--it flies--all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair, Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit!--still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear. The day is won! They fall--disarm’d they yield, Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying! Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field, Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d! E’en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs--he speeds--with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way. Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, O eager multitudes! around him pressing? Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing! Know ye not _whence_ th’ ill-omen’d herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?-- Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,-- Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains: E’en now the homicides assail the sky With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains! But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below. Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending. Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending! Victors! why pause ye?--Are ye weak and few?-- Ay! such he deem’d you, and for _this_ descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell. O thou devoted land! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun! And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board. Are these infatuate too!--Oh! who hath known A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest? The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone, Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast. What though not yet his day of pride be flown, Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest, Well hath it mark’d him--and decreed the hour, When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power. Are we not creatures of one hand divine, Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born? Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine, Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn? Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine, And woe to him by whom that bond is torn! Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, Who bows down spirits of immortal birth! The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established military custom; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola’s conduct, is rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined. As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola, and stops him. _Car._ Thou art not, youth! One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd. Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest Thou minglest, and art silent! _Per._ Silence best, O chief! befits the vanquish’d. _Car._ Bearing up Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved Worthy a better star. Thy name? _Per._ ’Tis one Whose heritage doth impose no common task On him that bears it; one which to adorn With brighter blazonry were hard emprise: My name is Pergola. _Car._ And art thou, then, That warrior’s son? _Per._ I am. _Car._ Approach! embrace Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring Back on my heart remembrance of the days, The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou! My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled, But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile, She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute Thy sire for me; and say, though not of _thee_ I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured He counsell’d not this battle. _Per._ Oh! he gave Far other counsels, but his fruitless words Were spoken to the winds. _Car._ Lament thou not. Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me, I will restore thy sword. The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count’s enemies at Venice; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed in many of the scenes. The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His astonishment and indignation at this unexpected charge are expressed with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence. _Car._ A traitor! I!--that name of infamy Reaches not me. Let him the title bear Who best deserves such meed--it is not mine. Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, For such my part is here; yet would I not Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still. A traitor!--I retrace in thought the time When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises Of high reward! What more? Behold me here! And when I came to seeming honour call’d, When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith-- Of trusting faith!--Oh, no! Doth he who comes Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith? I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done, And be it so! but since deceitful hate Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, Praise be to heaven! an open field at least Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak, Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then My treasons! _Doge._ By the secret college soon All shall be told thee. _Car._ I appeal not there. What I have done for you hath all been done In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose To be mine arbiters--my proud defence Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. _Doge._ The time for choice is past. _Car._ What! Is there force Employ’d against me?--Guards! (_raising his voice._) _Doge._ They are not nigh. Soldiers! (_enter armed men._) Thy guards are these. _Car._ I am betray’d! _Doge._ ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, Might prove a rebel too. _Car._ E’en as ye list. Now be it yours to charge me. _Doge._ Bear him hence, Before the secret college. _Car._ Hear me yet One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death I well perceive; but with that death ye doom Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers, Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats The banner of the Lion, in its pride Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know _I_ bore it thus to empire. _Here_, ’tis true, No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond The limits of your sway, in other scenes, Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d, Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds And your reward will live in chronicles For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect Your annals, and the future! Ye will need A warrior soon, and who will then be yours? Forget not, though your captive now I stand, I was not born your subject. No! my birth Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem The honour of each citizen its own. Think ye this outrage will be there unheard? There is some treachery here. Our common foes Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know I have been faithful still. There yet is time. _Doge._ The time is past. When thou didst meditate Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy Those destined to chastise it; then the hour Of foresight should have been. _Car._ O mean in soul! And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet Its summons with far other mien than such As I shall bear to ignominious death. Scene II.--_The House of Carmagnola._ Antonietta, Matilda. _Mat._ The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet My father comes not! _Ant._ Ah! thou hast not learn’d, By sad experience, with how slow a pace Joys ever come; expected long, and oft Deceiving expectation! while the steps Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh. But night is past, the long and lingering hours Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, And he is with us. E’en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours. Perhaps for years our own. _Mat._ O mother! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense, Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale, Each idle murmur of the people’s voice, We should not longer tremble, that no more This thought should haunt our souls--E’en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning--dies! _Ant._ Oh! fearful thought--but vain and distant now! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes? _Mat._ A day to be remember’d! _Ant._ By his side Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng, Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d, Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d--“We are his.” _Mat._ Moments of joy! _Ant._ What have we done, my child, To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name--a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow. _Mat._ They are past e’en now. Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!--it swells--’tis hush’d! The gates unclose. O mother! I behold A warrior clad in mail--he comes, ’tis he! _Ant._ Whom should it be if not himself?--my husband! (_She comes forward._) (_Enter_ Gonzaga _and others._) _Ant._ Gonzaga!--Where is he we look’d for? Where? Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught With prophecies of woe! _Gon._ Alas! too true The omens they reveal! _Mat._ Of woe to whom? _Gon._ Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness Fallen to my lot? _Ant._ Thou wouldst be pitiful, And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God! Where is my husband? _Gon._ Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief---- _Mat._ Is he return’d unto the field? _Gon._ Alas! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner! _Ant._ He is a prisoner!--and for what? _Gon._ He is accused of treason. _Mat._ Treason! _He_ A traitor!--Oh! my father! _Ant._ Haste! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, what shall be his sentence? _Gon._ From my lips It shall not be reveal’d. _Ant._ Oh! he is slain! _Gon._ He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d. _Ant._ He lives! Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act. For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. He was thy friend--ah! haste, then, be our guide; Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child! Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d The fearful sentence, they remember’d not _He_ was a father and a husband too. But when their eyes behold the agony One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt: They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight Of mortal woe is terrible to man! Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d To vindicate his deeds, or to recall His triumphs won for them. It is for us To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, And we will pray. _Gon._ Oh, heaven! that I could leave Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear, No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still, The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God Of mourners will be with you. _Mat._ Is there not One hope? _Ant._ Alas! my child! Scene IV.--_A Prison._ Carmagnola. They must have heard it now.--Oh! that at least I might have died far from them! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, And we must drain its draught of bitterness Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields, Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms! O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries, And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys Death seem’d all beautiful.--And must I then, With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints? And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too? Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul Before I die!--But no! What boots it now Thus to look back on life with eye that turns To linger where my footstep may not tread? Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so! I too have proved such vain and impious joys, And know their value now. But oh! again To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, Last accents of their voices! By those arms Once more to be encircled, and from thence To tear myself for ever!--Hark! they come!-- O God of mercy, from thy throne look down In pity on their woes! Scene V. Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, _and_ Carmagnola. _Ant._ My husband! _Mat._ O my father! _Ant._ Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long! _Car._ O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee! _Ant._ Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e’en now--I would not but be thine. _Car._ Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now. _Mat._ The homicides! _Car._ No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments--they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death! death!--our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be _then_ Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven ’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words--they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, ’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs, Of their own blood--and they so loved thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.--Oh! there is joy in death!-- And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast-- I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st That the forsaken have a Father still On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!-- Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred? _Gon._ Rest assured, I will. _Car._ I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts--and know’st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!--I myself Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, And banners proudly waving in the air,-- Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day Following the combat, when upon the field, Amidst the deep and solemn harmony Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, With lifted hands, is offering for the slain His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not! For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain E’en so to die. _Ant._ Have mercy on us, heaven! _Car._ My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh, And we must part.--Farewell! _Mat._ No, father! no! _Car._ Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then For pity’s sake depart! _Ant._ No! force alone Shall tear us hence. (_A sound of arms is heard._) _Mat._ Hark! what dread sound! _Ant._ Great God! (_The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless._) _Car._ O God! I thank thee. O most merciful! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment’s conflict! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day--that naught is left to fear. Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of fate”--days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests--there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war-- “Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.” CAIUS GRACCHUS. A TRAGEDY, BY MONTI. This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the _Aristodemo_ of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an impressive character to the piece, yet those workings of passion and tenderness--without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism unnatural--have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly suppressed. The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are full of majestic eloquence; and the whole piece seems to be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascendency give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the annals of the ancient republics. The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, which Scipio had utterly demolished. Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night Hath spread her favouring shadows o’er thy path: And thou, be strong, my country! for thy son Gracchus is with thee! All is hush’d around, And in deep slumber; from the cares of day The worn plebeians rest. Oh! good and true, And only Romans! your repose is sweet, For toil hath given it zest; ’tis calm and pure, For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, My brother’s murderers, the patricians, hold Inebriate vigils o’er their festal boards, Or in dark midnight councils sentence me To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem Of the unlook’d-for and tremendous foe So near at hand!--It is enough. I tread In safety my paternal threshold.--Yes! This is my own! O mother! O my wife! My child!--I come to dry your tears. I come Strengthen’d by three dread furies:--One is wrath, Fired by my country’s wrongs; and one deep love, For those, my bosom’s inmates; and the third-- Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother’s blood! His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate character and unprincipled designs he is represented as unacquainted. From the opening speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it appears that he is just returned from the perpetration of some crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the second act. The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, by the obscure allusions to some act of signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the course of the ensuing discussion. _Ful._ This is no time for grief and feeble tears, But for high deeds. _Caius._ And we will make it such. But prove we first our strength. Declare, what friends (If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain True to our cause? _Ful._ Few, few, but valiant hearts! * * * * * Oh! what a change is here! There was a time When, over all supreme, thy word gave law To nations and their rulers; in thy presence The senate trembled, and the citizens Flock’d round thee in deep reverence. Then a word, A look from Caius--a salute, a smile, Fill’d them with pride. Each sought to be the friend, The client, ay, the very slave, of him, The people’s idol; and beholding them Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself, Didst blush to see their vileness! But thy fortune Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt Into dim vapour; and the earthly god, So worshipp’d once, from his forsaken shrines Down to the dust is hurl’d. _Caius._ And what of this? There is no power in fortune to deprive Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart As meets the storm exultingly--a heart Whose stem delight it is to strive with fate, And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible But because man is vile. A coward first Made her a deity. * * * * * But say, what thoughts Are foster’d by the people? Have they lost The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name Of Gracchus in their hearts--reveal the truth-- Already number’d with forgotten things? _Ful._ A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now there, Borne on light pinion--such the people’s love! Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults Are of their miseries; and their feebleness Is to their woes proportion’d. Haply still The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine. But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute; And the deep paleness of their timid mien, And eyes in fix’d despondence bent on earth, And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name, Alone accuse them. They are hush’d--for now Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, And the patrician Romans. Yes! and well May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, For Rome is widow’d! Distant wars engage The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led, And but the weak remain. Hence every heart Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people, Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, But yet are silent. _Caius._ I will make them heard. Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came Prepared for all; and as I track’d the deep For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew Familiar in its musings. With a voice Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell’d; the waves Mutter’d around; heaven flash’d in lightning forth, And the pale steersman trembled: I the while Stood on the tossing and bewilder’d bark, Retired and shrouded in my mantle’s folds, With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb’d In a far deeper storm! Around my heart, Gathering in secret then, my spirit’s powers Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts My country rose,--and I foresaw the snares, The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, And my false friends, awaiting my return. * * * * * Fulvius! I wept; but they were tears of rage! For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought Of my wrong’d country, and of him, that brother Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly cried “Vengeance!”--nor found it yet. _Ful._ It is fulfill’d. _Caius._ And how? _Ful._ Thou shalt be told. _Caius._ Explain thy words. _Ful._ Then know--(incautious that I am!) _Caius._ Why thus Falters thy voice? Why speak’st thou not? _Ful._ Forgive! E’en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. _Caius._ No! True friendship never! Caius afterwards inquires what part his brother-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their enterprises. His high renown-- The glorious deeds, whereby was earn’d his name Of second Africanus; and the blind, Deep reverence paid him by the people’s hearts, Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still-- All this disturbs me: hardly will be won Our day of victory, if by him withstood. _Ful._ Yet won it _shall_ be. If but this thou fear’st, Then be at peace. _Caius._ I understand thee not _Ful._ Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste Our time and words. Soon, will the morning break, Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return; I fly to cheer them with the tidings. _Caius._ Stay! _Ful._ And wherefore? _Caius._ To reveal thy meaning. _Ful._ Peace! I hear the sound of steps. This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an inquiry after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of _nature_. Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem to be laid down for the delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their _official_ garb, and has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature, without effacing the impress which distinguished “the men of iron,” from the nations who “stood still before them.” The first act concludes with the parting of Caius and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion--Cornelia having accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty. Of liberty What speak’st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no shame-- No virtue--and thy boast is, to be free! Oh! zeal for liberty! eternal mask Assumed by every crime! In the second act, the death of Emilianus is announced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a rumour of his having perished by assassination. The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up. _Caius._ Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius rush, Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart! (_Fulvius enters._) Thou comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend! Scipio lies murder’d on his bed of death!-- Who slew him? _Ful._ Ask’st thou me? _Caius._ Thee! thee, who late Didst in such words discourse of him as now Assure me thou ’rt his murderer. Traitor, speak! _Ful._ If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart, Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest! More grateful praise and warmer thanks might well Reward the generous courage which hath freed Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe. _Caius._ Then he was slain by thee? _Ful._ Ungrateful friend! Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces Thy honour. Freedom’s wavering light is dim; Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate; One Scipio drove thy brother to a death Of infamy, another seeks _thy_ fall; And when one noble, one determined stroke To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks The people’s vengeance, gives thee life and fame And pacifies thy brother’s angry shade, Is it a cause for wailing? Am I call’d For _this_ a murderer? Go!--I say once more, Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest! _Caius._ I know thee now, barbarian! Would’st thou serve My cause with crimes? _Ful._ And those of that proud man Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are _they_ To be forgotten? Hath oblivion then Shrouded the stern destroyer’s ruthless work, The famine of Numantia? Such a deed As on our name the world’s deep curses drew! Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray’d, And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot? Go, ask of Carthage!--bid her wasted shores Of him, this reveller in blood, recount The terrible achievements! At the cries, The groans, th’ unutterable pangs of those, The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom’d (Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, And fetters, I could marvel that the earth In horror doth not open! They were foes, They were barbarians, but unarm’d, subdued, Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak, To tame the lofty! But in other lands, Why should I seek for records of his crimes, If there the suffering people ask in vain A little earth to lay their bones in peace? If the decree which yielded to their claims So brief a heritage, and the which to seal Thy brother’s blood was shed--if this remain Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he That mock’d its power?--Who to all Rome declared Thy brother’s death was just, was needful?--Who But Scipio? And remember thou the words Which burst in thunder from thy lips e’en then, Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart They have been deeply treasured. He must die, (Thus did’st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need That he should perish! I have done the deed; And call’st thou _me_ his murderer? If the blow Was guilt, then _thou_ art guilty. From thy lips The sentence came--the crime is thine alone. I, thy devoted friend, did but obey Thy mandate. _Caius._ Thou my friend! I am not one To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught With fate and death, awake to scatter those Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood, Bring chains!--degrading Freedom’s lofty self Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not, Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine! I wish’d him slain!--’tis so--but by the axe Of high and public justice--that whose stroke On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble! _Ful._ Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee: Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty, Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not To utter more. _Caius._ And what hast thou to say? _Ful._ That which I now suppress. _Caius._ How! are there yet, Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d? _Ful._ I know not. _Caius._ Thou know’st not?--Horror chills my curdling veins; I dare not ask thee further. _Ful._ Thou dost well. _Caius._ What saidst thou? _Ful._ Nothing. _Caius._ On my heart the words Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light Bursts o’er my soul!--Hast thou accomplices? _Ful._ Insensate! ask me not. _Caius._ I must be told. _Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent. _Caius._ No more of this, for I _will_ know. _Ful._ Thou wilt? Ask then thy sister. _Caius._ (_alone_.) Ask my sister! What! Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus Consign’d to infamy!--to infamy? The very hair doth rise upon my head, Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do? There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, “Away!--and pause not--slay thy guilty sister!” Voice of lost honour, of a noble line Disgraced, I will obey thee!--terribly Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased. PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. Whoever has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voice of her bards has still been heard to prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have made her-- “Long, long, a bloody stage For petty kinglings tame, Their miserable game Of puny war to wage.” There is something very affecting in these vain, though exalted aspirations after that independence which the Italians, as a nation, seem destined never to regain. The strains in which their high-toned feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our minds the same effect with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught, in our imagination, with recollections of the green woodland, the free air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the perpetual _violets and zephyrs_, whose cloying sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to “die in aromatic pain;” nor is our interest much more excited even by the everlasting _laurel_ which inspires the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious a variety of _concetti_, as might reasonably cause it to be doubted whether the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are the real object of the bard’s affection; but the moment a patriotic chord is struck, our feelings are awakened, and we find it easy to sympathise with the emotions of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the Capitol; a Venetian when contemplating the proud trophies won by his ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty dead, in the church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, _now_ the time to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; yet cannot we consider that nation as altogether degraded, whose literature, from the dawn of its majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture of every generous principle and ennobling recollection; and whose “choice and master spirits,” under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the “ten thousand tyrants” of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the indignant though unavailing regrets of those who, to use the words of Alfieri, are “slaves, yet still _indignant_ slaves,”[149] have been feelingly portrayed. The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature. VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shades Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell: Day beams o’er other lands, if here she fades, Nor bids the universe at once farewell. But thou, I cry, my country! what a night Spreads o’er thy glories one dark sweeping pall! Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour’s might And wisdom’s voice--what now remains of all? And see’st thou not th’ ascending flame of war Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar? Is not thy misery’s evidence complete? But if endurance can thy fall delay, Still, still endure, devoted one! and say, If it be victory thus but to retard defeat. CARLO MARIA MAGGI. I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all. It nought avails that Italy should plead, Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, At strangers’ feet!--our land is all too fair; Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed. In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony, Her death alone may now appease her foes. Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun! But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone, Nor to wage battle nor endure repose! [149] “Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi.”--Alfieri. ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI. Italia! oh, no more Italia now! Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear: She was a queen with glory mantled--thou, A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear, Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies; And shadows, born of terror and despair-- Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes. Italia! oh, Italia now no more! For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow; And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while Behold thy miseries with insulting smile. ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. She that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome, Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d, Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state, Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car--and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around! Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, “Vengeance, Italia!”--in the burning thought Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease, _Theirs_ is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these. FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. THE SHORE OF AFRICA. Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore, Where verdure never spreads its bright array; Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away. Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay; Nor found _his_ relics a sepulchral stone, Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone! Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth, Look round exultingly, and bless the earth Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.” [“It was either during the present or a future visit to the same friends,[150] that the _jeu-d’esprit_ was produced which Mrs Hemans used to call her ‘sheet of forgeries’ on the use of the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time afterwards.”--_Memoir_, p. 43.] [150] The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool. The warrior donn’d his well-worn garb, And proudly waved his crest, He mounted on his jet-black barb, And put his lance in rest. Percy’s _Reliques_. Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay, Spurr’d his brown _barb_, and rode full swiftly on his way. Spenser. Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard? The soul of battle is awake within me! The fate of ages and of empires hangs On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms? Bring my good lance, caparison my steed! Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me? Haste with my _barb_, or, by the holy saints, Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow! Massinger. No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of ladies’ eyes--he of the dazzling breastplate and swanlike plume--sprang impatiently from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble _barb_ presented to him by the Emperor of Aspramontania. Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_. See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest-- Fate on his sword is throned--and his white barb, As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot, Seems breathing fire. Potter’s _Æschylus_. Oh! bonnie look’d my ain true knight, His _barb_ so proudly reining; I watch’d him till my tearfu’ sight Grew amaist dim wi’ straining. _Border Minstrelsy._ Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery _barb_, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He’s the very pink and mirror of accomplishment. Shakspeare. Fair star of beauty’s heaven! to call thee mine, All other joys I joyously would yield; My knightly crest, my bounding _barb_ resign, For the poor shepherd’s crook and daisied field; For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love! Earl of Surrey’s _Poems_. For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more Or joyous dance, or music’s thrilling tone, Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, Borne on impetuous _barbs_ to bleed at beauty’s feet. Shakspeare’s _Sonnets_. As a warrior clad In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad, But mounted on a _barb_ as white As the fresh new-born light,-- So the black night too soon Came riding on the bright and silver moon, Whose radiant heavenly ark Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem E’en more than doubly dark, Mourning, all widow’d of her glorious beam. Cowley. THE FEVER DREAM. [Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs Hemans’s livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had given rise to many pleasantries--being an imaginary voyage to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy, John Evelyn.] Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, Some account of the converse you held on high seas With Evelyn, the excellent author of “Sylva,” A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa. I think that old Neptune was visited ne’er In so well-rigg’d a ship, by so well-matched a pair. There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any Companion more pleasant, since you’re fond of botany, And _his_ horticultural talents are known, Just as well as Canova’s for fashioning stone. Of the vessel you sail’d in, I just will remark That I ne’er heard before of so curious a bark. Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, I have read very often, as doubtless have you; Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason; Of the ship moor’d by Trajan in Nemi’s deep basin; Of the galley (in Plutarch you’ll find the description) Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian; Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”) Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama. But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China, (I’m astonish’d no shocking disaster befel,) In that swift-sailing first-rate--a cocoa-nut shell! I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo, That abode of a people so gentle and true, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears Of running _in_ debt, or of running _on_ spears! Oh dear! what an Eden!--a land without money! It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey, Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.” But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, Of whose travels--related in elegant phrases-- I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) His striking account of the frozen North Cape. I think ’twas in his works I read long ago (I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,) Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about, You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. When my _first_ for a moment had harden’d my _last_, My _second_ burst out, and all melted as fast; To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, But I quite forget which of the elements won. But a truce with all joking--I hope you’ll excuse me, Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me, For hastily putting a few questions down, To which answers from you all my wishes will crown; For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within, And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy; From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour, To Forsyth’s _one_ volume, and Eustace’s _four_, In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. --Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,) The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s, Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; For some travellers say one thing, and some say another, And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother. Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot, _Are_ the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow, For Venice must interest all--even now. These points being settled, I ask for no more hence, But should wish for a few observations from Florence. Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti Are finish’d; if not ’tis a shame for the city To let _one_ for ages--was e’er such a thing?-- Its entablature want, and the other its wing. Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her) Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a _wood_-pigeon, Which makes people _gulls_ in the name of Religion? Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a _Cosa_ About which I’m anxious--as also to know If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, Came back (above all, don’t forget this to mention) To that manuscript library called the Laurentian. Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out, That the horses _are_ bright yellow brass beyond doubt; So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus’s doing? --When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, If the Acqua Toffana’s in fashion there still; For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, ’Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, Your opinion about the _Piscina mirabile_; And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro’s, Is decided by you to be really Maro’s. DARTMOOR. A PRIZE POEM. [In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best poem on “Dartmoor;” and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs Hemans for the composition which follows. She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success:-- “What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was announced to them yesterday.... The Bishop’s kind communication put us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary’s letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which, although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success, which, from so distinguished a writer as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of _Paris_,) cannot but be highly gratifying.”] “Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time, And rule the spacious world from clime to clime. Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore, Trace every wave, and culture every shore.” Campbell. “May ne’er That true succession fail of English hearts, That can perceive, not less than heretofore Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, ... the charm Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, And human charity, and social love.” Wordsworth. Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile; Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, And send on every breeze a voice of power; Hath Desolation rear’d herself a throne, And mark’d a pathless region for her own? Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore When bled the noble hearts of many a shore; Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent; Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind, And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess, Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness; For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given, Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains rude, Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, As a dark cloud on summer’s clear blue sky, A mourner, circled with festivity! For all beyond is life!--the rolling sea, The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare But man has left his lingering traces there? E’en on mysterious Afric’s boundless plains, Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, In gloom and silence fearfully profound, As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, And naught of life be near, his camel’s tread Is o’er the prostrate cities of the dead! Some column, rear’d by long-forgotten hands, Just lifts its head above the billowy sands-- Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene, And tells that glory’s footstep there hath been. There hath the spirit of the mighty pass’d, Not without record; though the desert blast, Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away The proud creations rear’d to brave decay. But _thou_, lone region! whose unnoticed name No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, Who shall unfold thine annals?--who shall tell If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, In those far ages which have left no trace, No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race? Though, haply, in the unrecorded days Of kings and chiefs who pass’d without their praise, Thou mightst have rear’d the valiant and the free, In history’s page there is no tale of thee. Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild, Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled,[151] But hallow’d by that instinct which reveres Things fraught with characters of elder years. And such are these. Long centuries are flown, Bow’d many a crest, and shatter’d many a throne, Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, With what they hide--their shrined and treasured dust. Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold Earth’s glorious works fast mingling with her mould; But still these nameless chronicles of death, Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear The same sepulchral mien, and almost share Th’ eternity of nature, with the forms Of the crown’d hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms. Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath (Nor needs such care) from each cold season’s breath? Where is the voice to tell _their_ tale who rest, Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast? Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been A sound of battle midst the silent scene Where now the flocks repose?--did the scythed car Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war? And rise these piles in memory of the slain, And the red combat of the mountain-plain? It may be thus:--the vestiges of strife, Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell[152] How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride, The chieftain’s power--they had no bard, and died.[153] But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, The eternal stars of night have witness’d here. There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,[154] Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, Propp’d on its granite pillars, whence the rains And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore, When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, And many a crested oak, which now lies low, Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe-- Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade, On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play’d, And spells were breathed, that fill’d the deepening gloom With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. Or, haply, torches waving through the night Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,[155] Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams Threw o’er the desert’s hundred hills and streams, A savage grandeur; while the starry skies Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies, As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the North. But wilder sounds were there: th’ imploring cry That woke the forest’s echo in reply, But not the heart’s! Unmoved the wizard train Stood round their human victim, and in vain His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance Look’d up, appealing to the blue expanse, Where in their calm immortal beauty shone Heaven’s cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter moan, Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, Till, drop by drop, life’s current ebb’d away; Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red, And the pale moon gleam’d paler on the dead. Have such things been, and here?--where stillness dwells Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells, Thus undisturb’d? Oh! long the gulf of time Hath closed in darkness o’er those days of crime, And earth no vestige of their path retains, Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains With records of man’s conflicts and his doom, His spirit and his dust--the altar and the tomb. But ages roll’d away: and England stood With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood; And with a lofty calmness in her eye, And regal in collected majesty, To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas; And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave. ’Twas then the captives of Britannia’s war[156] Here for their lovely southern climes afar In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng Dragg’d at ambition’s chariot-wheels so long To die--because a despot could not clasp A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp! Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient thrones And temples of the world--the deepening tones Of whose advancing trumpet from repose Had startled nations, wakening to their woes-- Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams, And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain And festal melody of Loire or Seine; And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept, When on the field the unshelter’d conscript slept, Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair; Who, in their dark imaginings, again Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, Drank in their victim’s shriek, as music’s breath, And lived o’er scenes, the festivals of death! And there was mirth, too!--strange and savage mirth, More fearful far than all the woes of earth! The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring From minds for which there is no sacred thing; And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee-- The lightning’s flash upon its blasted tree! But still, howe’er the soul’s disguise were worn, If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, Slight was the mask, and all beneath it--woe. Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive’s doom, Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d, But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid; Came _he_ not thither, in his burning force, The lord, the tamer of dark souls--Remorse? Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day In light and sound are hurrying on their way: Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill With accents heard not, save when all is still! The voice, inaudible when havoc’s strain Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain; Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, And the broad light of conflagration sprung From the south’s marble cities; hush’d midst cries That told the heavens of mortal agonies; But gathering silent strength, to wake at last In concentrated thunders of the past! And there, perchance, some long-bewilder’d mind, Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined Of village duties, in the Alpine glen, Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men; Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent The earthquake power of each wild element, To lend the tide which bore his throne on high One impulse more of desperate energy; Might--when the billow’s awful rush was o’er Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified-- Have fix’d, at length, its troubled hopes and fears On the far world, seen brightest through our tears; And, in that hour of triumph or despair, Whose secrets all must learn--but none declare, When, of the things to come, a deeper sense Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, Have turn’d to Him whose bow is in the cloud, Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud-- The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, And, by the tempest, calls it to repose! Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d-- The agony of prayer--the bursting tears-- The dark remembrances of guilty years, Crowding upon the spirit in their might? He, through the storm who look’d, and there was light! That scene is closed!--that wild, tumultuous breast, With all its pangs and passions, is at rest! He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, Who woke those passions to delirious life; And days, prepared a brighter course to run, Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun! It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth O’er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death; While the glad voices of a thousand streams, Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams! But Peace hath nobler changes! O’er the mind, The warm and living spirit of mankind, _Her_ influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, To life and hope from desolation start! She with a look dissolves the captive’s chain, Peopling with beauty widow’d homes again; Around the mother, in her closing years, Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears Of the dim past but winning purer light, To make the present more serenely bright. Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime, In silence gliding with the stream of time, Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze With healing on its wings, o’er isles and seas. And as Heaven’s breath call’d forth, with genial power, From the dry wand the almond’s living flower, So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love; While round its pathway nature softly glows, And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice! Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice! And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper’s song E’er lightly sped the summer hours along, Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source Rushing in joy, make music on their course! Thou, whose sole records of existence mark The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark, And of some nameless combat; hope’s bright eye Beams o’er thee in the light of prophecy! Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast! Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn, And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom’d spire Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire. Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close Of labour’s day, the herald of repose, Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth; While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales, And merry England’s voice floats up from all her vales. Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear Such as to Heaven’s immortal host are dear. Oh! if there still be melody on earth Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth, When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, And the air trembled with the breath of God; It lives in those soft accents, to the sky[157] Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, When holy strains, from life’s pure fount which sprung, Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue. And such shall be _thy_ music, when the cells, Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, (And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, In silence broods o’er many a fearful thought,) Resound to pity’s voice; and childhood thence, Ere the cold blight hath reach’d its innocence, Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, Shall at the call press forward, to be made A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, “Mercy, not sacrifice!” and, when of old Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll’d, Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare The heart’s deep folds, to read its homage there! When some crown’d conqueror, o’er a trampled world His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl’d, And, like those visitations which deform Nature for centuries, hath made the storm His pathway to dominion’s lonely sphere, Silence behind--before him, flight and fear! When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels, Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, And earth is moulded but by one proud will, And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still; Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay, The earthquake homage on its baleful way? Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains O’er burning cities and forsaken plains? And shall no harmony of softer close Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, And, mingling with the murmur of its wave, Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave? Oh! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes Have search’d the depths of life’s realities, Than the red battle, or the trophied car, Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far; There are more noble strains than those which swell The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell! Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days Beneath the palms of Judah! ye whose lays With torrent rapture, from their source on high, Burst in the strength of immortality! Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among, Of conquering hosts, of empires crush’d, ye sung, But of that spirit destined to explore, With the bright day-spring, every distant shore, To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed, To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed; With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon’s gloom. And pour eternal starlight o’er the tomb. And bless’d and hallow’d be its haunts! for there Hath man’s high soul been rescued from despair! There hath th’ immortal spark for heaven been nursed; There from the rock the springs of life have burst Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts, that rise Warm from the source of human sympathies-- Where’er its path of radiance may be traced, Shall find their temple in the silent waste. [151] “In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with stones, which in many instances appear to have been collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall.”--See Cooke’s _Topographical Survey of Devonshire_. [152] Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor. [153] “Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles Urgentur, ignotique longâ Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.”--Horace. “They had no poet, and they died.”--Pope’s _Translation_. [154] On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table-stone, and form a kind of large irregular tripod. [155] In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire. [156] The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. [157] In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children of convicts. WELSH MELODIES. THE HARP OF WALES. INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY. Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirlas[158] horn was crown’d, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more! Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-- Ring out, thou harp! he could not silence thee. Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, His banners floated on Eryri’s gales;[159] But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! _Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee. Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall-- Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord! Call back that spirit to the days of peace, Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease! [158] Hirlas, from _hir_, long, and _glas_, blue or azure. [159] Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains. DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS. By the dread and viewless powers Whom the storms and seas obey, From the Dark Isle’s[160] mystic bowers, Romans! o’er the deep away! Think ye, ’tis but nature’s gloom O’er our shadowy coast which broods? By the altar and the tomb, Shun these haunted solitudes! Know ye Mona’s awful spells? She the rolling orbs can stay! She the mighty grave compels Back to yield its fetter’d prey! Fear ye not the lightning stroke? Mark ye not the fiery sky? Hence!--around our central oak Gods are gathering--Romans, fly! [160] _Ynys Dywyll_, or the Dark Island--an ancient name for Anglesey. THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.[161] Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty on ocean’s calm breast? What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest? Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages, The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith; But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages, For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death. Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer’d for those distant green spots on the wave? To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, In the fields of their country they found not a grave. Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers From the flowers of each vale immortality’s breath; But their steps shall be ne’er on the hills of their fathers-- For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death. [161] The “Green Islands of Ocean,” or “Green Spots of the Floods,” called in the _Triads_ “Gwerddonan Llion,” (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chieftain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands; but they were never heard of afterwards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.--See W. O. Pughe’s _Cambrian Biography_; also _Cambro-Briton_, i. 124. THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN.[162] Watch ye well! The moon is shrouded On her bright throne; Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, Waves make wild moan. ’Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, And gay songs and wine-cups flowing; But of winds, in darkness blowing, O’er seas unknown! In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the festive circle gathers With harps and lays; Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, --Ay! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise. Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping Rests in its cave! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming On the dark wave! [162] See note to the “Green Isles of Ocean.” THE HIRLAS HORN. Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave[163] When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea; And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, The dragons of battle, the sons of the free! To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight, A beam, like heaven’s lightning,[164] flash’d over the field; To those who came rushing as storms in their might, Who have shiver’d the helmet, and cloven the shield; The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war. Fill high the blue hirlas! O cup-bearer, fill For the lords of the field in their festival’s hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill That bursts o’er the rock in the pride of its power: Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth,[165] for the conflict is o’er; And round let the golden-tipp’d hirlas be borne To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd’s fair shore, Who rush’d to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. Fill higher the hirlas! forgetting not those Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled! Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, Their lot shall be lovely--renown to the dead! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown’d-- So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor[166] shall swell with their name, And Owain’s rich hirlas be fill’d to their fame. [163] “Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold.”--From the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog. [164] “Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears?”--From the same. [165] “Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn--badge of honour and mirth.”--From the same. [166] Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, according to the modern division. THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night;[167] I weep, for the grave has extinguish’d its light; The beam of the lamp from its summit is o’er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more! The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e’en an echo recall what hath been! The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there! Oh! where are the warriors who circled its board? --The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour’d! The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright! I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief! [167] “The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without bed-- I must weep awhile, and then be silent. The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without being lighted-- Be thou encircled with spreading silence! * * * * * The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, Since he that own’d it is no more-- Ah Death! it will be but a short time he will leave me. The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, Without its lord, without company, without the circling feasts!” Owen’s _Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen_. THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. [Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, supposed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss of his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.--See _Cambrian Biography_, and Owen’s _Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen_.] The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom; But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb! Oh! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave? Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding? --My sons! they but clothe the green turf of your grave! Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream! Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168] Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam; Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping! --O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed, When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead! Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory ye trode! Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing, Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod![169] I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, O my lovely! my brave! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, I turn from heaven’s light, for it smiles on your grave![170] [168] “What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now.” [169] “Four and twenty sons to me have been Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes.” _Elegies of Llywarch Hen._ The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards. [170] “Hardly has the snow covered the vale, When the warriors are hastening to the battle; I do not go, I am hinder’d by infirmity.” _Elegies of Llywarch Hen._ GRUFYDD’S FEAST. [“Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the English successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace in _Ystrad Tywi_ to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from _Gwynedd_, _Powys_, the _Deheubarth_, Glamorgan, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors; with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song; thus patronising the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honourable gifts.”--_Cambrian Biography._] Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, By the bright festal torches around us that wave! Set open the gates of the prince’s wide hall, And hang up the chief’s ruddy spear on the wall! There is peace in the land we have battled to save: Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high,[171] That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die! Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight, With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light;[172] Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown’d, For the strong hearts in combat that leap’d at its sound! Like the billows’ dark swell was the path of their might, Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die! And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, On Maelor’s wild hills and by Dyfed’s fair streams![173] Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be. Sheath the sword which hath given them unperishing themes, And pour the bright mead: let the wine-cup foam high, That those may rejoice who have fear’d not to die! [171] Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of the ancient British bards. [172] The horn was used for two purposes--to sound the alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. [173] Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of water,) the modern Pembrokeshire. THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. When the last flush of eve is dying On boundless lakes afar that shine; When winds amidst the palms are sighing, And fragrance breathes from every pine:[174] When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, And fire-flies wander bright and free, Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, My thoughts, wild Cambria! dwell with thee! Alone o’er green savannas roving, Where some broad stream in silence flows, Or through th’ eternal forests moving, One only home my spirit knows! Sweet land, whence memory ne’er hath parted! To thee on sleep’s light wing I fly; But happier could the weary-hearted Look on his own blue hills and die! TALIESIN’S PROPHECY. [A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect:-- “Their God they shall worship, Their language they shall retain, Their land they shall lose, Except wild Wales.”] A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills among, O Cambria! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin sung: “The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll, A light the depths revealing hath o’er my spirit pass’d, A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast, And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung. “Green island of the mighty![175] see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers’ realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place! I see from Uthyr’s[176] kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a fine of bards and chiefs and princely men decay. But long as Arvon’s mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o’er the storms, So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona’s woods by freedom’s hand was strung!” [174] The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been mentioned by travellers. [175] _Ynys y Cedeirn_, or Isle of the Mighty--an ancient name given to Britain. [176] Uthyr Pendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur. OWEN GLYNDWR’S WAR-SONG. Saw ye the blazing star?[177] The heavens look’d down on freedom’s war, And lit her torch on high! Bright on the dragon crest[178] It tells that glory’s wing shall rest, When warriors meet to die! Let earth’s pale tyrants read despair And vengeance in its flame; Hail ye, my bards! the omen fair Of conquest and of fame, And swell the rushing mountain air With songs to Glendwr’s name. At the dead hour of night, Mark’d ye how each majestic height Burn’d in its awful beams? Red shone th’ eternal snows, And all the land, as bright it rose, Was full of glorious dreams! O eagles of the battle,[179] rise! The hope of Gwynedd wakes![180] It is your banner in the skies Through each dark cloud which breaks, And mantles with triumphal dyes Your thousand hills and lakes! A sound is on the breeze, A murmur as of swelling seas! The Saxon on his way! Lo! spear and shield and lance, From Deva’s waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day! But who the torrent-wave compels A conqueror’s chain to bear? Let those who wake the soul that dwells On our free winds, beware! The greenest and the loveliest dells May be the lion’s lair! Of us _they_ told, the seers, And monarch bards of elder years, Who walk’d on earth as powers! And in their burning strains, A spell of might and mystery reigns, To guard our mountain-towers! --In Snowdon’s caves a prophet lay:[181] Before his gifted sight, The march of ages pass’d away With hero-footsteps bright; But proudest in that long array, Was Glendwr’s path of light! [177] The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing star, which the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to the cause of Glendwr. It served to infuse spirit into the minds of a superstitious people, the first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigour to their actions.--Pennant. [178] Owen Glendwr styled himself the _Dragon_; a name he assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over the Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge; and on that account it became a favourite one with the Welsh.--Pennant. PRINCE MADOC’S FAREWELL. Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer, whose way Lies far o’er the measureless worlds of the deep! Fall, shadows of twilight! and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more! Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? Be hush’d, be forgotten! for ne’er shall the hand Of minstrel with melody greet my return. --No! no!--let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas! ’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign; But my soul’s quenchless fire, O my country! is thine. [179] “Bring the horn to Tudwrou, _the Eagle of Battles_.”--See the _Hirlas Horn_ of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a very favourite image with the ancient Welsh poets. [180] Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales. [181] Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst the mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of his followers. CASWALLON’S TRIUMPH. [Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Cæsar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cæsar they considered as a cause of triumph; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an assembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing.--_Cambrian Biography._] From the glowing southern regions, Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, Came the Roman’s crested legions O’er the deep, round Britain swelling. The wave grew dazzling as he pass’d, With light from spear and helmet cast; And sounds in every rushing blast Of a conqueror’s march were telling. But his eagle’s royal pinion, Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion Our wild seas and mountains hoary! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies; Oh! chainless winds of heaven arise! Bear a vanquish’d world the story! Lords of earth! to Rome returning, Tell how Britain combat wages, How Caswallon’s soul is burning When the storm of battle rages! And ye that shrine high deeds in song, O holy and immortal throng! The brightness of his name prolong, As a torch to stream through ages! HOWEL’S SONG. [Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruins of Myfanwy’s residence, Castle Dinas Brân, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] Press on, my steed! I hear the swell[182] Of Valle Crucis’ vesper-bell, Sweet floating from the holy dell O’er woods and waters round. Perchance the maid I love, e’en now, From Dinas Brân’s majestic brow, Looks o’er the fairy world below, And listens to the sound! I feel her presence on the scene! The summer air is more serene, The deep woods wave in richer green, The wave more gently flows! O fair as ocean’s curling foam![183] Lo! with the balmy hour I come-- The hour that brings the wanderer home, The weary to repose! Haste! on each mountain’s darkening crest The glow hath died, the shadows rest, The twilight star on Deva’s breast Gleams tremulously bright; Speed for Myfanwy’s bower on high! Though scorn may wound me from her eye, Oh! better by the sun to die, Than live in rayless night! [182] “I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry-flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm’d steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Brân.” [183] “My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves!... I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!”--Howel’s _Ode to Myfanwy_. THE MOUNTAIN FIRES. [“The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (_Coelcerthi_) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the _Alban Elved_, or new-year.”--_Cambro-Briton._ When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly picturesque.] Light the hills! till heaven is glowing As with some red meteor’s rays! Winds of night, though rudely blowing, Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. Light the hills! till flames are streaming From Yr Wyddfa’s sovereign steep,[184] To the waves round Mona gleaming, Where the Roman track’d the deep! Be the mountain watch-fires heighten’d, Pile them to the stormy sky! Till each torrent-wave is brighten’d, Kindling as it rushes by. Now each rock, the mist’s high dwelling, Towers in reddening light sublime; Heap the flames! around them telling Tales of Cambria’s elder time. Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, Many a solemn vigil kept, When, in ages long departed, O’er the noble dead they wept. In the winds we hear their voices-- “Sons! though yours a brighter lot, When the mountain-land rejoices, Be her mighty unforgot!” ERYRI WEN. [“Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon.”--Pennant.] Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, With heaven’s own azure crown’d! Who call’d thee--what thou shalt be still, White Snowdon!--holy ground. _They_ fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle’s fold, And on thy rushing wind! It shadow’d o’er thy silent height, It fill’d thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might For ever breathing there. Nor hath it fled! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay![185] Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown,[186] As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams! And make the snows thy crest! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest. Eryri! temple of the bard! And fortress of the free! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee! [184] Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the _conspicuous place_, or _object_. [185] Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician: and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons. There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called _Maen du yr Arddu_, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_. [186] It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these mountains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices.--Williams’s _Observations on the Snowdon Mountains_. CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.[187] Raise ye the sword! let the death-stroke be given; Oh! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven! So shall our spirits be free as our strains-- The children of song may not languish in chains! Have ye not trampled our country’s bright crest? Are heroes reposing in death on her breast? Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, And think ye that still we would linger below? Rest, ye brave dead! midst the hills of your sires, Oh! who would not slumber when freedom expires? Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain-- The children of song may not breathe in the chain! [187] This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allusion to such an event.--_Cambro-Briton_, vol. i., p. 195. THE DYING BARD’S PROPHECY.[188] The hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain’s hearth: It hath no mead, it hath no light; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stain’d the threshold stone. “And I, too, go: my wound is deep, My brethren long have died; Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! “Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country’s noble slain-- Say to him--Saxon, think not _all_ is won. “Thou hast laid low the warrior’s head, The minstrel’s chainless hand: Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land! “Think’st thou, because the song hath ceased, The soul of song is flown? Think’st thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone? “No! by our wrongs, and by our blood! We leave it pure and free; Though hush’d awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. “We leave it midst our country’s woe-- The birthright of her breast; We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on Eryri’s crest. We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children’s breath; Our voice in theirs through time shall swell-- The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent’s tide; And this is yet Aneurin’s[189] land-- Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! [188] At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First. [189] Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. THE FAIR ISLE.[190] FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE “WELSH GROUND.” [The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy’s country; and, while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called _Unbennaeth Prydain_, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained.--Jones’s _Historical Account of the Welsh Bards_.] [190] Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies _fair_ or _beautiful isle_. I. Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time Ere spoilers had breathed the free air of your clime; All that its eagles behold in their flight Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled height. Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, Unquench’d is the spirit for monarchy born. CHORUS. Darkly though clouds may hang o’er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle. II. Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish’d in vain; Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, Around her still gathering in glory’s full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. CHORUS. Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. [It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud; Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. ’Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming; And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. I lay there in silence--a spirit came o’er me; Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw; Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me, And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. I view’d the dread beings around us that hover, Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath; And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover, For a strife was within me of madness and death. I saw them--the powers of the wind and the ocean, The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms; Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion-- I _felt_ their dim presence, but knew not their forms! I saw them--the mighty of ages departed-- The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,-- There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill. I saw what man looks on, and dies--but my spirit Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;-- But oh! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won![191] [“The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the melody of their numbers--in particular, the song to the well-known air, ‘Ar hyd y nos.’ Her fine feeling for music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words; and, although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later ones are almost too full of meaning to require the further clothing of sweet sound, instead of their being left, as in outline, waiting for the musician’s colouring hand, they must be all praised as flowing and expressive; and it is needless to remind the reader how many of them, united with her sister’s music, have obtained the utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legendary history of the ancient Britons, which her songs contain, are happily chosen. But it was an instinct with Mrs Hernans to catch the picturesque points of national character, as well as of national music: in the latter she always delighted.”--Chorley’s _Memorials of Mrs Hemans_, p. 80-1.] [191] Transcriber’s Note: Footnote not found for original page 153 footnote 1. THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. [“Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition of her tragedy, ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ which she originally wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most especially by the critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr Milman:--‘As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragement I have received from you and Mr Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.’”--_Memoir_, p. 81-2.] DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Count di Procida. Raimond di Procida, _his Son_. Eribert, _Viceroy_. De Couci. Montalba. Guido. Alberti. Anselmo, _a Monk_. Vittoria. Constance, _Sister to Eribert_. _Nobles_, _Soldiers_, _Messengers_, _Vassals_, _Peasants_, &c. &c. Scene--_Palermo_. ACT I. Scene I.--_A Valley, with vineyards and cottages._ _Groups of Peasants_--Procida, _disguised as a Pilgrim, among them_. _1st Pea._ Ay, this was wont to be a festal time In days gone by! I can remember well The old familiar melodies that rose At break of morn, from all our purple hills, To welcome in the vintage. Never since Hath music seem’d so sweet. But the light hearts Which to those measures beat so joyously, Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice Of joy through all the land. _2d Pea._ Yes! there are sounds Of revelry within the palaces, And the fair castles of our ancient lords, Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear From _thence_ the peals of song and laughter rise At midnight’s deepest hour. _3d Pea._ Alas! we sat, In happier days, so peacefully beneath The olives and the vines our fathers rear’d, Encircled by our children, whose quick steps Flew by us in the dance! The time hath been When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe’er The storm might gather. But this yoke of France Falls on the peasant’s neck as heavily As on the crested chieftain’s. We are bow’d E’en to the earth. _Pea’s Child._ My father, tell me when Shall the gay dance and song again resound Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days Of which thou’rt wont to tell the joyous tale? _1st Pea._ When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily’s green vales. Alas, my boy! Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside The weight of work-day care: they meet to speak Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts They dare not breathe aloud. _Pro._ (_from the background._) Ay, it is well So to relieve th’ o’erburthen’d heart, which pants Beneath its weight of wrongs; but better far In silence to avenge them! _An Old Pea._ What deep voice Came with that startling tone? _1st Pea._ It was our guest’s, The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn’d here Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well: He hath a stately bearing, and an eye Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien accords Ill with such vestments. How he folds around him His pilgrim-cloak, e’en as it were a robe Of knightly ermine! That commanding step Should have been used in courts and camps to move. Mark him! _Old Pea._ Nay, rather mark him not; the times Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts A cautious lesson. What should bring him here? _A Youth._ He spoke of vengeance! _Old Pea._ Peace! we are beset By snares on every side, and we must learn In silence and in patience to endure. Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. _Pro._ (_coming forward indignantly._) The word is death! And what hath life for _thee_, That thou shouldst cling to it thus? thou abject thing! Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, And stamp’d with servitude. What! is it life Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice Into low fearful whispers, and to cast Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e’en then, Strangers should catch its echo?--Is there aught In _this_ so precious, that thy furrow’d cheek Is blanch’d with terror at the passing thought Of hazarding some few and evil days, Which drag thus poorly on? _Some of the Peas._ Away, away! Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. _Pro._ Why, what is danger? Are there deeper ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain’d The cup of bitterness till naught remains To fear or shrink from--therefore, be ye strong! Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus At words which are but echoes of the thoughts Lock’d in your secret souls? Full well I know There is not one among you but hath nursed Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make One conflict of his life. I know _thy_ wrongs-- And thine--and thine; but if within your breast There is no chord that vibrates to _my_ voice, Then fare ye well. _A Youth_ (_coming forward._) No, no! say on, say on! There are still free and fiery hearts e’en here, That kindle at thy words. _Pea._ If that indeed Thou hast a hope to give us---- _Pro._ There is hope For all who suffer with indignant thoughts Which work in silent strength. What! think ye heaven O’erlooks the oppressor, if he bear awhile His crested head on high? I tell you, no! Th’ avenger will not sleep. It was an hour Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, Our young brave Conradin, in life’s fair morn On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less Is Justice throned above; and her good time Comes rushing on in storms: that royal blood Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, And hath been heard. The traces of the past Fade in _man’s_ heart, but ne’er doth heaven forget. _Pea._ Had we but arms and leaders, we are men Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these, What wouldst thou have us do? _Pro._ Be vigilant; And when the signal wakes the land, arise! The peasant’s arm is strong, and there shall be A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. [_Exit_ Procida. _1st Pea._ This man should be a prophet: how he seem’d To read our hearts with his dark searching glance And aspect of command! and yet his garb Is mean as ours. _2d Pea._ Speak low; I know him well. At first his voice disturb’d me, like a dream Of other days; but I remember now His form, seen oft when in my youth I served Beneath the banners of our kings! ’Tis he Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, The Count di Procida. _Pea._ And is this he? Then heaven protect him! for around his steps Will many snares be set. _1st Pea._ He comes not thus But with some mighty purpose--doubt it not; Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved True to our native princes. But away! The noontide heat is past, and from the seas Light gales are wandering through the vineyards; now We may resume our toil. _Exeunt Peasants._ Scene II.--_The Terrace of a Castle._ Eribert, Vittoria. _Vit._ Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold?--Th’ affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman’s breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have sear’d it--all is fled from mine. Urge me no more. _Eri._ O lady! doth the flower That sleeps entomb’d through the long wintry storms, Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, And shall not woman’s heart, from chill despair, Wake at love’s voice? _Vit._ Love!--make _love’s_ name thy spell, And I am strong!--the very word calls up From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array’d In arms against thee! Know’st thou _whom_ I loved, While my soul’s dwelling-place was still on earth? One who was born for empire, and endow’d With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bow’d all hearts before him! Was he not Brave, royal, beautiful? And such he died; He died!--hast thou forgotten?--And thou’rt here, Thou meet’st my glance with eyes which coldly look’d, --Coldly!--nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Upon his murder! Desolate as I am, Yet in the mien of _thine_ affianced bride, O my lost Conradin! there should be still Somewhat of loftiness, which might o’erawe The hearts of thine assassins. _Eri._ Haughty dame! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Know danger is around thee: thou hast foes That seek thy ruin, and my power alone Can shield thee from their arts. _Vit._ Provençal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart Which hath its little world of loved ones round. For whom to tremble; and its tranquil joys That make earth Paradise. I stand alone; --They that are blest may fear. _Eri._ Is there not one Who ne’er commands in vain? Proud lady, bend Thy spirit to thy fate; for know that he, Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, O’er the bow’d neck of prostrate Sicily, Hath borne him to dominion; he, my king, Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon My deeds have well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates? _Vit._ Viceroy, tell thy lord That, e’en where chains lie heaviest on the land, Souls may not all be fetter’d. Oft, ere now, Conquerors have rock’d the earth, yet fail’d to tame Unto their purposes that restless fire Inhabiting man’s breast. A spark bursts forth, And so they perish! ’Tis the fate of those Who sport with lightning--and it may be his. Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. _Eri._ ’Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again Bethink thee, lady! Love may change--_hath_ changed To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. --Look to it yet!--To-morrow I return. [_Exit_ Eribert. _Vit._ To-morrow!--Some ere now have slept and dreamt Of morrows which ne’er dawn’d--or ne’er for them; So silently their deep and still repose Hath melted into death! Are there not balms In nature’s boundless realm, to pour out sleep Like this on me? Yet should my spirit still Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear To _his_ a glorious tale of his own isle, Free and avenged.--_Thou_ shouldst be now at work, In wrath, my native Etna! who dost lift Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, Through the red heaven of sunset!--sleep’st thou still, With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread The glowing vales beneath? [Procida _enters, disguised_. Ha! who art thou, Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step Dost steal upon me? _Pro._ One o’er whom hath pass’d All that can change man’s aspect! Yet not long Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. --Know’st thou _this_, lady? [_He shows a ring._ _Vit._ Righteous heaven! the pledge Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown By him who perish’d, and whose kingly blood E’en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high-- --Oh, welcome, welcome! thou art Procida, Th’ Avenger, the Deliverer! _Pro._ Call me so, When my great task is done. Yet who can tell If the return’d _be_ welcome? Many a heart Is changed since last we met. _Vit._ Why dost thou gaze, With such a still and solemn earnestness, Upon my alter’d mien? _Pro._ That I may read If to the widow’d love of Conradin, Or the proud Eribert’s triumphant bride, I now intrust my fate. _Vit._ Thou, Procida! That _thou_ shouldst wrong me thus!--prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer. _Pro._ ’Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death’s hue to fever’s; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, ’tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth’s gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering: on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state, Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed This tyrant Eribert. _Vit._ And told it not A tale of insolent love repell’d with scorn-- Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage? Procida! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign’s mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes.--I smiled--ay, smiled-- In proud security; for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Though it be dark and lone. _Pro._ Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words: I tell thee that a spirit is abroad Which will not slumber, till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live! It is most meet that thou _shouldst_ live, to see The mighty expiation; for thy heart (Forgive me that I wrong’d its faith!) hath nursed A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set Deep on thy marble brow. _Vit._ Then thou _canst_ tell By gazing on the wither’d rose, that there Time, or the blight, hath work’d! Ay, this is in Thy vision’s scope: but oh! the things unseen, Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass Hourly o’er that mysterious world, a mind To ruin struck by grief! Yet doth my soul, Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, Wherein is bright vitality. ’Tis to see _His_ blood avenged, and his fair heritage, My beautiful native land, in glory risen, Like a warrior from his slumbers! _Pro._ Hear’st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan the voice Of our great mountain swells? There will be soon A fearful burst! Vittoria! brood no more In silence o’er thy sorrows, but go forth Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) And let thy breath give nurture to the spark Thou’lt find already kindled. I move on In shadow, yet awakening in my path That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. _Vit._ When shall we meet again?--Are we not those Whom most he loved on earth, and think’st thou not _That_ love e’en yet shall bring his spirit near, While thus we hold communion? _Pro._ Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb; He shall have nobler tribute!--I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. [_Exeunt separately._ Scene III.--_The Sea-shore._ Raimond di Procida, Constance. _Con._ There is a shadow far within your eye, Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont, Upon the clearness of your open brow, To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round Joy like our southern sun. It is not well, If some dark thought be gathering o’er your soul, To hide it from affection. Why is this? My Raimond, why is this? _Raim._ Oh! from the dreams Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still A wild and stormy wakening? They depart-- Light after light, our glorious visions fade, The vaguely beautiful! till earth, unveil’d, Lies pale around; and life’s realities Press on the soul, from its unfathom’d depth Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, In all their fearful strength! ’Tis ever thus, And doubly so with me; for I awoke With high aspirings, making it a curse To breathe where noble minds are bow’d, as here. --To breathe!--It is not breath! _Con._ I know thy grief, --And is’t not mine?--for those devoted men Doom’d with their life to expiate some wild word, Born of the social hour. Oh! I have knelt, E’en at my brother’s feet, with fruitless tears, Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut Against my voice; yet will I not forsake The cause of mercy. _Raim._ Waste not thou thy prayers, O gentle love! for them. There’s little need For pity, though the galling chain be worn By some few slaves the less. Let them depart! There is a world beyond the oppressor’s reach, And thither lies their way. _Con._ Alas! I see That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. _Raim._ Pardon, belovèd Constance, if my words, From feelings hourly stung, have caught, perchance, A tone of bitterness. Oh! when thine eyes, With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix’d Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget All else in their soft beams; and yet I came To tell thee---- _Con._ What? What wouldst thou say? Oh speak! Thou wouldst not leave me! _Raim._ I have cast a cloud, The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin’d fortunes, O’er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, E’en as before we met--before we loved! _Con._ This is but mockery. Well thou know’st thy love Hath given me nobler being; made my heart A home for all the deep sublimities Of strong affection; and I would not change Th’ exalted life I draw from that pure source, With all its checker’d hues of hope and fear, E’en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind! Have I deserved this? _Raim._ Oh! thou hast deserved A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. Think not ’tis mockery! But I cannot rest To be the scorn’d and trampled thing I am In this degraded land. Its very skies, That smile as if but festivals were held Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine For freedom’s charter’d air. I would go forth To seek my noble father: he hath been Too long a lonely exile, and his name Seems fading in the dim obscurity Which gathers round my fortunes. _Con._ Must we part? And is it come to this? Oh! I have still Deem’d it enough of joy with _thee_ to share E’en grief itself. And now! But this is vain. Alas! too deep, too fond, is woman’s love: Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves The treasures of her soul! _Raim._ Oh, speak not thus! Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but To be more worthy of a love like thine; For I have dreamt of fame! A few short years, And we may yet be blest. _Con._ A few short years! Less time may well suffice for death and fate To work all change on earth; to break the ties Which early love had form’d; and to bow down Th’ elastic spirit, and to blight each flower Strewn in life’s crowded path! But be it so! Be it enough to know that happiness Meets thee on other shores. _Raim._ Where’er I roam, Thou shalt be with my soul! Thy soft low voice Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back Life’s morning freshness. Oh! that there should be Things which we love with such deep tenderness, But, through that love, to learn how much of woe Dwells in one hour like this! Yet weep thou not! We shall meet soon; and many days, dear love! Ere I depart. _Con._ Then there’s a respite still. Days!--not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside Th’ impending blow we shrink from. Fare thee well. (_Returning._) --Oh, Raimond! this is not our _last_ farewell! Thou wouldst not so deceive me? _Raim._ Doubt me not, Gentlest and best beloved! we meet again. [_Exit_ Constance. _Raim._ (_after a pause._) When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope To those untameable and burning thoughts, And restless aspirations, which consume My heart i’ th’ land of bondage? Oh! with you, Ye everlasting images of power And of infinity! thou blue-rolling deep, And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced-- With you my soul finds room, and casts aside The weight that doth oppress her. But my thoughts Are wandering far; there should be one to share This awful and majestic solitude Of sea and heaven with me. [Procida _enters unobserved_. It is the hour He named, and yet he comes not. _Pro._ (_coming forward._) He is here. _Raim._ Now, thou mysterious stranger--thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours-- Reveal thyself; what art thou? _Pro._ One whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim. But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come To this, my native land, that I may rest Beneath its vines in peace. _Raim._ Seek’st thou for peace? This is no land of peace: unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men’s thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call’d. _Pro._ There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been So vainly school’d by fortune, and inured To shape my course on peril’s dizzy brink, That it should irk my spirit to put on Such guise of hush’d submissiveness as best May suit the troubled aspect of the times. _Raim._ Why, then, thou’rt welcome, stranger, to the land Where most disguise is needful. He were bold Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother’s eye Doth search distrustfully the brother’s face; And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn From the same past their long remembrances, Now meet in terror, or no more; lest hearts Full to o’erflowing, in their social hour, Should pour out some rash word, which roving winds Might whisper to our conquerers. This it is, To wear a foreign yoke. _Pro._ It matters not To him who holds the mastery o’er his spirit, And can suppress its workings, till endurance Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves To all extremes, and there is that in life To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, Even when its lofty aims are all reduced To the poor common privilege of breathing. --Why dost thou turn away? _Raim._ What wouldst thou with me? I deem’d thee, by th’ ascendant soul which lived And made its throne on thy commanding brow, One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn So to abase its high capacities For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. What wouldst thou with me? _Pro._ I would counsel thee. Thou must do that which men--ay, valiant men-- Hourly submit to do; in the proud court, And in the stately camp, and at the board Of midnight revellers, whose flush’d mirth is all A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze Of mortal eye? If vengeance wait the foe, Or fate th’ oppressor, ’tis in depths conceal’d Beneath a smiling surface.--Youth, I say, Keep thy soul down! Put on a mask!--’tis worn Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth And specious intercourse of life requires Its aid in every scene. _Raim._ Away, dissembler! Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, Fitted to every nature. Will the free And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey? It is because I _will_ not clothe myself In a vile garb of coward semblances, That now, e’en now, I struggle with my heart, To bid what most I love a long farewell, And seek my country on some distant shore, Where such things are unknown! _Pro._ (_exultingly._) Why, this is joy: After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds, To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing Oppression hath not crush’d. High-hearted youth, Thy father, should his footsteps e’er again Visit these shores---- _Raim._ My father! what of him? Speak! was he known to thee? _Pro._ In distant lands With him I’ve traversed many a wild, and look’d On many a danger; and the thought that thou Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, Oft through the storm hath cheer’d him. _Raim._ Dost thou deem That still he lives? Oh! if it be in chains, In woe, in poverty’s obscurest cell, Say but he lives--and I will track his steps E’en to earth’s verge! _Pro._ It may be that he lives, Though long his name hath ceased to be a word Familiar in man’s dwellings. But its sound May yet be heard! Raimond di Procida, Rememberest thou thy father? _Raim._ From my mind His form hath faded long, for years have pass’d Since he went forth to exile: but a vague, Yet powerful image of deep majesty, Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, Doth claim instinctive reverence; and my love For his inspiring name hath long become Part of my being. _Pro._ Raimond! doth no voice Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms That would enfold thee now? My son! my son! _Raim._ Father! Oh God!--my father! Now I know Why my heart woke before thee! _Pro._ Oh! this hour Makes hope reality; for thou art all My dreams had pictured thee! _Raim._ Yet why so long E’en as a stranger hast thou cross’d my paths, One nameless and unknown?--and yet I felt Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. _Pro._ Because I would not link thy fate with I mine, Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth! _Thou_ hast told _me_ of a subdued and scorn’d And trampled land, whose very soul is bow’d And fashion’d to her chains:--but _I_ tell _thee_ Of a most generous and devoted land, A land of kindling energies; a land Of glorious recollections!--proudly true To the high memory of her ancient kings, And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast Her alien bondage off! _Raim._ And where is this? _Pro._ Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily! Her spirit is awake, and moving on, In its deep silence mightier, to regain Her place amongst the nations; and the hour Of that tremendous effort is at hand. _Raim._ Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour’st new life Through all my burning veins! I am as one Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep To the full glorious day. _Pro._ Thou shalt hear more! Thou shalt hear things which would--which _will_, arouse The proud free spirits of our ancestors E’en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well! Be secret!--for along my destined path I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me, And join a band of men, in whose high hearts There lies a nation’s strength. _Raim._ My noble father! Thy words have given me all for which I pined-- An aim, a hope, a purpose! And the blood Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, As a bright fountain from its icy bonds By the quick sun-stroke freed. _Pro._ Ay, this is well! Such natures burst men’s chains!--Now follow me. [_Exeunt._ ACT II. Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._ Eribert, Constance. _Con._ Will you not hear me? Oh! that they who need Hourly forgiveness--they who do but live While mercy’s voice, beyond th’ eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless! Gentle brother! yet ’Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon. _Eri._ ’Tis too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody--but they must die. _Con._ What!--die!--for words?--for breath which leaves no trace To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, And is, being utter’d, gone? Why, ’twere enough For such a venial fault to be deprived One little day of man’s free heritage, Heaven’s warm and sunny light! Oh! if you deem That evil harbours in their souls, at least Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stem justice wake. _Eri._ I am not one Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown’d and arm’d. And, mark me, sister! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O’er _my_ being Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note-- I have said, and they must die. _Con._ Have you no fear? _Eri._ Of what?--that heaven should fall? _Con._ No!--But that earth Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e’en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me. _Eri._ Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look? _Con._ Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs to liberty! Have not these men Brave sons or noble brothers? _Eri._ Yes! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear-- A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men. _Con._ But not forgotten! Ah! beware, beware! --Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. ’Twas but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast: and I--I dared To foster its faint spark. You smile!--Oh! then He will be saved! _Eri._ Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, ’tis strange! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock’d the boy’s sad mother: I have said-- You should not thus have _mock’d_ her!--Now, farewell! [_Exit_ Eribert. _Con._ O brother! hard of heart!--for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale May slay _her_ too--for heaven is merciful. --’Twill be a bitter task! [_Exit_ Constance. Scene II.--_A ruined Tower surrounded by woods._ Procida, Vittoria. _Pro._ Thy vassals are prepared, then? _Vit._ Yes; they wait Thy summons to their task. _Pro._ Keep the flame bright, But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady, To join our councils at the night’s mid watch, In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross? _Vit._ What should I shrink from? _Pro._ Oh! the forest-paths Are dim and wild, e’en when the sunshine streams Through their high arches; but when powerful night Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds Of her mysterious winds; their aspect _then_ Is of another and more fearful world-- A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, Waking strange thoughts almost too much for this-- Our frail terrestrial nature. _Vit._ Well I know All this, and more. Such scenes have been th’ abodes Where through the silence of my soul have pass’d Voices and visions from the sphere of those That have to die no more! Nay, doubt it not! If such unearthly intercourse hath e’er Been granted to our nature, ’tis to hearts Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, Unmadden’d could sustain the fearful joy And glory of its trances! At the hour Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth And air with infinite viewless multitudes, I will be with thee, Procida. _Pro._ Thy presence Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls Of suffering and indignant men, arouse That which may strengthen our majestic cause With yet a deeper power. Know’st thou the spot? _Vit._ Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone, In these dim woods, but I have visited Its tangled shades. _Pro._ At midnight, then, we meet. [_Exit_ Procida. _Vit._ Why should I fear? Thou wilt be with me--thou, Th’ immortal dream and shadow of my soul, Spirit of him I love! that meet’st me still In loneliness and silence; in the noon Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, Known but to me; for whom thou giv’st the winds And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, Till my heart faints with that o’erthrilling joy! --Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame That thou art unavenged! [_Exit_ Vittoria. Scene III.--_A Chapel, with a monument on which is laid a sword._--_Moonlight._ Procida, Raimond, Montalba. _Mon._ And know you not my story? _Pro._ In the lands Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs Were number’d with our country’s; but their tale Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. I would fain hear it now. _Mon._ Hark! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which even like death came o’er me. ’Twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, And swift wild shadows floating o’er the earth, Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years Of battle and captivity, I spurr’d My good steed homewards. Oh! what lovely dreams Rose on my spirit! There were tears and smiles, But all of joy! And there were bounding steps, And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love Doth twine so fondly round the warrior’s neck When his plumed helm is doff’d.--Hence, feeble thoughts! --I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were mine! _Raim._ And were they realised? _Mon._ Youth! ask me not, But listen! I drew near my own fair home-- There was no light along its walls, no sound Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower’s height At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e’en now! I call’d--my struggling voice Gave utterance to my wife’s, my children’s names. They answer’d not. I roused my failing strength, And wildly rush’d within.--And they were there. _Raim._ And was all well? _Mon._ Ay, well!--for death is well: And they were all at rest! I see them yet, Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail’d To stay the assassin’s arm! _Raim._ Oh, righteous Heaven! Who had done this? _Mon._ Who! _Pro._ Canst thou question, _who?_ Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us? _Raim._ Man of woe! What words hath pity for despair like thine? _Mon._ Pity!--fond youth!--My soul disdains the grief Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies To ask a vain companionship of tears, And so to be relieved! _Pro._ For woes like these There is no sympathy but vengeance. _Mon._ None! Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts Might catch the spirit of the scene! Look round! We are in th’ awful presence of the dead; Within yon tomb _they_ sleep whose gentle blood Weighs down the murderer’s soul. _They_ sleep!--but I Am wakeful o’er their dust! I laid my sword, Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, As on an altar; and the eternal stars, And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, No more to wield it save in one great cause-- The vengeance of the grave! And now the hour Of that atonement comes! [_He takes the sword from the tomb._ _Raim._ My spirit burns! And my full heart almost to bursting swells. --Oh, for the day of battle! _Pro._ Raimond, they Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, --But not in battle. _Raim._ How, my father? _Pro._ No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson. But the appointed hour Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, Noble Montalba? _Mon._ Leave me for a time, That I may calm my soul by intercourse With the still dead, before I mix with men And with their passions. I have nursed for years, In silence and in solitude, the flame Which doth consume me; and it is not used Thus to be look’d or breathed on. Procida! I would be tranquil--or appear so--ere I join your brave confederates. Through my heart There struck a pang--but it will soon have pass’d. _Pro._ Remember!--in the cavern by the cross. Now follow me, my son. [_Exeunt_ Procida _and_ Raimond. _Mon._ (_after a pause, leaning on the tomb._) Said he, “_My son_?” Now, why should this man’s life Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, And I be desolate? How strange a sound Was that--“_my son_!” I had a boy, who might Have worn as free a soul upon his brow As doth this youth. Why should the thought of _him_ Thus haunt me? When I tread the peopled ways Of life again, I shall be pass’d each hour By fathers with their children, and I must Learn calmly to look on. Methinks ’twere now A gloomy consolation to behold All men bereft as I am! But away, Vain thoughts!--One task is left for blighted hearts, And it shall be fulfill’d. _Exit_ Montalba. Scene IV.--_Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by rocks and forests._ _A rude Cross seen among the rocks._ Procida, Raimond. _Pro._ And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies Of midnight, and in solitary caves, Where the wild forest creatures make their lair-- Is’t thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold The councils of their country? _Raim._ Why, such scenes In their primeval majesty, beheld Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire Far deeper thoughts than pillar’d halls, wherein Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not O’ershadow’d by that Etna, which of old With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay Through tyrants’ hearts, and bade them seek a home In other climes? Hark! from its depths, e’en now, What hollow moans are sent! _Enter_ Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians_. _Pro._ Welcome, my brave associates! We can share The wolf’s wild freedom here! Th’ oppressor’s haunt Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met? _Sicilians._ All, all! _Pro._ The torchlight, sway’d by every gust, But dimly shows your features.--Where is he Who from his battles had return’d to breathe Once more without a corslet, and to meet The voices and the footsteps and the smiles Blent with his dreams of home? Of that dark tale The rest is known to vengeance! Art thou here, With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, Childless Montalba? _Mon._ (_advancing._) He is at thy side. Call on that desolate father in the hour When his revenge is nigh. _Pro._ Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile! Dost thou make The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, While hostile banners o’er thy rampart walls Wave their proud blazonry? _1st Sicilian._ Even so. I stood Last night before my own ancestral towers An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head. What reck’d it? There was joy Within, and revelry; the festive lamps Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs I’ th’ stranger’s tongue, made mirth. They little deem’d Who heard their melodies! But there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild; there are dread vows Known to the mountain echoes. Procida! Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. _Pro._ I knew a young Sicilian--one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day When, with our martyr’d Conradin, the flower Of the land’s knighthood perish’d; he of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turn’d full on him its parting agony. The father’s blood gush’d o’er him! and the boy Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look’d up To the bright heaven.--Doth he remember still That bitter hour? _2d Sicilian._ He bears a sheathless sword! --Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. _Pro._ Our band shows gallantly--but there are men Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom!--and some traitor--it might be A breeze perchance--bore the forbidden sound To Eribert: so they must die--unless Fate (who at times is wayward) should select Some other victim first! But have they not Brothers or sons among us? _Gui._ Look on me! I have a brother--a young high-soul’d boy, And beautiful as a sculptor’s dream, with brow That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is A glorious creature! But his doom is seal’d With theirs of whom ye spoke; and I have knelt-- Ay, scorn me not! ’twas for his life--I knelt E’en at the viceroy’s feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity We know so well, and spurn’d me. But the stain Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, And _thus_ it shall be cancell’d! Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. _Pro._ I call upon thee _now_! The land’s high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature’s hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom!--Ay, ’tis thus Oppression fans th’ imperishable flame With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers For what she blindly works! When slavery’s cup O’erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, through each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man’s fetters. And they _shall_ be burst! I have hoped, when hope seem’d frenzy; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes! I have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near: But we must give the signal. Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts--whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom--speak! decree The fate of our oppressors. _Mon._ Let them fall When dreaming least of peril!--when the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the sword With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, And bid them welcome to the feast of death. _Pro._ Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words Scarce meet our ears. _Mon._ Why, then, I must repeat Their import. Let th’ avenging sword burst forth In some free festal hour--and woe to him Who first shall spare! _Raim._ Must innocence and guilt Perish alike? _Mon._ Who talks of innocence? When hath _their_ hand been stay’d for innocence? Let them all perish!--Heaven will choose its own. Why should _their_ children live? The earthquake whelms Its undistinguish’d thousands, making graves Of peopled cities in its path--and this Is heaven’s dread justice--ay, and it is well! Why then should we be tender, when the skies Deal thus with man? What if the infant bleed? Is there not power to hush the mother’s pangs? What if the youthful bride perchance should fall In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause? As if death were not mercy to the pangs Which make our lives the records of our woes? Let them all perish! And if one be found Amidst our band to stay th’ avenging steel For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, Then be his doom as theirs! [_A pause._ Why gaze ye thus? Brethren, what means your silence! _Sicilians._ Be it so! If one among us stay th’ avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs! Pledge we our faith to this! _Raim._ (_rushing forward indignantly._) Our faith to _this_! No! I but _dreamt_ I heard it! Can it be? My countrymen, my father!--is it thus That freedom should be won? Awake!--awake To loftier thoughts! Lift up exultingly, On the crown’d heights and to the sweeping winds, Your glorious banner! Let your trumpet’s blast Make the tombs thrill with echoes! Call aloud, Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear The stranger’s yoke no longer! What is he Who carries on his practised lip a smile, Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? That which our nature’s instinct doth recoil from, And our blood curdle at--ay, yours and mine-- A murderer! Heard ye? Shall that name with ours Go down to after days? O friends! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of th’ elder time as rallying-words to men-- Sounds full of might and immortality! And shall not ours be such? _Mon._ Fond dreamer, peace! Fame! What is fame? Will our unconscious dust Start into thrilling rapture from the grave! At the vain breath of praise? I tell thee, youth Our souls are parch’d with agonising thirst, Which must be quench’d, though death were in the draught: We must have vengeance, for our foes have left No other joy unblighted. _Pro._ O my son! The time is past for such high dreams as thine. Thou know’st not whom we deal with: knightly faith And chivalrous honour are but things whereon They cast disdainful pity. We must meet Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. And, for our names--whate’er the deeds by which We burst our bondage--is it not enough That in the chronicle of days to come, We, through a bright “For Ever,” shall be call’d The men who saved their country? _Raim._ Many a land Hath bow’d beneath the yoke, and then arisen As a strong lion rending silken bonds, And on the open field, before high heaven, Won such majestic vengeance as hath made Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own It is enough of glory to be call’d The children of the mighty, who redeem’d Their native soil--but not by means like these. _Mon._ I have no children. Of Montalba’s blood Not one red drop doth circle through the veins Of aught that breathes? Why, what have _I_ to do With far futurity? My spirit lives But in the past. Away! when thou dost stand On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree Which the warm sun revives not, _then_ return, Strong in thy desolation: but till then, Thou art not for our purpose; we have need Of more unshrinking hearts. _Raim._ Montalba! know I shrink from crime alone. Oh! if my voice Might yet have power among you, I would say, Associates, leaders, _be_ avenged! but yet As knights, as warriors! _Mon._ Peace! have we not borne Th’ indelible taint of contumely and chains? We _are not_ knights and warriors. Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy! we are slaves--and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave’s disgrace. _Raim._ Why, then, farewell: I leave you to your counsels. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. _Pro._ And is it thus indeed?--dost _thou_ forsake Our cause, my son! _Raim._ O father! what proud hopes This hour hath blighted! Yet, whate’er betide, It is a noble privilege to look up Fearless in heaven’s bright face--and this is mine, And shall be still. [_Exit_ Raimond. _Pro._ He’s gone! Why, let it be! I trust our Sicily hath many a son Valiant as mine. Associates! ’tis decreed Our foes shall perish. We have but to name The hour, the scene, the signal. _Mon._ It should be In the full city, when some festival Hath gather’d throngs, and lull’d infatuate hearts To brief security. Hark! is there not A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze? We are betray’d.--Who art thou? Vittoria _enters_. _Pro._ _One_ alone Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil That shades thy noble brow. [_She raises her veil--the Sicilians draw back with respect._ _Sicilians._ Th’ affianced bride Of our lost king! _Pro._ And more, Montalba; know Within this form there dwells a soul as high As warriors in their battles e’er have proved, Or patriots on the scaffold. _Vit._ Valiant men! I come to ask your aid. You see me, one Whose widow’d youth hath all been consecrate To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men’s hearts, A tyrant’s will should force me to profane Heaven’s altar with unhallow’d vows--and live Stung by the keen unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live--another’s bride? _Sicilians._ Never! oh, never! Fear not, noble lady! Worthy of Conradin! _Vit._ Yet hear me still-- _His_ bride, that Eribert’s, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling works, Would number e’en our agonies as crimes. --Say, is this meet? _Gui._ We deem’d these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice; but ’tis a joy to find Thou’rt noble still. Fear not; by all our wrongs, This shall not be. _Pro._ Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid--but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires--a festival; and it must be Thy bridal! _Vit._ Procida! _Pro._ Nay, start not thus. ’Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No--nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him! _Vit._ Can my soul Dissemble thus? _Pro._ We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp’d it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot; and this may be best done By what I ask of thee. _Mon._ Then we will mix With the flush’d revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave. _Vit._ A bridal day! --Must it be so? Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials! but be there With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus alone _My_ guests should be adorn’d. _Pro._ And let thy banquet Be soon announced; for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase Reprieve with other blood. _Vit._ Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom. _Gui._ My brother! thou shalt live! Oppression boasts No gift of prophecy!--It but remains To name our signal, chiefs! _Mon._ The Vesper-bell! _Pro._ Even so--the Vesper-bell, whose deep-toned peal Is heard o’er land and wave. Part of our band, Wearing the guise of antic revelry, Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, The halls of Eribert; and at the hour Devoted to the sword’s tremendous task, I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell! That sound shall wake th’ avenger; for ’tis come, The time when power is in a voice, a breath, To burst the spell which bound us. But the night Is waning, with her stars, which one by one Warn us to part. Friends to your homes!--your _homes_? _That_ name is yet to win. Away! prepare For our next meeting in Palermo’s walls. The Vesper-bell! Remember! _Sicilians._ Fear us not The Vesper-bell! [_Exeunt omnes._ ACT III. Scene I.--_Apartment in a Palace._ Eribert, Vittoria. _Vit._ Speak not of love--it is a word with deep Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes; Therefore, no more of love! But if to robe This form in bridal ornaments--to smile (I _can_ smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand At th’ altar by thy side;--if this be deem’d Enough, it shall be done. _Eri._ My fortune’s star Doth rule th’ ascendant still! (_Apart._)--If not of love, Then pardon, lady, that I speak of _joy_, And with exulting heart---- _Vit._ There _is_ no joy! --Who shall look through the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, “This will bring happiness?” Who shall do this? Who, thou and I, and all! There’s One, who sits In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, High o’er all storms, and looking far beyond Their thickest clouds! but we, from whose dull eyes A grain of dust hides the great sun--e’en we Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, Of future joy and grief! _Eri._ Thy words are strange. Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria! Oh! if my cares---- _Vit._ I know a day shall come Of peace to all. Ev’n from my darken’d spirit Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down Serenely to repose. Of this no more. I have a boon to ask. _Eri._ Command my power, And deem it thus most honour’d. _Vit._ Have I then Soar’d such an eagle pitch, as to command The mighty Eribert?--And yet ’tis meet; For I bethink me now, I should have worn A _crown_ upon this forehead. Generous lord! Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound Whose tones, o’er earth and ocean sweetly bearing A sense of deep repose, have lull’d me oft To peace--which is forgetfulness; I mean The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be The summons to our bridal. Hear you not? To our fair bridal! _Eri._ Lady, let your will Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless’d, Proving my homage thus. _Vit._ Why, then, ’tis mine To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, And I may be content. Yet much remains For thought to brood on, and I would be left Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert! (Whom I command so absolutely,) now Part we a few brief hours; and doubt not, when I’m at thy side once more, but I shall stand There--to the last! _Eri._ Your smiles are troubled, lady-- May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem Slow till the Vesper-bell. _Vit._ ’Tis lovers’ phrase To say--Time lags; and therefore meet for you; But with an equal pace the hours move on, Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, Pleasure or--fate. _Eri._ Be not so full of thought On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves Look on my joy with a triumphant smile Unshadow’d by a cloud. _Vit._ ’Tis very meet That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, Forgive me if I say farewell until Th’ appointed hour. _Eri._ Lady, a brief farewell. [_Exeunt separately._ Scene II.--_The Sea-shore._ Procida, Raimond. _Pro._ And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise? _Raim._ O father! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet’s voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby ’twas won--the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest. _Pro._ Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country; and the sword Alike is honour’d in the patriot’s hand, Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which gave Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o’er its troubled couch, At dead of night. _Raim._ (_turning away._) There is no path but one For noble natures. _Pro._ Wouldst thou ask the man Who to the earth hath dash’d a nation’s chains, Rent as with heaven’s own lightning, by what _means_ The glorious end was won? Go, swell th’ acclaim! Bid the deliverer, hail! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o’er trampled thousands, be it call’d A stem necessity, but not a crime! _Raim._ Father! my soul yet kindles at the thought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn’d, Ev’n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart Where _thou_ didst plant them; and they speak of men Who needed no vain sophistry to gild Acts that would bear heaven’s light--and such be mine! O father! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause? _Pro._ What wouldst thou do? _Raim._ I would go forth, and rouse th’ indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness? Is there not more strength Ev’n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her? _I_ would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere--the stormy field of fight! _Pro._ Ay! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might! It _is_ too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell; and, long before To-morrow’s sun hath reach’d i’ th’ noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound Of the Provençal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke--(you are pale, my son)-- Shall be for ever silenced! _Raim._ What! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe? Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour’d by the timid maid? Must all alike Be still’d in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in _this_? _Pro._ Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it. _Raim._ Speak! oh speak! _Pro._ How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us! _Raim._ Father! I can bear-- Ay, proudly woo--the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven’s dread royalty, --The power that searches thought. _Pro._ (_after a pause._) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day--and yet I doubt thee, Raimond! Whether it be that I have learn’d distrust From a long look through man’s deep-folded heart; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross’d By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustom’d gaze: howe’er it be-- I doubt thee! See thou waver not--take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things! [_Exit_ Procida. _Raim._ And ’tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop! Oh, bitter day! When, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus! Yet be it so! Is not my soul still powerful in _itself_ To realise its dreams? Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father’s. But, away! _Thou_ shalt be saved, sweet Constance!--Love is yet Mightier than vengeance. [_Exit_ Raimond. Scene III.----_Gardens of a Palace._ Constance _alone_. _Con._ There was a time when my thoughts wander’d not Beyond these fairy scenes!--when but to catch The languid fragrance of the southern breeze From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough Of happiness. How have these calm delights Fled from before one passion, as the dews, The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled By the great sun! [Raimond _enters_. Raimond! oh! now thou’rt come-- I read it in thy look--to say farewell For the last time--the last! _Raim._ No, best beloved! I come to tell thee there is now no power To part us but in death. _Con._ I have dreamt of joy, But never aught like this. Speak yet again! Say we shall part no more! _Raim._ No more--if love Can strive with darker spirits; and he is strong In his immortal nature! All is changed Since last we met. My father--keep the tale Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, From Eribert--my father is return’d: I leave thee not. _Con._ Thy father! blessèd sound! Good angels be his guard! Oh! if he knew How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate Even a Provençal maid! Thy father!--now Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see The sunny happiness of earlier days Look from thy brow once more! But how is this? Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine; And in thy look is that which ill befits A tale of joy. _Raim._ A dream is on my soul. I see a slumberer, crown’d with flowers, and smiling As in delighted visions, on the brink Of a dread chasm; and this strange fantasy Hath cast so deep a shadow o’er my thoughts, I cannot but be sad. _Con._ Why, let me sing One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, And this will banish it. _Raim._ It may not be. O gentle Constance! go not forth to-day: Such dreams are ominous. _Con._ Have you then forgot My brother’s nuptial feast? I must be one Of the gay train attending to the shrine His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy Will print earth lightly now. What fear’st thou, love? Look all around! the blue transparent skies, And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase All thought of evil. Why, the very air Breathes of delight! Through all its glowing realms Doth music blend with fragrance; and e’en here The city’s voice of jubilee is heard, Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds Of human joy! _Raim._ There lie far deeper things-- Things that may darken thought for life, beneath That city’s festive semblance. I have pass’d Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark’d A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, Which deem’d their flash unnoticed, and a quick, Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe Its mien with carelessness; and now and then, A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out Amidst the reckless throng. O’er all is spread A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide Much from unpractised eyes; but lighter signs Have been prophetic oft. _Con._ I tremble!--Raimond! What may these things portend? _Raim._ It was a day Of festival like this; the city sent Up through her sunny firmament a voice Joyous as now; when, scarcely heralded By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene Became one chaos of all fearful things, Till the brain whirl’d, partaking the sick motion Of rocking palaces. _Con._ And then didst thou, My noble Raimond! through the dreadful paths Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, Whose fathomless clefts, a moment’s work, had given One burial unto thousands, rush to save Thy trembling Constance! she who lives to bless Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven Wafts gladness to her soul! _Raim._ Heaven!--heaven is just! And being so, must guard thee, sweet one! still. Trust none beside. Oh! the omnipotent skies Make their wrath manifest, but insidious _man_ Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, Mask’d as a reveller. Constance! oh, by all Our tried affection, all the vows which bind Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell Doth sound for vesper prayer! _Con._ And know’st thou not ’Twill be the bridal hour? _Raim._ It will not, love! That hour will bring no bridal! Naught of this To human ear; but speed thou hither--fly, When evening brings that signal. Dost thou heed? This is no meeting by a lover sought To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves And stars attest his vows; deem thou not so, Therefore denying it! I tell thee, Constance! If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair As falls on man, beholding all he loves Perish before him, while his strength can but Strive with his agony--thou’lt meet me then. Look on me, love!--I am not oft so moved-- Thou’lt meet me? _Con._ Oh! what mean thy words? If then My steps are free,--I will. Be thou but calm. _Raim._ Be calm!--there is a cold and sullen calm, And, were my wild fears made realities, It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense-- This conflict of all terrible fantasies, There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love! I will watch o’er thee still. And now, farewell Until that hour! _Con._ My Raimond, fare thee well. [_Exeunt._ Scene IV.--_Room in the Citadel of Palermo._ Alberti, De Couci. _De Cou._ Saidst thou this night? _Alb._ This very night--and lo! E’en now the sun declines. _De Cou._ What! are they arm’d? _Alb._ All arm’d, and strong in vengeance and despair. _De Cou._ Doubtful and strange the tale! Why was not this reveal’d before? _Alb._ Mistrust me not, my lord! That stern and jealous Procida hath kept O’er all my steps (as though he did suspect The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought To read in mine) a watch so vigilant I knew not how to warn thee, though for this Alone I mingled with his bands--to learn Their projects and their strength. Thou know’st my faith To Anjou’s house full well. _De Cou._ How may we now Avert the gathering storm? The viceroy holds His bridal feast, and all is revelry. ’Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart Which kept me from these nuptials. _Alb._ Thou thyself May’st yet escape, and haply of thy bands Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance Upon these rebels. ’Tis too late to dream Of saving Eribert. E’en shouldst thou rush Before him with the tidings, in his pride And confidence of soul, he would but laugh Thy tale to scorn. _De Cou._ He must not die unwarn’d, Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, And shalt not pass unguerdon’d, should I live Through the deep horrors of th’ approaching night. _Alb._ Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti’s. [_Exit_ Alberti. _De Cou._ The grovelling slave!--And yet he spoke too true! For Eribert, in blind elated joy, Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes fast, And through the city, recklessly dispersed, Unarm’d and unprepared, my soldiers revel, E’en on the brink of fate. I must away. [_Exit_ De Couci. Scene V.--_A Banqueting Hall.--Provençal Nobles assembled._ _1st Noble._ Joy be to this fair meeting! Who hath seen The viceroy’s bride? _2d Noble._ I saw her as she pass’d The gazing throngs assembled in the city. ’Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, Her castle’s wood-girt solitude. ’Twill gall These proud Sicilians that her wide domains Should be the conqueror’s guerdon. _3d Noble._ ’Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp’d still the name Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords? _2d Noble._ In sooth, It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provençals, and assume A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. ’Twere worth a thousand festivals to see With what a bitter and unnatural effort They strive to smile! _1st Noble._ Is this Vittoria fair? _2d Noble._ Of a most noble mien; but yet her beauty Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, From which thou’lt shrink as I did. _1st Noble._ Hush! they come. _Enter_ Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, _and others_. _Eri._ Welcome, my noble friends!--there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! --Behold my bride! _Nobles._ Receive our homage, lady! _Vit._ I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer Prove worthy of such guests! _Eri._ Look on her, friends! And say if that majestic brow is not Meet for a diadem? _Vit._ ’Tis well, my lord! When memory’s pictures fade--’tis kindly done To brighten their dimm’d hues! _1st Noble_ (_apart._) Mark’d you her glance? _2d Noble_ (_apart_.) What eloquent scorn was there? Yet he, th’ elate Of heart, perceives it not. _Eri._ Now to the feast! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day. _Con._ Forgive me, brother; The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it. _Eri._ Why, how is this? _Con._ Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, Since ’tis your wish. In truth, I should have been A village maid. _Eri._ But being as you are, Not thus ignobly free, command your looks (They may be taught obedience) to reflect The aspect of the time. _Vit._ And know, fair maid! That, if in this unskill’d, you stand alone Amidst our court of pleasure. _Eri._ To the feast! Now let the red wine foam!--There should be mirth When conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle! Your good swords’ heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge The present and the future! for they both Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride? _Vit._ Yes, Eribert!--thy prophecies of joy Have taught e’en _me_ to smile. _Eri._ ’Tis well. To-day I have won a fair and almost _royal_ bride; To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, To waft me happiness!--my proudest foes Must die; and then my slumber shall be laid On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar The luxury of its visions!--Fair Vittoria, Your looks are troubled! _Vit._ It is strange--but oft, Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them Who, in a darkness thicker than the night E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, There is at least no bondage! But should _we_, From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys Contend for mastery, and the very sense Of life is rapture--should _we_ pass, I say, At once from such excitements to the void And silent gloom of that which doth await us-- Were it not dreadful? _Eri._ Banish such dark thoughts! They ill beseem the hour. _Vit._ There is no hour Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, But they beseem it well! Why, what a slight Impalpable bound is that, th’ unseen, which severs Being from death! And who can tell how near Its misty brink he stands? _1st Noble_ (_aside._) What mean her words? _2d Noble._ There’s some dark mystery here. _Eri._ No more of this! Pour the bright juice, which Etna’s glowing vines Yield to the conquerors! And let music’s voice Dispel these ominous dreams!--Wake, harp and song! Swell out your triumph! _A Messenger enters, bearing a letter._ _Mes._ Pardon, my good lord! But this demands---- _Eri._ What means thy breathless haste, And that ill-boding mien? Away! such looks Befit not hours like these. _Mes._ The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, ’tis fraught with tidings Of life and death. _Vit._ (_hurriedly._) Is this a time for aught But revelry? My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene! _Eri._ (_to the Messenger._) Hence! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [_Exit Messenger._ Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth! _A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c._ _Eri._ What forms are these? What means this antic triumph? _Vit._ ’Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not Hear their wild music? Our Sicilian vales Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye some strain Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily! _One of the Masquers sings._ The festal eve, o’er earth and sky, In her sunset robe looks bright, And the purple hills of Sicily With their vineyards laugh in light; From the marble cities of her plains, Glad voices mingling swell; --But with yet more loud and lofty strains, They shall hail the Vesper-bell! Oh! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze Their cadence wafts afar, To float o’er the blue Sicilian seas, As they gleam to the first pale star! The shepherd greets them on his height, The hermit in his cell; --But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, In the sound of the Vesper-bell! [_The bell rings._ _Eri._ It is the hour! Hark, hark!--my bride, our summons! The altar is prepared and crown’d with flowers, That wait---- _Vit._ The victim! [_A tumult heard without._ Procida _and_ Montalba _enter, with others, armed_. _Pro._ Strike! the hour is come! _Vit._ Welcome, avengers! welcome! Now, be strong! (_The conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush with their swords drawn upon the Provençals._ Eribert _is wounded, and falls_.) _Pro._ Now hath fate reach’d thee, in thy mid career, Thou reveller in a nation’s agonies! (_The Provençals are driven off, pursued by the Sicilians._) _Con._ (_supporting_ Eribert.) My brother! oh, my brother! _Eri._ Have I stood A leader in the battle-fields of kings, To perish thus at last? Ay, by these pangs, And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep, Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, This should be--death! In sooth, a dull exchange For the gay bridal feast! _Voices_ (_without._) Remember Conradin!--spare none!--spare none! _Vit._ (_throwing off her bridal wreath and ornaments._) This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast, In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling To earth for ever! And it is such joy, As if a captive from his dull cold cell Might soar at once, on charter’d wing, to range The realms of starr’d infinity! Away! Vain mockery of a bridal wreath! The hour For which stem patience ne’er kept watch in vain Is come; and I may give my bursting heart Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert! Believe in retribution! What! proud man! Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem heaven slept? “Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, Ranging the world to note e’en purposed crime In burning characters, had laid aside Their everlasting attributes for _thee_?” O blind security! He in whose dread hand The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach’d His pyramid height of power; that so his fall May with more fearful oracles make pale Man’s crown’d oppressors! _Con._ Oh! reproach him not! His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink Of that dim world where passion may not enter. Leave him in peace. _Voices_ (_without._) Anjou! Anjou!--De Couci, to the rescue! _Eri._ (_half raising himself._) My brave Provençals! do ye combat still? And I your chief am here! Now, now I feel That death indeed is bitter! _Vit._ Fare thee well! Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile Have look’d on man’s last pangs, thou shouldst by this, Be perfect how to die! _Exit_ Vittoria. Raimond _enters_. _Raim._ Away, my Constance! Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands Are scatter’d far and wide. A little while And thou shalt be in safety. Know’st thou not That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man Anselmo?--he whose hermitage is rear’d Mid some old temple’s ruins? Round the spot His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, ’Tis hallow’d as a sanctuary wherein Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm Have spent its fury. Haste! _Con._ I will not fly! While in his heart there is one throb of life, One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave The brother of my youth to perish thus, Without one kindly bosom to sustain His dying head. _Eri._ The clouds are darkening round. There are strange voices ringing in mine ear That summon me--to what? But I have been Used to command!--Away! I will not die, But on the field---- [_He dies_. _Con._ (_kneeling by him._) O Heaven! be merciful As thou art just!--for he is now where naught But mercy can avail him.--It is past! Guido _enters with his sword drawn._ _Gui._ (_to_ Raimond.) I’ve sought thee long--why art thou lingering here? Haste, follow me! Suspicion with thy name Joins that word--_Traitor!_ _Raim._ Traitor!--Guido? _Gui._ Yes! Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, After vain conflict with a people’s wrath, De Couci hath escaped? And there are those Who murmur that from _thee_ the warning came Which saved him from our vengeance. But e’en yet, In the red current of Provençal blood, That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, And follow me! _Raim._ And _thou_ couldst doubt me, Guido! ’Tis come to this!--Away! mistrust me still. I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. Thou knowst me not! _Gui._ Raimond di Procida!-- If thou art he whom once I deem’d so noble-- Call me thy friend no more! [_Exit_ Guido. _Raim._ (_after a pause._) Rise, dearest, rise! Thy duty’s task hath nobly been fulfill’d, E’en in the face of death; but all is o’er, And this is now no place where nature’s tears In quiet sanctity may freely flow. --Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar Of fast-advancing billows; and for _thee_ I shame not thus to tremble.--Speed! oh, speed! _Exeunt._ ACT IV. Scene I.--_A Street in Palermo._ Procida _enters_. _Pro._ How strange and deep a stillness loads the air, As with the power of midnight! Ay, where death Hath pass’d, there should be silence. But this hush Of nature’s heart, this breathlessness of all things, Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds, Brooding in sullen masses o’er my spirit, Weighs like an omen! Wherefore should this be? Is not our task achieved--the mighty work Of our deliverance! Yes; I should be joyous: But this our feeble nature, with its quick Instinctive superstitions, will drag down Th’ ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings That treachery lurks amongst us.--Raimond! Raimond! Oh, guilt ne’er made a mien like his its garb! It cannot be! Montalba, Guido, _and other Sicilians enter_. _Pro._ Welcome! we meet in joy! Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming The kingly port of freemen! Who shall dare, After this proof of slavery’s dread recoil, To weave us chains again? Ye have done well. _Mon._ We _have_ done well. There needs no choral song, No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth Our stern exploits. The _silence_ of our foes Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest, Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task Is still but half achieved, since with his bands De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts And deeds to startle earth, are yet required To make the mighty sacrifice complete.-- Where is thy son? _Pro._ I know not. Once last night He cross’d my path, and with one stroke beat down A sword just raised to smite me, and restored My own, which in that deadly strife had been Wrench’d from my grasp; but when I would have press’d him To my exulting bosom, he drew back, And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile, Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask? _Mon._ It matters not. We have deep things to speak of. Know’st thou that we have traitors in our councils? _Pro._ I know some voice in secret must have warn’d De Couci, or his scatter’d bands had ne’er So soon been marshall’d, and in close array Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard aught That may develop this? _Mon._ The guards we set To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn, One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, Betray’d his guilty purpose. Mark! he bore (Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him-- The fugitive Provençal. Read and judge! _Pro._ Where is this messenger? _Mon._ Where _should_ he be?-- They slew him in their wrath. _Pro._ Unwisely done! Give me the scrolls. [_He reads._ Now, if there be such things As may to death add sharpness, yet delay The pang which gives release; if there be power In execration, to call down the fires Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts But for such guilt were aimless; be they heap’d Upon the traitor’s head!--Scorn make his name Her mark for ever! _Mon._ In our passionate blindness, We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil Oft on ourselves. _Pro._ Whate’er fate hath of ruin Fall on his house! What! to resign again That freedom for whose sake our souls have now Engrain’d themselves in blood! Why, who is he That hath devised this treachery? To the scroll Why fix’d he not his name, so stamping it With an immortal infamy, whose brand Might warn men from him? Who should be so vile? Alberti?--In his eye is that which ever Shrinks from encountering mine!--But no! his race Is of our noblest. Oh! he could not shame That high descent! Urbino?--Conti?--No! They are too deeply pledged. There’s one name more! --I cannot utter it! Now shall I read Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot From man’s high mien its native royalty, And seal his noble forehead with the impress Of its own vile imaginings! Speak your thoughts, Montalba! Guido!--Who should this man be? _Mon._ Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last night His sword to aid our foes, and turn’d its edge Against his country’s chiefs?--He that did _this_, May well be deem’d for guiltier treason ripe. _Pro._ And who is he? _Mon._ Nay, ask thy son. _Pro._ My son! What should _he_ know of such a recreant heart? Speak, Guido! thou’rt his friend! _Gui._ I would not wear The brand of such a name! _Pro._ How? what means this? A flash of light breaks in upon my soul! Is it to blast me? Yet the fearful doubt Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts before, And been flung from them. Silence!--Speak not yet! I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst With a strong heart. [_A pause._ Now, what have I to hear? Your tidings? _Gui._ Briefly, ’twas your son did thus! He hath disgraced your name. _Pro._ My son did thus! Are thy words oracles, that I should search Their hidden meaning out? _What_ did my son? I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick! _Gui._ ’Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While we Were busy at the dark and solemn rites Of retribution; while we bathed the earth In red libations, which will consecrate The soil they mingled with to freedom’s step Through the long march of ages: ’twas his task To shield from danger a Provençal maid, Sister of him whose cold oppression stung Our hearts to madness. _Mon._ What! should she be spared To keep that name from perishing on earth? --I cross’d them in their path, and raised my sword To smite her in her champion’s arms. We fought The boy disarm’d me! And I live to tell My shame, and wreak my vengeance! _Gui._ Who but he Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt These scrolls reveal? Hath not the traitor still Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, To win us from our purpose? All things seem Leagued to unmask him. _Mon._ Know you not there came, E’en in the banquet’s hour, from this De Couci, One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings Of all our purposed deeds? And have we not Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves The sister of that tyrant? _Pro._ There was one Who mourn’d for being childless! Let him now Feast o’er his children’s graves, and I will join The revelry! _Mon._ (_apart._) You shall be childless too! _Pro._ Was’t you, Montalba!--Now rejoice, I say! There is no name so near you that its stains Should call the fever’d and indignant blood To your dark cheek! But I will dash to earth The weight that presses on my heart, and then Be glad as thou art. _Mon._ What means this, my lord? Who hath seen gladness on Montalba’s mien? _Pro._ Why, should not all be glad who have no _sons_ To tarnish their bright name? _Mon._ I am not used To bear with mockery. _Pro._ Friend! By yon high heaven, I mock thee not! ’Tis a proud fate to live Alone and unallied. Why, what’s _alone_? A word whose sense is--_free!_--Ay, free from all The venom’d stings implanted in the heart By those it loves. Oh! I could laugh to think O’ th’ joy that riots in baronial halls, When the word comes--“A son is born!”--A _son_! They should say thus--“He that shall knit your brow To furrows, not of years--and bid your eye Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame, Is born, and so rejoice!” _Then_ might we feast, And know the cause! Were it not excellent? _Mon._ This is all idle. There are deeds to do: Arouse thee, Procida! _Pro._ Why, am I not Calm as immortal justice! She can strike, And yet be passionless--and thus will I. I know thy meaning. Deeds to do!--’tis well. They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth: There is a youth who calls himself my son. His name is Raimond--in his eye is light That shows like truth--but be not ye deceived! Bear him in chains before us. We will sit To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see The strength which girds our nature. Will not this Be glorious, brave Montalba? Linger not, Ye tardy messengers! for there are things Which ask the speed of storms. [_Exeunt_ Guido _and others_. Is not this well? _Mon._ ’Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud height-- (_Aside._) And then be desolate like me! My woes Will at the thought grow light. _Pro._ What now remains To be prepared? There should be solemn pomp To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts Require a drapery to conceal their throbs From cold inquiring eyes; and it must be Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not Explore what lies beneath. [_Exit_ Procida. _Mon._ Now this is well! --I hate this Procida; for he hath won In all our councils that ascendency And mastery o’er bold hearts, which should have been Mine by a thousand claims. Had _he_ the strength Of wrongs like mine? No! for that name--his country-- _He_ strikes; _my_ vengeance hath a deeper fount: But there’s dark joy in this!--And fate hath barr’d My soul from every other. [_Exit_ Montalba. Scene II.--_A Hermitage surrounded by the Ruins of an Ancient Temple._ Constance, Anselmo. _Con._ ’Tis strange he comes not! Is not this the still And sultry hour of noon? He should have been Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice? --“No! ’tis the shrill cicada, with glad life Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports Amidst them in the sun.” Hark! yet again! No! no! Forgive me, father! that I bring Earth’s restless griefs and passions, to disturb The stillness of thy holy solitude: My heart is full of care. _Ans._ There is no place So hallow’d as to be unvisited By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts Will speak to them in whispers? I have known Affliction too, my daughter. _Con._ Hark! his step! I know it well--he comes--my Raimond, welcome! Vittoria _enters_, Constance _shrinks back on perceiving her_. Oh, heaven! that aspect tells a fearful tale. _Vit._ (_not observing her._) There is a cloud of horror on my soul; And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, Even as an echo, following the sweet close Of some divine and solemn harmony: Therefore I sought thee now. Oh! speak to me Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound Is power to bid the tempests of the heart Sink, like a storm rebuked. _Ans._ What recent grief Darkens thy spirit thus? _Vit._ I said not grief. We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not That which it hath been. In the flowers which wreathe Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now Have changed their nature: still, I say, rejoice! There is a cause, Anselmo! We are free-- Free and avenged! Yet on my soul there hangs A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, There is a cause. _Ans._ How say’st thou, we are free?-- There may have raged, within Palermo’s walls, Some brief wild tumult; but too well I know They call the stranger lord. _Vit._ Who calls the _dead_ Conqueror or lord? Hush! breathe it not aloud, The wild winds must not hear it! Yet again, I tell thee we are free! _Ans._ Thine eye hath look’d On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang O’er its dark orb. Speak! I adjure thee: say, How hath this work been wrought? _Vit._ Peace! ask me not! Why shouldst _thou_ hear a tale to send thy blood Back on its fount? We cannot wake them now! The storm is in my soul, but _they_ are all At rest!--Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men, Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before, Making their shield their pillow, may repose Well, now their toils are done.--Is’t not enough? _Con._ Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky! --I am an outcast now. _Ans._ O Thou whose ways Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, How much is _man_ the fiercest! Others know Their limits--yes! the earthquakes, and the storms, And the volcanoes!--he alone o’erleaps The bounds of retribution! Couldst thou gaze, Vittoria! with thy woman’s heart and eye, On such dread scenes unmoved? _Vit._ Was it for _me_ To stay th’ avenging sword? No, though it pierced My very soul! Hark! hark! what thrilling shrieks Ring through the air around me! Canst thou not Bid them be hush’d? Oh!--look not on me thus! _Ans._ Lady! thy thoughts lend sternness to the looks Which are but sad! Have all then perish’d? _all?_ Was there no mercy! _Vit._ Mercy! it hath been A word forbidden as th’ unhallow’d names Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared To own the guilt of pity, and to aid The victims!--but in vain. Of him no more! He is a traitor, and a traitor’s death Will be his meed. _Con._ (_coming forward._) Oh, heaven!--his name, his name! Is it--it cannot be! _Vit._ (_starting._) _Thou_ here, pale girl! I deem’d thee with the dead! How hast thou ’scaped The snare! Who saved thee, last of all thy race! Was it not he of whom I spake e’en now, Raimond di Procida? _Con._ It is enough: Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. Must he too die? _Vit._ Is it e’en so? Why then, Live on--thou hast the arrow at thy heart! “Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes--” I mean not to betray thee. Thou may’st live! Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms! _He_ visits but the happy. Didst thou ask If Raimond too must die? It is as sure As that his blood is on _thy_ head, for thou Didst win him to this treason. _Con._ When did men Call mercy _treason_? Take my life, but save My noble Raimond! _Vit._ Maiden! he must die. E’en now the youth before his judges stands; And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, Are as the rock is to the murmur’d sigh Of summer-waves!--ay, though a father sit On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. What wouldst thou? _Con._ Mercy!--Oh! wert thou to plead But with a look, e’en yet he might be saved! If thou hast ever loved---- _Vit._ If I have loved? It is _that_ love forbids me to relent. I am what it hath made me. O’er my soul Lightning hath pass’d and sear’d it. Could I weep I then might pity--but it will not be. _Con._ Oh, thou wilt yet relent! for woman’s heart Was form’d to suffer and to melt. _Vit._ Away! Why should I pity thee? Thou wilt but prove What I have known before--and yet I live! Nature is strong, and it may all be borne-- The sick impatient yearning of the heart For that which is not; and the weary sense Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been Circled by death; yes, all things may be borne! All, save remorse. But I will _not_ bow down My spirit to that dark power; there _was_ no guilt!-- Anselmo! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt? _Ans._ Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken thought, Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, Keen lightning to a look. _Vit._ Leave me in peace! Is’t not enough that I should have a sense Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, And of unearthly whispers, haunting me With dread suggestions, but that _thy_ cold words, Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire Against me?----O thou beautiful spirit! wont To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, Where art _thou_ vanish’d? Was it not the thought Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, And wilt thou now forsake me? I must seek The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths; --Here I but meet despair! [_Exit_ Vittoria. _Ans._ (_to_ Constance.) Despair not _thou_, My daughter! He that purifies the heart With grief will lend it strength. _Con._ (_endeavouring to rouse herself._) Did she not say That some one was to die? _Ans._ I tell thee not Thy pangs are vain--for nature will have way. Earth must have tears: yet in a heart like thine, Faith may not yield its place. _Con._ Have I not heard Some fearful tale?--Who said that there should rest Blood on my soul? What blood? I never bore Hatred, kind father! unto aught that breathes: Raimond doth know it well. Raimond!--High heaven! It bursts upon me now! And he must die! For my sake--e’en for mine! _Ans._ Her words were strange, And her proud mind seem’d half to frenzy wrought; --Perchance this may not be. _Con._ It _must_ not be. Why do I linger here? [_She rises to depart._ _Ans._ Where wouldst thou go? _Con._ To give their stern and unrelenting hearts A victim in his stead. _Ans._ Stay! wouldst thou rush On certain death? _Con._ I may not falter now. --Is not the life of woman all bound up In her affections? What hath _she_ to do In this bleak world alone? It may be well For _man_ on his triumphal course to move, Uncumber’d by soft bonds; but we were born For love and grief. _Ans._ Thou fair and gentle thing, Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst _thou_ Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, Or face the King of Terrors? _Con._ There is strength Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent Before her gems are found?--Oh! now I feel Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn’d To look on death for me! My heart hath given Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith As high in its devotion. [_Exit_ Constance. _Ans._ She is gone! Is it to perish?--God of mercy! lend Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save This pure and lofty creature! I will follow-- But her young footstep and heroic heart Will bear her to destruction, faster far Than I can track her path. [_Exit_ Anselmo. Scene III.--_Hall of a Public Building._ Procida, Montalba, Guido, _and others, seated as on a Tribunal_. _Pro._ The morn lower’d darkly; but the sun hath now, With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds Burst forth, as if impatient to behold This our high triumph.--Lead the prisoner in. Raimond _is brought in, fettered and guarded_. Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here! --Is this man guilty?--Look on him, Montalba! _Mon._ Be firm. Should justice falter at a look? _Pro._ No, thou say’st well. Her eyes are filleted, Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself-- But no! I will not breathe a traitor’s name-- Speak! thou art arraign’d of treason. _Raim._ I arraign _You_, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts Give echo to the charge. Your very looks Have ta’en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, With a perturb’d and haggard wildness, back From the too-searching light. Why, what hath wrought This change on noble brows? There is a voice With a deep answer, rising from the blood Your hands have coldly shed! Ye are of those From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, All thrill’d by life’s abhorrent consciousness, And sensitive feeling of a _murderer’s_ presence. --Away! come down from your tribunal seat, Put off your robes of state, and let your mien Be pale and humbled; for ye bear about you That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, More than the pestilence. That I should live To see my father shrink! _Pro._ Montalba, speak! There’s something chokes my voice--but fear me not. _Mon._ If we must plead to vindicate our acts, Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, Most eloquent youth! What answer canst thou make To this our charge of treason? _Raim._ I will plead _That_ cause before a mightier judgment-throne, Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel Too buoyantly the glory and the joy Of my free spirit’s whiteness; for e’en now The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem Before me glaring out. Why, I saw _thee_, Thy foot upon an aged warrior’s breast, Trampling out nature’s last convulsive heavings. And thou, _thy_ sword--O valiant chief!--is yet Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once A mother and the babe, whose little life Was from her bosom drawn!--Immortal deeds For bards to hymn! _Gui._ (_aside._) I look upon his mien, And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart Deem’d him so noble once! Away, weak thoughts! Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were _mine_, From his proud glance? _Pro._ O thou dissembler! thou, So skill’d to clothe with virtue’s generous flush The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce Believe thee guilty!--look on me, and say Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, And forge new fetters for th’ indignant land? Whose was _this_ treachery? [_Shows him papers._ Who hath promised here (Belike to appease the manès of the dead) At midnight to unfold Palermo’s gates, And welcome in the foe? Who hath done this, But thou--a tyrant’s friend? _Raim._ Who hath done this? Father!--if I may call thee by that name-- Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles Were masks that hid their daggers. _There_, perchance, May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, I know but this--there needs no deep research To prove the truth that murderers may be traitors, Even to each other. _Pro._ (_to_ Montalba.) His unaltering cheek Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, And his eye quails not! Is this innocence? _Mon._ No! ’tis th’ unshrinking hardihood of crime. --Thou bear’st a gallant mien. But where is she Whom thou hast barter’d fame and life to save, The fair Provençal maid? What! know’st thou not That this alone were guilt, to death allied? Was’t not our law that he who spared a foe (And is she not of that detested race?) Should thenceforth be amongst us _as_ a foe? --Where hast thou borne her? speak! _Raim._ That Heaven, whose eye Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, Is with her: she is safe. _Pro._ And by that word Thy doom is seal’d. Oh, God! that I had died Before this bitter hour, in the full strength And glory of my heart! Constance _enters, and rushes to_ Raimond. _Con._ Oh! art thou found? --But yet, to find thee thus! Chains, chains for _thee_! My brave, my noble love! Off with these bonds; Let him be free as air: for I am come To be your victim now. _Raim._ Death has no pang More keen than this. Oh! wherefore art thou here I could have died so calmly, deeming thee Saved, and at peace. _Con._ At peace!--And thou hast thought Thus poorly of my love! But woman’s breast Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits On this tribunal; Raimond, which is he? _Raim._ My father! who hath lull’d thy gentle heart With that false hope? Beloved! gaze around-- See if thine eye can trace a father’s soul In the dark looks bent on us. [Constance, _after earnestly examining the countenances of the Judges, falls at the feet of_ Procida. _Con._ Thou art he! Nay, turn thou not away! for I beheld Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist Pass o’er thy troubled eye; and then I knew Thou wert his father! Spare him! take _my_ life! In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, But yet mine all. Oh! _he_ hath still to run A long bright race of glory. _Raim._ Constance, peace! I look upon thee, and my failing heart Is as a broken reed. _Con._ (_still addressing_ Procida.) Oh, yet relent! If ’twas his crime to rescue _me_--behold I come to be the atonement! Let him live To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart There’s a deep conflict; but great Nature pleads With an o’ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield! --Thou _art_ his father! _Pro._ (_after a pause._) Maiden, thou’rt deceived! I am as calm as that dead pause of nature Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not Father or friend. Who calls this man my son? --_My_ son! Ay! thus his mother proudly smiled-- But she was noble! Traitors stand alone, Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus? --Bear her away! _Raim._ (_starting forward._) And whither? _Mon._ Unto death. Why should she live, when all her race have perish’d? _Con._ (_sinking into the arms of_ Raimond.) Raimond, farewell! Oh! when thy star hath risen To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved! I died for thee. _Raim._ High Heaven! thou see’st these things, And yet endurest them! Shalt thou die for me, Purest and loveliest being?--but our fate May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold-- Her deep blue eyes are closed: should this be death --If thus, there yet were mercy! Father, father! Is thy heart human? _Pro._ Bear her hence, I say! Why must my soul be torn? Anselmo _enters holding a Crucifix_. _Ans._ Now, by this sign Of heaven’s prevailing love! ye shall not harm One ringlet of her head. How! is there not Enough of blood upon your burthen’d souls? Will not the visions of your midnight couch Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap Crime upon crime? Be ye content: your dreams, Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, E’en though this maid be spared! Constance, look up! Thou shalt not die. _Raim._ Oh! death e’en now hath veil’d The light of her soft beauty. Wake my love! Wake at my voice! _Pro._ Anselmo, lead her hence, And let her live, but never meet my sight. --Begone! my heart will burst. _Raim._ One last embrace! --Again life’s rose is opening on her cheek; Yet must we part. So love is crush’d on earth! But there are brighter worlds!--Farewell, farewell! [_He gives her to the care of_ Anselmo. _Con._ (_slowly recovering._) There was a voice which call’d me. Am I not A spirit freed from earth? Have I not pass’d The bitterness of death? _Ans._ Oh, haste away! _Con._ Yes! Raimond calls me. He too is released From his cold bondage. We are free at last, And all is well. Away! [_She is led out by_ Anselmo. _Raim._ The pang is o’er, And I have but to die. _Mon._ Now, Procida, Comes thy great task. Wake! summon to thine aid All thy deep soul’s commanding energies; For thou--a chief among us--must pronounce The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. _Pro._ Ha! ha! Men’s hearts should be of softer mould Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom Their children _then_ with an unfaltering voice, And we must tremble thus! Is it not said That nature grows degenerate, earth being now So full of days? _Mon._ Rouse up thy mighty heart. _Pro._ Ay, thou say’st right. There yet are souls which tower As landmarks to mankind. Well, what’s the task? --There is a man to be condemn’d, you say? Is he then guilty? _All._ Thus we deem of him, With one accord. _Pro._ And hath he naught to plead? _Raim._ Naught but a soul unstain’d. _Pro._ Why, that is little. Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems them, And conscience may be sear’d. But for this sentence! --Was’t not the penalty imposed on man, E’en from creation’s dawn, that he must die? --It was: thus making guilt a sacrifice Unto eternal justice; and we but Obey heaven’s mandate when we cast dark souls To th’ elements from among us. Be it so! Such be _his_ doom! I have said. Ay, now my heart Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! --Mountains are on my breast! [_He sinks back._ _Mon._ Guards, bear the prisoner Back to his dungeon. _Raim._ Father! oh, look up; Thou art my father still! _Gui._ (_leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the neck of_ Raimond.) Oh! Raimond, Raimond! If it should be that I have wrong’d thee, say Thou dost forgive me. _Raim._ Friend of my young days, So may all-pitying heaven! [Raimond _is led out._ _Pro._ Whose voice was that? Where is he?--gone? Now I may breathe once more In the free air of heaven. Let us away. [_Exeunt omnes._ ACT V. Scene I.--_A Prison dimly lighted._ Raimond _sleeping_. Procida _enters_. _Pro._ (_gazing upon him earnestly._) Can he Then sleep? Th’ overshadowing night hath wrapt Earth at her stated hours; the stars have set Their burning watch; and all things hold their course Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep Sat on mine eyelids since--but this avails not! And thus _he_ slumbers! “Why, this mien doth seem As if its soul were but one lofty thought Of an immortal destiny!”--his brow Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond! wake! Thy rest is deep. _Raim._ (_starting up._) My father! Wherefore here? I am prepared to die, yet would I not Fall by _thy_ hand. _Pro._ ’Twas not for _this_ I came. _Raim._ Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty brow Why burns the troubled flush? _Pro._ Perchance ’tis shame. Yes, it may well be shame!--for I have striven With nature’s feebleness, and been o’erpower’d. --Howe’er it be, ’tis not for _thee_ to gaze, Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. Arise, and follow me; but let thy step Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared The means for thy escape. _Raim._ What! _thou!_ the austere, The inflexible Procida! hast _thou_ done this, Deeming me guilty still! _Pro._ Upbraid me not! It is even so. There have been nobler deeds By Roman fathers done,--but I am weak. Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste, For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be To realms beyond the deep; so let us part In silence, and for ever. _Raim._ Let _him_ fly Who holds no deep asylum in his breast Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men; --I can sleep calmly here. _Pro._ Art thou in love With death and infamy, that so thy choice Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp? _Raim._ Father! to set th’ irrevocable seal Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me, There needs but flight. What should I bear from this, My native land?--A blighted name, to rise And part me, with its dark remembrances, For ever from the sunshine! O’er my soul Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here On earth, my hopes are closed. _Pro._ _Thy_ hopes are closed! And what were they to mine?--Thou wilt not fly! Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn How proudly guilt can talk! Let fathers rear Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds Foster their young: when these can mount alone, Dissolving nature’s bonds, why should it not Be so with us? _Raim._ O father! now I feel What high prerogatives belong to Death. He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence, To which I leave my cause. “His solemn veil Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever Give shelter to our faults.” When I am gone, The mists of passion which have dimm’d my name Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then Will be--not what it should have been--for I Must pass without my fame--but yet unstain’d As a clear morning dewdrop. Oh! the grave Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary’s, And they should be my own! _Pro._ Now, by just Heaven, I will not thus be tortured!--Were my heart But of thy guilt or innocence assured, I could be calm again. “But in this wild Suspense--this conflict and vicissitude Of opposite feelings and convictions----What! Hath it been mine to temper and to bend All spirits to my purpose? have I raised With a severe and passionless energy, From the dread mingling of their elements, Storms which have rock’d the earth?--and shall I now Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn And plaything of the winds?” Look on me, boy! Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep Its heart’s dark secret close.--O pitying Heaven! Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, And tell me which is truth. _Raim._ I will not plead. I will not call th’ Omnipotent to attest My innocence. No, father! in thy heart I know my birthright shall be soon restored; Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed The great absolver. _Pro._ O my son! my son! We will not part in wrath! The sternest hearts, Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me! The all which taught me that my soul was cast In nature’s mould. And I must now hold on My desolate course alone! Why, be it thus! He that doth guide a nation’s star, should dwell High o’er the clouds, in regal solitude, Sufficient to himself. _Raim._ Yet, on the summit, When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, Yet might have soar’d as high! _Pro._ No, fear thou not! Thou’lt be remember’d long. The canker-worm O’ th’ heart is ne’er forgotten. _Raim._ “Oh! not thus-- I would not _thus_ be thought of.” _Pro._ Let me deem Again that thou art base!--for thy bright looks, Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth, Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers Follow’d the parricide. Farewell, farewell! I have no tears. Oh! thus thy mother look’d, When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed She gave thee to my arms. _Raim._ Now death has lost His sting, since thou believ’st me innocent! _Pro._ (_wildly._) _Thou_ innocent!--Am I thy murderer, then? Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name A scorn to men! No! I will _not_ forgive thee; A traitor! What! the blood of Procida Filling a traitor’s veins? Let the earth drink it. _Thou_ wouldst receive our foes!--but they shall meet From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul! _Raim._ Father! yet hear me! _Pro._ No! thou’rt skill’d to make E’en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus? [_Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment._ If there be aught--if aught--for which thou need’st Forgiveness--not of me, but that dread Power From whom no heart is veil’d--delay thou not Thy prayer,--time hurries on. _Raim._ I am prepared. _Pro._ ’Tis well. [_Exit_ Procida. _Raim._ Men talk of torture!--Can they wreak Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, Half the mind bears--and lives? My spirit feels Bewilder’d; on its powers this twilight gloom Hangs like a weight of earth.--It should be morn; Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven’s bright sun Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, Telling of hope and mercy! [_Exit into an inner cell._ Scene II.--_A Street of Palermo._ _Many Citizens assembled._ _1st Cit._ The morning breaks; his time is almost come: Will he be led this way? _2d Cit._ Ay, so ’tis said To die before that gate through which he purposed The foe should enter in! _3d Cit._ ’Twas a vile plot! And yet I would my hands were pure as his From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds I’ the air last night! _2d Cit._ Since the great work of slaughter, Who hath not heard them duly at those hours Which should be silent? _3d Cit._ Oh! the fearful mingling, The terrible mimicry of human voices, In every sound, which to the heart doth speak Of woe and death. _2d Cit._ Ay, there was woman’s shrill And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail Of dying infants; and the half-suppress’d Deep groan of man in his last agonies! And, now and then, there swell’d upon the breeze Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far Than all the rest. _1st Cit._ Of our own fate, perchance, These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d An ominous prophecy. Should France regain Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have Stern reckoners to account with.--Hark! [_The sound of trumpets heard at a distance._ _2d Cit._ ’Twas but A rushing of the breeze. _3d Cit._ E’en now, ’tis said, The hostile bands approach. [_The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer._ _2d Cit._ Again! that sound Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells-- They come, they come! Procida _enters_. _Pro._ The foe is at your gates; But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset. Why are ye loitering here? _Cit._ My lord, we came-- _Pro._ Think ye I know not wherefore?--’twas to see A fellow-being die! Ay, ’tis a sight Man loves to look on; and the tenderest hearts Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. For _this_ ye came. What! is our nature fierce, Or is there that in mortal agony From which the soul, exulting in its strength, Doth learn immortal lessons? Hence, and arm! Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen Enough of death--for this must be a day Of battle! ’Tis the hour which troubled souls Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings Which bear them up! Arm! arm! ’tis for your homes, And all that lends them loveliness--Away! [_Exeunt._ Scene III.--_Prison of_ Raimond. Raimond, Anselmo. _Raim._ And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father! Good angels bear such comfort. _Ans._ I have found A safe asylum for thine honour’d love, Where she may dwell until serener days, With Saint Rosalia’s gentlest daughters--those Whose hallow’d office is to tend the bed Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call’d “Sisters of Mercy.” _Raim._ Oh! that name, my Constance! Befits thee well. E’en in our happiest days, There was a depth of tender pensiveness Far in thine eyes’ dark azure, speaking ever Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace? _Ans._ Alas! what should I say? _Raim._ Why did I ask, Knowing the deep and full devotedness Of her young heart’s affections? Oh! the thought Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, Which should have been so tranquil!--and her soul, Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, Even unto death will sicken. _Ans._ All that faith Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes; And still, whate’er betide, the light of heaven Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son! Is thy young spirit master’d, and prepared For nature’s fearful and mysterious change? _Raim._ Ay, father! of my brief remaining task The least part is to die! And yet the cup Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, Crown’d with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name Is--glory! Oh! my soul, from boyhood’s morn, Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss Of time should rise, and float upon the winds Into the far hereafter; there to be A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, Murmuring--Awake!--Arise! But this is past! Erewhile, and it had seem’d enough of shame To sleep _forgotten_ in the dust; but now-- Oh, God!--the undying record of my grave Will be--Here sleeps a traitor!--One, whose crime, Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons Than the cold murderer’s dagger! _Ans._ Oh! my son, Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change Thy lot for theirs, o’er whose dark dreams will hang The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain’d soul Doth conjure from the dead! _Raim._ Thou’rt right. I would not. Yet ’tis a weary task to school the heart, Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit Into that still and passive fortitude, Which is but learn’d from suffering. Would the hour To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand! _Ans._ It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard --But no--the rush, the trampling, and the stir Of this great city, arming in her haste, Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath reach’d Our gates, and all Palermo’s youth, and all Her warrior men, are marshall’d, and gone forth, In that high hope which makes realities, To the red field. Thy father leads them on. _Raim._ (_starting up._) They are gone forth! my father leads them on! All--all Palermo’s youth! No! _one_ is left, Shut out from glory’s race! They are gone forth! Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad-- It burns upon the air! The joyous winds Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam Of battle’s roaring billows! On my sight The vision bursts--it maddens! ’tis the flash, The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze Of helmets in the sun! The very steed With his majestic rider glorying shares The hour’s stern joy, and waves his floating mane As a triumphant banner! Such things are Even now--and I am here! _Ans._ Alas, be calm! To the same grave ye press,--thou that dost pine Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule The fortunes of the fight. _Raim._ Ay! _Thou_ canst feel The calm thou wouldst impart; for unto thee All men alike, the warrior and the slave, Seem, as thou say’st, but pilgrims, pressing on To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same: _Their_ graves who fall in this day’s fight will be As altars to their country, visited By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, And chanting hymns in honour of the dead: Will mine be such? Vittoria _rushes in wildly, as if pursued_. _Vit._ Anselmo! art thou found! Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice, Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross, And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, Or shame them back to die. _Ans._ The fugitives! What words are these? The sons of Sicily Fly not before the foe? _Vit._ That I should say It is too true! _Ans._ And thou--thou bleedest, lady! _Vit._ Peace! heed not me when Sicily is lost! I stood upon the walls, and watch’d our bands, As, with their ancient royal banner spread, Onward they march’d. The combat was begun, The fiery impulse given, and valiant men Had seal’d their freedom with their blood--when, lo! That false Alberti led his recreant vassals To join th’ invader’s host. _Raim._ His country’s curse Rest on the slave for ever! _Vit._ Then distrust, E’en of their noble leaders, and dismay, That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands Came like a deadly blight. They fled!--Oh shame! E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams Pursued their wingèd steps! _Raim._ Thou hast not named Their chief--Di Procida--he doth not fly? _Vit._ No! like a kingly lion in the toils, Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives: But all in vain! The few that breast the storm, With Guido and Montalba, by his side, Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. _Raim._ And I am _here_! Shall there be power, O God! In the roused energies of fierce despair, To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains? Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt To set the strong man free! _Vit._ (_after gazing upon him earnestly._) Why, ’twere a deed Worthy the fane and blessing of all time, To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida! Thou art no traitor!--from thy kindled brow Looks out thy lofty soul! Arise! go forth! And rouse the noble heart of Sicily Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste; Unbind him! Let my spirit still prevail, Ere I depart--for the strong hand of death Is on me now. [_She sinks back against a pillar._ _Ans._ Oh, heaven! the life-blood streams Fast from thy heart--thy troubled eyes grow dim. Who hath done this? _Vit._ Before the gates I stood, And in the name of him, the loved and lost, With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. _Ans._ Yet, oh yet, It may not be too late. Help, help! _Vit._ (_to Raimond._) Away! Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty! _Attendants enter._ Haste, be those fetters riven! Unbar the gates, And set the captive free! (_The Attendants seem to hesitate._) Know ye not _her_ Who should have worn your country’s diadem? _Att._ O lady! we obey. [_They take off_ Raimond’s _chains. He springs up exultingly._ _Raim._ Is this no dream? Mount, eagle! thou art free! Shall I then die Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds, But on the field of banners, where the brave Are striving for an immortality? It is e’en so! Now for bright arms of proof, A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e’en yet My father may be saved! _Vit._ Away, be strong! And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, Be--_Conradin_. [_He rushes out._ Oh! for one hour of life, To hear that name blent with th’ exulting shout Of victory! It will not be! A mightier power Doth summon me away. _Ans._ To purer worlds Raise thy last thoughts in hope. _Vit._ Yes! _he_ is there, All glorious in his beauty!--Conradin! Death parted us, and death shall reunite! He will not stay--it is all darkness now! Night gathers o’er my spirit. [_She dies._ _Ans._ She is gone! It is an awful hour which stills the heart That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven! [_He kneels beside her._ Scene IV.--_Before the Gates of Palermo._ _Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates._ _Voices_, (_without._) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou! Provençals, on! _Sicilians._ Fly, fly, or all is lost! Raimond _appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner_. _Raim._ Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily! All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts Against the rush of thousands, and sustain’d, And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, Still to be call’d so, hath achieved such deeds As heaven and earth have marvell’d at; and souls, Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus Freedom from race to race! Back! or prepare Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines, To bleed and die in vain! Turn!--follow me! “Conradin, Conradin!”--for Sicily His spirit fights! Remember “Conradin!” [_They begin to rally round him._ Ay, this is well!--Now, follow me, and charge! [_The Provençals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilians. _--_Exeunt._ Scene V.--_Part of the Field of Battle._ Montalba _enters wounded, and supported by_ Raimond, _whose face is concealed by his helmet_. _Raim._ Here rest thee, warrior. _Mon._ Rest! ay, death is rest, And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to _thee_, I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian! These lips are all unused to soothing words, Or I should bless the valour which hath won, For my last hour, the proud free solitude Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name? _Raim._ ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba. Gaze--read it thus! [_He lifts the visor of his helmet._ _Mon._ Raimond di Procida! _Raim._ Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate: But fare thee well! Heaven’s peace be with thy soul! I must away. One glorious effort more, And this proud field is won. [_Exit_ Raimond. _Mon._ Am I thus humbled? How my heart sinks within me! But ’tis Death (And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome! That youth--’twas in his pride he rescued me! I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail To melt me into womanish feebleness. _There_ I still baffle him--the grave shall seal My lips for ever--mortal shall not hear Montalba say--“_forgive!_” [_He dies._ Scene VI.--_Another part of the Field._ Procida, Guido, _and other Sicilians_. _Pro._ The day is ours; but he, the brave unknown, Who turn’d the tide of battle--he whose path Was victory--who hath seen him? Alberti _is brought in wounded and fettered_. _Alb._ Procida! _Pro._ Be silent, traitor! Bear him from my sight, Unto your deepest dungeons. _Alb._ In the grave A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word Ere my voice fail--thy son---- _Pro._ Speak, speak! _Alb._ Thy son Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait’rous plot Was mine alone. [_He is led away._ _Pro._ Attest it, earth and heaven! My son is guiltless! Hear it, Sicily! The blood of Procida is noble still! My son! He lives, he lives! His voice shall speak Forgiveness to his sire! His name shall cast Its brightness o’er my soul! _Gui._ O day of joy! The brother of my heart is worthy still The lofty name he bears! Anselmo _enters_. _Pro._ Anselmo, welcome! In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son Is guiltless. _Ans._ And victorious! By his arm All hath been rescued. _Pro._ How!--the unknown---- _Ans._ Was he! Thy noble Raimond!--by Vittoria’s hand Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour When all was flight and terror. _Pro._ Now my cup Of joy too brightly mantles! Let me press My warrior to a father’s heart--and die; For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not? Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy! _Ans._ Temper this proud delight. _Pro._ What means that look? He hath not fallen? _Ans._ He lives. _Pro._ Away, away! Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour Atone for all his wrongs! [_Exeunt._ Scene VII.--_Garden of a Convent._ Raimond _is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants_. _Raim._ Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die In the bright face of nature! Lift my helm, That I may look on heaven. _1st Att._ (_to 2d Attendant._) Lay him to rest On this green sunny bank, and I will call Some holy sister to his aid; but thou Return unto the field, for high-born men There need the peasant’s aid. [_Exit 2d Attendant._ (_To Raim._) Here gentle hands Shall tend thee, warrior; for, in these retreats, _They_ dwell, whose vows devote them to the care Of all that suffer. May’st thou live to bless them! [_Exit 1st Attendant._ _Raim._ Thus have I wish’d to die! ’Twas a proud strife! My father bless’d th’ unknown who rescued him, (Bless’d him, alas, because unknown!) and Guido, Beside him bravely struggling, call’d aloud, “Noble Sicilian, on!” Oh! had they deem’d ’Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn’d Mine aid, though ’twas deliverance; and their looks Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one, Whose eye ne’er turn’d on mine but its blue light Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, might the soul, Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish! --Is’t not her voice? Constance _enters speaking to a Nun, who turns into another path_. _Con._ Oh, happy they, kind sister! Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall With brave men side by side, when the roused heart Beats proudly to the last! There are high souls Whose hope was such a death, and ’tis denied! [_She approaches_ Raimond. Young warrior, is there aught----_Thou_ here, my Raimond! _Thou_ here--and thus! Oh! is this joy or woe? _Raim._ Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love! E’en on the grave’s dim verge. Yes! it _is_ joy! My Constance! victors have been crown’d ere now, With the green shining laurel, when their brows Wore death’s own impress--and it may be thus E’en yet, with me! They freed me, when the foe Had half prevail’d, and I have proudly earn’d, With my heart’s dearest blood, the meed to die Within thine arms. _Con._ Oh! speak not thus--to die! These wounds may yet be closed. [_She attempts to bind his wounds._ Look on me, love! Why, there is _more_ than life in thy glad mien-- ’Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye Breaks e’en unwonted light, whose ardent ray Seems born to be immortal! _Raim._ ’Tis e’en so! The parting soul doth gather all her fires Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams, And burning aspirations, to illume The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path Which lies before her; and encircled thus, Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares Are vain, and yet I bless them. _Con._ Say not vain; The dying look not thus. We shall not part! _Raim._ I have seen death ere now, and known him wear Full many a changeful aspect. _Con._ Oh! but none Radiant as thine, my warrior! Thou wilt live! Look round thee! all is sunshine. Is not this A smiling world? _Raim._ Ay, gentlest love! a world Of joyous beauty and magnificence, Almost too fair to leave! Yet must we tame Our ardent hearts to this! Oh, weep thou not! There is no home for liberty, or love, Beneath these festal skies! Be not deceived; My way lies far beyond! I shall be soon That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, Forgets not how to love! _Con._ And must this be? Heaven, thou art merciful!--Oh! bid our souls Depart together! _Raim._ Constance! there is strength Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved Nobly, for me: arouse it once again! Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet That which approaches, as a brave man yields With proud submission to a mightier foe. --It is upon me now! _Con._ I will be calm. Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is A world (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there I shall be with thee soon! Procida _and_ Anselmo _enter_. Procida, _on seeing_ Raimond, _starts back_. _Ans._ Lift up thy head, Brave youth, excitingly! for lo! thine hour Of glory comes! Oh! doth it come too late? E’en now the false Alberti hath confess’d That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom’d To be th’ atonement. _Raim._ ’Tis enough! Rejoice, Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name O’er which thou may’st weep proudly! [_He sinks back._ To thy breast Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart Hath touch’d my veins. _Con._ And must thou leave me, Raimond? Alas! thine eye grows dim--its wandering glance Is full of dreams. _Raim._ Haste, haste, and tell my father I was no traitor! _Pro._ (_rushing forward._) To thy father’s heart Return, forgiving all thy wrongs--return! Speak to me, Raimond!--thou wert ever kind, And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee My lips e’er ask’d.--Speak to me once, my boy, My pride, my hope! And it is with thee thus? Look on me yet!--Oh! must this woe be borne? _Raim._ Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet For a crown’d conqueror!--Hark! the trumpet’s voice! [_A sound of triumphant music is heard gradually approaching._ Is’t not a thrilling call? What drowsy spell Benumbs me thus?--Hence! I am free again! Now swell your festal strains--the field is won! Sing to me glorious dreams. [_He dies._ _Ans._ The strife is past; There fled a noble spirit! _Con._ Hush! he sleeps-- Disturb him not! _Ans._ Alas! this is no sleep From which the eye doth radiantly unclose: Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o’er! [_The music continues approaching._ Guido _enters with Citizens and Soldiers_. _Gui._ The shrines are deck’d, the festive torches blaze-- Where is our brave deliverer? We are come To crown Palermo’s victor! _Ans._ Ye come too late. The voice of human praise doth send no echo Into the world of spirits. [_The music ceases._ _Pro._ (_after a pause._) Is this dust I look on--Raimond? ’Tis but a sleep!--a smile On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake! Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day! My son, my injured son! _Con._ (_starting._) Art _thou_ his father! I know thee now.--Hence! with thy dark stern eye And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now! Away! he will not answer but to me-- For none like me hath loved him! He is mine! Ye shall not rend him from me. _Pro._ Oh! he _knew_ Thy love, poor maid! Shrink from me now no more! He knew _thy_ heart--but who shall tell him now The depth, th’ intenseness, and the agony, Of my suppress’d affection? I have learn’d All his high worth in time to deck his grave. Is there not power in the strong spirit’s woe To force an answer from the viewless world Of the departed? Raimond!--speak!--forgive! Raimond! my victor, my deliverer! hear! --Why, what a world is this! Truth ever bursts On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns Th’ unconscious dead. There comes an hour to break The mightiest hearts!--My son! my son! is this A day of triumph! Ay, for thee alone! [_He throws himself upon the body of_ Raimond. _Curtain falls._ ANNOTATIONS ON THE “VESPERS OF PALERMO.” “_The Vespers of Palermo_ was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue: and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy. “It may not be so generally remembered, that the same historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of finished elegance.”--Professor Norton _in North American Review_, 1827. * * * * * It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, that Mrs Hemans composed _The Vespers of Palermo_, and that the MS. was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covent Garden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its fate were removed, and the result was as follows. In giving it here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are carried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the pale of our literary chronology:-- “After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties,” writes her sister, “the fate of the tragedy, so long in abeyance, was now drawing to a crisis. Every thing connected with its approaching representation was calculated to raise the highest hopes of success. ‘All is going on,’ writes Mrs Hemans on the 27th November, ‘as well as I could possibly desire. Only a short time will yet elapse before the ordeal is over. I received a message yesterday from Mr Kemble, informing me of the unanimous opinion of the green room conclave in favour of the piece, and exhorting me to “be of good courage.” Murray has given me two hundred guineas for the copyright of the “tragedy, drama, poem, composition, or book,” as it is called in the articles which I signed yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of _Procida_--why or wherefore I know not; and out of several others which I proposed to them, _The Vespers of Palermo_ has been finally chosen.’ “Under these apparently favourable auspices, the piece was produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr Young, Mr C. Kemble, Mr Yates, Mrs Bartley, and Miss F. H. Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news of its reception could reach St Asaph. Not only Mrs Hemans’s own family, but all her more immediate friends and neighbours, were wrought up to a pitch of intense expectation. Various newspapers were ordered expressly for the occasion, and the post-office was besieged at twelve o’clock at night, by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager to be the first heralds of the triumph so undoubtingly anticipated. The boys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable state of excitement, and were all lying awake ‘to hear about mamma’s play;’ and perhaps her bitterest moment of mortification was, when she went up to their bedsides, which she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the ground, and that the performance had ended in all but a failure. The reports in the newspapers were strangely contradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly illiberal: but all which were written in anything like an unbiassed tone, concurred entirely with the private accounts, not merely of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers, in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency of the actress who personated Constance, and who absolutely seemed to be under the influence of some infatuating spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on scenes the most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all, _dying gratuitously_ at the close of the piece. The acting of Young and Kemble in the two Procidi, was universally pronounced to have been beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions showed a determination to do all possible justice to the author. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, applause decidedly predominated: still the marks of disapprobation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the part of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. Mrs Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh experiment should be made. ‘Mr Kemble,’ writes she to a friend, ‘will not hear of _The Vespers_ being driven off the stage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is now unwell, shall be sufficiently recovered to learn her part; but I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fiery ordeal through which I have passed, from such another trial. Mr Kemble attributes the failure, without the slightest hesitation, to what he delicately calls “a singularity of intonation in one of the actresses.” I have also heard from Mr Milman, Mr J. T. Coleridge, and several others, with whom there is but one opinion as to the cause of the disaster.’ “Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or with greater readiness to turn for consolation to the kindness and sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. It would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mr Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment. ‘Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823. “‘My dear Sir,--It is difficult to part with the hopes of three years, without some painful feelings; but your kind letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to describe. I will not say that it revives my hopes of success, because I think it better that I should fix my mind to prevent those hopes from gaining any ascendency; but it sets in so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointment has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends from whom I have heard on this occasion, express but one opinion. As to Miss Kelly’s acting, and its fatal effect on the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will be impossible to counteract the unfavourable impression which this must have produced, and I almost wish, as far as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt may not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on the subject. I have not heard from Mr Kemble; but I have written both to him and to Mr Young, to express my grateful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the piece. As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by the extreme severity with which I have been treated in the morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am sure I should not have attached the slightest value to their praise; but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement for my temerity--for a female who shrinks from such things has certainly no business to write tragedies. “‘For your support and assistance, as well as that of my other friends, I cannot be too grateful; nor can I ever consider any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given me the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the recollection of so much long-tried kindness.--Ever believe me, my dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged “‘F. Hemans.’ “Notwithstanding the determination of the managers again to bring forward _The Vespers_, a sort of fatality seemed to attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continually arising to prevent the luckless Constance from obtaining an efficient representative on the London stage. Under these circumstances, Mr Kemble at length confessed that he could not recommend the reproduction of the piece; and Mrs Hemans acquiesced in the decision, with feelings which partook rather of relief than of disappointment. She never ceased to speak in the warmest terms of Mr Kemble’s liberal and gentlemanly conduct, both before and after the appearance of the piece, and of his surpassing exertions at the time of its representation. “It was with no small degree of surprise that, in the course of the following February, she learned, through the medium of a letter from Mrs Joanna Baillie,[192] that the tragedy was shortly to be represented at the Edinburgh theatre--Mrs Henry Siddons undertaking the part of Constance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and the following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one of the zealous friends who had been instrumental in this arrangement, will prove how well their kindly intentions were fulfilled: “‘The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our most sanguine expectations, and was announced for repetition on Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The actors seem to have done wonders, and every one appeared to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own exertions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger Procida. The first recognition between father and son, was acted by them to such perfection, that one of the most hearty and unanimous plaudits followed that ever was heard. “‘Every reappearance of the gentle Constance won the spectators more and more. The scene in the judgment-hall carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handkerchiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs Siddons’s searching the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as if to find Raimond’s father was to save him, was perfect. She flew round the circle--went, as if distracted, close up to judge after judge--paused before Procida, and fell prostrate at his feet. The effect was magical, and was manifested by three repeated bursts of applause.’ “A neatly turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though not declared, to be the production of Sir Walter Scott, was recited by Mrs H. Siddons. When deference to a _female_ was there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause ensued; but when generosity to a _stranger_ was bespoken, the house absolutely rang with huzzas.” “‘I knew how much you would rejoice,’ wrote Mrs Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ‘in the issue of my Edinburgh trial; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and I think, amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckon a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it has put me in possession. I had written to thank him for the kindness he had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an answer; but it came, and you would be delighted with its frank and unaffected kindliness. He acknowledges the epilogue, “stuffed,” as he says it was, “with parish jokes, and bad puns;” and courteously says, that his country folks have done more credit to themselves than to me, by their reception of _The Vespers_.’ “To another uncompromising champion she wrote:--‘I must beg you will “bear our faculties meekly:” you really seem to be rather in an intoxicated state; and if we indulge ourselves in this way, I am afraid we shall have something to sober us. I dare say I must expect some sharp criticism from Edinburgh ere all this is over; but any thing which deserves the name of _criticism_ I can bear. I believe I could point out more faults in _The Vespers_ myself than any one has done yet.’”--_Memoir_, pp. 69-76. [192] Though Mrs Hemans had never the advantage of being personally known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional interchange of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up between them, was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges she possessed. It was always delightful to her when she could love the character, as well as admire the talents, of a celebrated author; and never, surely, was there an example better fitted to call forth the willing tribute of veneration, both towards the woman and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs Baillie, Mrs Hemans thus apologised for indulging in a strain of egotism, which the nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify,--“The kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over all your writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend.” It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how graciously that “kindly warmth of heart” would be extended to those of her children, who are more fortunate than herself, in enjoying the personal intercourse she would have prized so highly. STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD. “Among many nations was there no King like him.”--Nehemiah. “Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?”--Samuel. Another warning sound! The funeral bell, Startling the cities of the isle once more With measured tones of melancholy swell, Strikes on th’ awaken’d heart from shore to shore. He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, The chambers of our palaces hath trod; And the long-suffering spirit of the just, Pure from its ruins, hath return’d to God! Yet may not England o’er her father weep: Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep. Vain voice of Reason, hush!--they yet must flow, The unrestrain’d, involuntary tears; A thousand feelings sanctify the woe, Roused by the glorious shades of vanish’d years. Tell us no more ’tis not the time for grief, Now that the exile of the soul is past, And Death, blest messenger of heaven’s relief, Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last; For him, eternity hath tenfold day: We feel, we know, ’tis thus--yet nature will have way. What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, Sadd’ning the scene where once it nobly reign’d, A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, Stamp’d with its fiery record, he remain’d; Around that shatter’d tree still fondly clung Th’ undying tendrils of our love, which drew Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung Luxuriant thence, to Glory’s ruin true; While England hung her trophies on the stem, That desolately stood, unconscious e’en of them. Of _them_ unconscious! Oh, mysterious doom! Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies? His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb, The realm’s high soul to loftiest energies! His was the spirit o’er the isles which threw The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought In every bosom, powerful to renew Each dying spark of pure and generous thought; The star of tempests! beaming on the mast,[193] The seaman’s torch of Hope, midst perils deepening fast. Then from th’ unslumbering influence of his worth, Strength, as of inspiration, fill’d the land; A young but quenchless flame went brightly forth, Kindled by him--who saw it not expand! Such was the will of heaven. The gifted seer, Who with his God had communed, face to face, And from the house of bondage and of fear, In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race; He through the desert and the waste their guide, Saw dimly from afar the promised land--and died. O full of days and virtues! on thy head Centred the woes of many a bitter lot; Fathers have sorrow’d o’er their beauteous dead, Eyes, quench’d in night, the sunbeam have forgot; Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years, And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length; But Pain for thee had fill’d a cup of tears, Where every anguish mingled all its strength; By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, And shadows deep around fell from th’ Eternal’s hand. Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied; But what to _thee_ the splendour of its beams? The ice-rock glows not midst the summer’s pride! Nations leap’d up to joy--as streams that burst, At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain, And o’er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed, Roll in exulting melody again; And bright o’er earth the long majestic line Of England’s triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts--but thine. Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil That o’er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee, When sceptred chieftains throng’d with palms to hail The crowning isle, th’ anointed of the sea! Within thy palaces the lords of earth Met to rejoice--rich pageants glitter’d by, And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, The old magnificence of chivalry. They reach’d not thee--amidst them, yet alone, Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne. Yet there was mercy still! If joy no more Within that blasted circle might intrude, Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass o’er The silent limits of its solitude! If all unheard the bridal song awoke Our hearts’ full echoes, as it swell’d on high; Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke On the glad strain, with dread solemnity! If the land’s rose unheeded wore its bloom, Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb. And she who, tried through all the stormy past-- Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour-- Watch’d o’er thee, firm and faithful to the last, Sustain’d, inspired, by strong affection’s power; If to thy soul her voice no music bore-- If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught No light from looks, that fondly would explore Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought; Oh! thou wert spared the pang, that would have thrill’d Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still’d. Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood’s prime, Youth with its glory--in its fulness, age-- All, at the gates of their eternal clime Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage; The land wore ashes for its perish’d flowers, The grave’s imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers, The one that wept not in the tearful isle! As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain, Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain. And who can tell what visions might be thine? The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure! Still o’er that wave the stars of heaven might shine Where earthly image would no more endure! Though many a step, of once familiar sound, Came as a stranger’s o’er thy closing ear, And voices breathed forgotten tones around, Which that paternal heart once thrill’d to hear: The mind hath senses of its own, and powers To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours. Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known Be dark or wild, creations of remorse; Unstain’d by thee, the blameless past had thrown No fearful shadows o’er the future’s course: For thee no cloud, from memory’s dread abyss, Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant’s eye; And, closing up each avenue of bliss, Murmur their summons, to “despair and die!” No! e’en though joy depart, though reason cease, Still virtue’s ruin’d home is redolent of peace. They might be with thee still--the loved, the tried, The fair, the lost--they might be with thee still! More softly seen, in radiance purified From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill. Long after earth received them, and the note Of the last requiem o’er their dust was pour’d, As passing sunbeams o’er thy soul might float Those forms, from us withdrawn--to thee restored! Spirits of holiness, in light reveal’d, To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal’d. Came they with tidings from the worlds above, Those viewless regions where the weary rest? Sever’d from earth, estranged from mortal love, Was thy mysterious converse with the blest? Or shone their visionary presence bright With human beauty?--did their smiles renew Those days of sacred and serene delight, When fairest beings in thy pathway grew? Oh! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne’er forsakes. These may be fantasies--and this alone, Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure; That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, Rest, in thy God immortally secure! Enough for tranquil faith; released from all The woes that graved heaven’s lessons on thy brow, No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall, Haply thine eye is on thy people now; Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief’s tribute to the dead. But if th’ ascending, disembodied mind, Borne on the wings of morning to the skies, May cast one glance of tenderness behind On scenes once hallow’d by its mortal ties, How much hast thou to gaze on! All that lay By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal’d-- The might, the majesty, the proud array Of England’s march o’er many a noble field-- All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, Shine like some glorious land view’d from an Alpine height. Away, presumptuous thought! Departed saint! To thy freed vision what can earth display Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint, Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? Oh! pale and weak the sun’s reflected rays, E’en in their fervour of meridian heat, To him who in the sanctuary may gaze On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat! And thou may’st view, from thy divine abode, The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. And yet we mourn thee! Yes, thy place is void Within our hearts! there veil’d thine image dwelt, But cherish’d still; and o’er that tie destroy’d, Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt. Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, Thousands were born, who now in dust repose; And many a head, with years and sorrows gray, Wore youth’s bright tresses when thy star arose; And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, Hath fill’d our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn. Earthquakes have rock’d the nations: things revered, Th’ ancestral fabrics of the world, went down In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear’d His lonely pyramid of dread renown. But when the fires that long had slumber’d, pent Deep in men’s bosoms, with volcanic force, Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, And swept each holy barrier from their course, Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood, Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood. Be they eternal!--be thy children found Still to their country’s altars true like thee! And while “the name of Briton” is a sound Of rallying music to the brave and free, With the high feelings at the word which swell, To make the breast a shrine for Freedom’s flame, Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so well, Who left so pure, its heritage of fame! Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror’s dust, Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just. All else shall pass away!--the thrones of kings, The very traces of their _tombs_ depart; But number not with perishable things The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, Heir-looms from race to race! And oh! in days When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, When our sons learn “as household words” thy praise, Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest! And many a name of that imperial line, Father and patriot! blend, in England’s songs, with thine! [193] The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a ship during tempests; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.--See Dampier’s _Voyages_. [“The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty: unlike courtly themes in general, this is one of the deepest and most lasting interest. Buried as the King had long been in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joys of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, or the piercing sorrow which we have felt on some other public losses; but the heart must be cold indeed that could, on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of that venerable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a more than common sympathy. There was something in his character so truly national--his very errors were of so amiable a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his nature was so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his splendid court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a husband, so good a father, so safe an example--he so thoroughly understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects--and, with all this, the sorrows from heaven rained down upon his head in so ‘pitiless and pelting a storm:’ all these--his high qualities and unparalleled sufferings--form such a subject for poetry, as nothing, we should imagine, but its difficulty and the expectation attending it, would prevent from being seized upon by the greatest poets of the day. We will not say that Mrs Hemans has filled the whole canvass as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the subject; it is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads us up through all the dismal colourings of the foreground to that bright and consoling prospect which should close every Christian’s reflections on such a matter. An analysis of so short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we have already transgressed our limits; we will, therefore, give but one extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our readers:-- ‘Yet was there mercy still! If joy no more,’ etc. “It is time to close this article.[194] Our readers will have seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much interested by our subject. Who or what Mrs Hemans is, we know not: we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity-- ----‘Tristia vitæ Solatur cantu,’---- If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she seems, from the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, or even the ‘sacred muse’ herself can impart. Still there is a pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even to a wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned; and such fame as may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow. In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later poems are of higher promise, they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic.”--_Quarterly Review_, vol. xxiv.] [194] This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished Editor, William Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,”--“Tales and Historic Scenes in Verse,”--“Translations from Camoens,” etc.,--“The Sceptic,” and “Stanzas to the Memory of the late King.” TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. SECOND SERIES. [After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under the same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author’s literary progress, we have ventured not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, “for uniformity’s sake.” THE MAREMMA. [“Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words:-- Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma, Salsi colui che inanellata pria Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’” Purgatorio, cant. v. --_Edinburgh Review_, No. lvii.] There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse, Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, And nature lavishes her warmest hues; But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath-- Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death! He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws; His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose; And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh But woo thee still to slumber and to die. Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there, Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, But stealing o’er thee in the scented air, And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; How may we deem, amidst their deep array, That heaven and earth but flatter to betray? Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be That these but charm us with destructive wiles? Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in _thee_ Danger is mask’d in beauty--death in smiles? Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore, Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore! There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds, Gay with the riches of the south, in vain; O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone, Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone; And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities. Wild visions!--there no sylvan powers convene: Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene. Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear Traces of mightier beings on your brow, O’er you that subtle spirit of the air Extends the desert of his empire now; Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home. Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot Hath fond affection wept--each blighted flower In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot. But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe, Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls, Is floating joyous on the summer air; And there are banquets in her stately halls, And graceful revels of the gay and fair, And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d, Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid. To that young bride each grace hath Nature given Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven-- Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye; Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195] But is she blest?--for sometimes o’er her smile A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast; And in her liquid glance there seems awhile To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past; Yet soon it flies--a cloud that leaves no trace, On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place. Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise Remembrance of some early love or woe, Faded, yet scarce forgotten--in her eyes Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow, Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth. The world before her smiles--its changeful gaze She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise Is still the joyous herald of her way; And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw O’er every scene its own resplendent glow. Such is the young Bianca--graced with all That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give; Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive; And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought. And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith Is brave and noble--child of high descent, He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument; And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s[196] way Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array. And his the chivalrous commanding mien, Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace; Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face, And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye-- But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die. And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse; And veil the workings of each darker feeling, Deep in his soul concentrating its force; But yet he loves--Oh! who hath loved, nor known Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own? The days roll on--and still Bianca’s lot Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream; And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear, It sheds but grace more intellectual there. A few short years, and all is changed; her fate Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast. Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate, The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d? Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom. Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene, Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, And view that bright intelligence of mien Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign? --How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again? In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze. Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild, Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, Then turns away, and fixes on her child So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined. There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore, Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er, And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood, Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. Fair is that house of solitude--and fair The green Maremma, far around it spread, A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed, No human footstep tracks the lone domain, The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. And silent are the marble halls that rise ’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves: All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies, And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; Yet every trace of man reveals alone, That there life once hath flourish’d--and is gone. There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, The summer air, deceit in every sigh, Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by; And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, While his dark spirit seals their doom--to die; And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part. It is the summer’s glorious prime--and blending Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, That lovely shore of solitude and light. Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. Yes! ’tis _thy_ tomb, Bianca! fairest flower! The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power, Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale; And fatal in its softness, day by day, Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. But sink not yet; for there are darker woes, Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading-- Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading! Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot: ’Tis agony--but soon to be forgot! What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death? To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last! Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head; And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, And watch his patient, supplicating eye Fix’d upon thee--on thee!--who couldst no aid supply! There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh, And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow, Came like some spirit whispering--“He must die!” And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast, His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest. ’Tis past--that fearful trial!--he is gone! But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep; The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on, And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep. A few short sufferings yet--and death shall be As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. But ask not--hope not--one relenting thought From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay; And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace. And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel--and thy tomb, A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting. Lift thy meek eyes to heaven--for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone: Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own! It is our task to suffer--and our fate To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. The season’s glory fades--the vintage lay Through joyous Italy resounds no more; But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away, Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store. Beauty and youth are gone--behold them such As death hath made them with his blighting touch! The summer’s breath came o’er them--and they died! Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride, But bore to them their summons from the earth! Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, And wake to life and light all flowers--but these. No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave; But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave-- Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb! [195] An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of his wife Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitation of nature ever exhibited in painting. [196] A sort of consecrated war-chariot. A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. [The Secret Tribunal,[197] which attained such formidable power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions of the _Sages_ or _Seers_ (as they called themselves) were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at length successful. The following account of this extraordinary association is given by Madame de Staël:--“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre, toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible terreur.”--_L’Allemagne_, vol. ii.] [197] See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer. Night veil’d the mountains of the vine, And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar, Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans Gave answer with a thousand tones: Then, as the voice of storms appall’d The peasant of the Odenwald,[198] Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high, ’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, Riding the blast with phantom speed, With cry of hound and tramp of steed, While his fierce train, as on they flew, Their horns in savage chorus blew, Till rock, and tower, and convent round, Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest’s might, That fill’d the echoing earth and sky With its own awful harmony. There stood a lone and ruin’d fane, Far in the Odenwald’s domain, Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown, The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone, The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest boughs and the stormy sky Were all that minster’s canopy. Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O’er trophies of the long-departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise: ’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had pass’d. --So slept the proud, and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carved by some forgotten hand. But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious--lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade; Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme, All that high deeds could win from time! What footsteps move, with measured tread, Amid those chambers of the dead? What silent, shadowy beings glide Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, Peopling the wild and solemn scene With forms well suited to its mien? Wanderer, away! let none intrude On their mysterious solitude! Lo! these are they, that awful band, The secret Watchers of the land, They that, unknown and uncontroll’d, Their dark and dread tribunal hold. They meet not in the monarch’s dome, They meet not in the chieftain’s home; But where, unbounded o’er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where’er the pathless forest waves, Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; Where’er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot, There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light; And guilt, that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chill’d its heart, For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand Rests dark and heavy on the land. There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom, And woke the echoes of the tomb, As if the noble hearts beneath Sent forth deep answers to its breath. “When the midnight stars are burning, And the dead to earth returning; When the spirits of the blest Rise upon the good man’s rest; When each whisper of the gale Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; In the shadow of the hour That o’er the soul hath deepest power, Why thus meet we, but to call For judgment on the criminal? Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, And point th’ avenger’s holy steel? A fearful oath has bound our souls, A fearful power our arm controls! There is an ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die; There is an eye whose beam pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades: That ear hath heard our awful vow, That searching eye is on us now! Let him whose heart is unprofaned, Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d-- Let him, whose thoughts no record keep Of crimes in silence buried deep, Here, in the face of heaven, accuse The guilty whom its wrath pursues!” ’Twas hush’d--that voice of thrilling sound! And a dead silence reign’d around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form Tower’d like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With its dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone; Then on the fearful stillness broke Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke: “Before that eye whose glance pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades; Heard by that ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die-- With all a mortal’s awe I stand, Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. To heaven I lift that hand, and call For judgment on the criminal; The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues-- It cries for vengeance. I accuse!” “Name thou the guilty! say for whom Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom! “Albert of Lindheim--to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother’s blood--his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d What years in darkness had conceal’d, But all in vain--the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers shall know The earthquake was but hush’d below! --Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay, Their trophies moulder fast away, Around us and beneath us lie The relics of his ancestry-- The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race, Each in his last low dwelling-place. But one is absent--o’er _his_ grave The palmy shades of Syria wave; Far distant from his native Rhine, He died unmourn’d, in Palestine! The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, To perish by a brother’s hand! Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed, Though all he loved his name forget, _They_ live who shall avenge him yet!” “Accuser! how to thee alone Became the fearful secret known?” “There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deed-- When earthly fears had lost their power Reveal’d the tale in such an hour, Unfolding, with his latest breath, All that gave keener pangs to death.” “By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been, And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored, And by th’ avenger’s holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?” --“The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast; If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!” Then sternly rose the dread reply-- “His days are number’d--he must die! There is no shadow of the night So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste But there his footsteps shall be traced; Devotion hath no shrine so blest That there in safety he may rest. Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare! In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crown’d, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is prest, And a dream his spirit’s guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart! One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided,--he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift, and free, To wreak th’ invisible’s decree. ’Tis pass’d--th’ avenger claims his prey: On to the chase of death--away!” And all was still. The sweeping blast Caught not a whisper as it pass’d; The shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest waved immense In dark and lone magnificence. In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed The song was hush’d, the bard reposed; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle’s lord retired to rest. To rest! The captive doom’d to die May slumber, when his hour is nigh; The seaman, when the billows foam, Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home; The warrior, on the battle’s eve, May win from care a short reprieve: But earth and heaven alike deny Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye; And night, that brings to grief a calm, To toil a pause, to pain a balm, Hath spells terrific in her course, Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse-- Voices, that long from earth had fled, And steps and echoes from the dead; And many a dream whose forms arise Like a darker world’s realities! Call them not vain illusions--born, But for the wise and brave to scorn! Heaven, that the penal doom defers, Hath yet its thousand ministers, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating in one brief hour Ages of retribution’s power! --If thou wouldst know the lot of those, Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard’s nectar flows: There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide. Heed not those signs! they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude! The song is hush’d, the feast is done, And Lindheim’s lord remains alone-- Alone in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear, --There needs not an avenger here! Behold him!--Why that sudden start? Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh, Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep--but thee. No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries--“Despair!” And he who trembles fain would deem ’Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this? Again, ’tis there: Again is heard--“Despair! Despair!” ’Tis past--its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. He knew their fearful meaning well, And shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay, When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day; And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire. Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o’er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright, The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o’er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy! Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before! Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying! E’en thus--a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow’d, Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,-- Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried, Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman’s heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy’s full cup is mantling high, When flattery’s blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call--and grief alone May make the soul’s deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood; Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d, Her spirit glow’d on battle-field; Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom The captive brooding o’er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant’s fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there! Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born! Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride-- Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays. He came--that youthful chief,--he came That favour’d lord of love and fame! His step was hurried--as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express’d The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious--doubt, and dread, And a stem grief, might there be read: Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien Seem’d struggling to be still unseen. --With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem’d to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d? A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled--ne’er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne’er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent’s tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The deathlike faintness of suspense. High o’er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O’er that imperial river’s way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry. But they, o’er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed!--for Ella’s heart Fear’d its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride, Seem’d gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale, that must be told. At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d, As thus he spoke--“Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee, if I linger here! Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile’s lot?” “Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear--yet _these_ are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where’er thou art, _There_ is the country of my heart! Yet is there one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eyes, in Nature’s last repose; Eve gathers round him--on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire;-- Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all--thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far--oh! doubt not this-- Would share _thy_ pangs, than others’ bliss!” “Ella, what wouldst thou?--’tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told--prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I--oh, was it then for _me_ The herald of thy woes to be! Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!--I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better ’twere mine--that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. “Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy? Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree ’Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of power O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower? Thy sire--oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom, And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb! Yes, weep!--relieve thy heart oppress’d, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold--thy tearless eye Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus!--thy silence break: Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!” She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: --“_He_ doom’d to perish! _he_ decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! _He_, the renown’d in holy fight, The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might! Ulric! what mean’st thou?--not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! ’tis not _his_ lofty name Their sentence hath consign’d to shame-- ’Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!” Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: “And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love,” she cries, “By all my soul hath fix’d on thee, Of cherish’d hope for years to be, Wilt _thou_ not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his gray head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, _Thou_ wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! --Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?” “Maiden, need’st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This--_this_ is anguish! Can it be! And plead’st thou for my sire to _me_? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight--and live! Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o’er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering--I am one! _My_ arm defend him! What were _then_ Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d By rites that may not be reveal’d? --A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me--I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think’st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father’s life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?” But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy’s last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part! ’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive--too dear as still thou art-- Each hope they imaged;--we must part! One struggle yet--and all is o’er: We love--and may we meet no more! Oh! little know’st thou of the power Affection lends in danger’s hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father’s side! Speed thou to other shores--I go To share his wanderings and his woe. Where’er his path of thorns may lead, Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed, If there be guardian powers above To nerve the heart of filial love, If courage may be won by prayer, Or strength by duty--I can bear! Farewell!--though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed--yet, farewell! Was _this_ the maid who seem’d, erewhile, Born but to meet life’s vernal smile? A being, almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring? A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this-- Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But, as a sunbeam, on to move, Wakening all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance--could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown; Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left. But what were these? on that young face, Far nobler beauty fill’d their place! ’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds: _Her_ mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fix’d in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. ’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree’s tender form, Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. One look she cast, where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimm’d the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still her heart, She turn’d in silence to depart. But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought: “Stay thee! oh, stay!--It must not be-- All, all were well resign’d for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone! If there be guilt--there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine: _There_ be my crime absolved--I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Of _shame_!--oh no! to virtue true, Where _thou_ art, there is glory too! Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart, And thou a home! Remain, or flee, In life, in death--I follow thee!” “There shall not rest one cloud of shame, O Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith be heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won: Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there! Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire’s majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace! Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; E’en I unshrinking see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when have warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? ’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force To cope with all things--but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Closed be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!” --And thus they parted. Why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted--in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the fair cells of every breast. Who hath not known, who shall not know, That keen yet most familiar woe? Where’er affection’s home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer hour, The canker-worm of every flower. “Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, That mortal agony of love? The autumn moon slept bright and still On fading wood and purple hill; The vintager had hush’d his lay, The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day, And silence, o’er each green recess, Brooded in misty sultriness. But soon a low and measured sound Broke on the deep repose around; From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar Bade the stream ripple to the shore. Sweet was that sound of waves which parted The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide, And brightly flow’d the reckless tide, Though, mingling with its current, fell The last warm tears of love’s farewell. [198] The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoining the territories of Darmstadt. PART II. Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, Their pillar’d walks and dim arcades, With all the thousand flowers that blow, A waste of loveliness, below. To him whose soul the world would fly, For nature’s lonely majesty: To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, To lover, lost in fairy dreams, To hermit, whose prophetic thought By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, And, in the visions of his rest, Held bright communion with the blest: ’Tis sweet, but solemn! There alike Silence and sound with awe can strike. The deep Eolian murmur made By sighing breeze and rustling shade, And cavern’d fountain gushing nigh, And wild-bee’s plaintive lullaby: Or the dead stillness of the bowers, When dark the summer-tempest lowers; When silent nature seems to wait The gathering thunder’s voice of fate; When the aspen scarcely waves in air, And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare-- Each, each alike is awful there, And thrills the soul with feelings high, As some majestic harmony. But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced Each green retreat in breathless haste-- Young Ella--linger’d not to hear The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear. The shivering leaf, the breeze’s play, The fountain’s gush, the wild-bird’s lay-- These charm not now; her sire she sought, With trembling frame, with anxious thought, And, starting if a forest deer But moved the rustling branches near, First felt that innocence may fear. She reach’d a lone and shadowy dell, Where the free sunbeam never fell; ’Twas twilight there at summer noon, Deep night beneath the harvest moon, And scarce might one bright star be seen Gleaming the tangled boughs between; For many a giant rock around Dark in terrific grandeur frown’d, And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, Shut out each glimpse of the blessèd sky. There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, Ne’er to heaven’s beam one sparkle gave, And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, Caught not from day one glowing hue. ’Twas said, some fearful deed untold Had stain’d that scene in days of old; Tradition o’er the haunt had thrown A shade yet deeper than its own; And still, amidst th’ umbrageous gloom, Perchance above some victim’s tomb, O’ergrown with ivy and with moss, There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, Which, haply, silent record bore Of guilt and penitence of yore. Who by that holy sign was kneeling, With brow unutter’d pangs revealing, Hands clasp’d convulsively in prayer, And lifted eyes and streaming hair, And cheek, all pale as marble mould, Seen by the moonbeam’s radiance cold? Was it some image of despair Still fix’d that stamp of woe to bear? --Oh! ne’er could Art her forms have wrought To speak such agonies of thought! Those deathlike features gave to view A mortal’s pangs too deep and true! Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, As Ella’s hurried step drew nigh; He turn’d, with aspect darkly wild, Trembling he stood--before his child! On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, And to her father’s bosom clung. “Away! what seek’st thou here?” he cried, “Art thou not now thine Ulric’s bride? Hence, leave me--leave me to await, In solitude, the storm of Fate; Thou know’st not what my doom may be, Ere evening comes in peace to thee.” “My father! shall the joyous throng Swell high for me the bridal song? Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, The festal garland bind my head, And thou in grief, in peril, roam, And make the wilderness thy home? No! I am here with thee to share All suffering mortal strength may bear; And, oh! whate’er thy foes decree, In life, in death, in chains, or free-- Well, well I feel, in thee secure; Thy heart and hand alike are pure!” Then was there meaning in his look, Which deep that trusting spirit shook; So wildly did each glance express The strife of shame and bitterness,-- As thus he spoke: “Fond dreams, oh hence! Is this the mien of Innocence? This furrow’d brow, this restless eye-- Read thou this fearful tale, and fly! Is it enough? or must I seek For _words_, the tale of guilt to speak? Then be it so--I will not doom Thy youth to wither in its bloom; I will not see thy tender frame Bow’d to the earth with fear and shame. No! though I teach thee to abhor The sire so fondly loved before; Though the dread effort rend my breast, Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest! Oh! bitter penance! thou wilt turn Away in horror and in scorn; Thy looks, that still through all the past Affection’s gentlest beams have cast, As lightning on my heart will fall, And I must mark and bear it all! Yet though of life’s best ties bereaved, Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived! “I linger--let me speed the tale Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. Why should I falter thus to tell What heaven so long hath known too well? Yes! though from mortal sight conceal’d, _There_ hath a brother’s blood appeal’d! He died--’twas not where banners wave, And war-steeds trample on the brave; He died--it was in Holy Land-- Yet fell he not by Paynim hand; He sleeps not with his sires at rest, With trophied shield and knightly crest; Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, --But I can tell thee where he lies! It was a wild and savage spot, But once beheld--and ne’er forgot! I see it now--that haunted scene My spirit’s dwelling still hath been; And he is there--I see him laid Beneath that palm-tree’s lonely shade. The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh Bears witness with its crimson dye! I see th’ accusing glance he raised, Ere that dim eye by death was glazed; --Ne’er will that parting look forgive! I still behold it--and I live! I live! from hope, from mercy driven, A mark for all the shafts of heaven! “Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won My birth-right; and my child, my son, Heir to high name, high fortune born, Was doom’d to penury and scorn, An alien midst his fathers’ halls, An exile from his native walls. Could I bear this? The rankling thought, Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought; Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, Lurk’d in my infant’s rosy smile, And when his accents lisp’d my name, They woke my inmost heart to flame! I struggled--are there evil powers That claim their own ascendant hours? --Oh! what should thine unspotted soul Or know or fear of _their_ control? Why on the fearful conflict dwell? Vainly I struggled, and I fell-- Cast down from every hope of bliss-- Too well thou know’st to what abyss! “’Twas done!--that moment hurried by To darken all eternity. Years roll’d away, long evil years, Of woes, of fetters, and of fears; Nor aught but vain remorse I gain’d By the deep guilt my soul which stain’d. For, long a captive in the lands Where Arabs tread their burning sands, The haunted midnight of the mind Was round me while in chains I pined, By all forgotten, save by one Dread presence--which I could not shun. --How oft, when o’er the silent waste Nor path nor landmark might be traced, When slumbering by the watch-fire’s ray, The Wanderers of the Desert lay, And stars, as o’er an ocean shone, Vigil I kept--but not alone! That form, that image, from the dead, Still walk’d the wild with soundless tread! I’ve seen it in the fiery blast, I’ve seen it where the sand-storms pass’d; Beside the Desert’s fount it stood, Tinging the clear cold wave with blood; And e’en when viewless, by the fear Curdling my veins, I knew ’twas near! --_Was_ near!--I feel th’ unearthly thrill, Its power is on my spirit still! A mystic influence, undefined, The spell, the shadow of my mind! “Wilt thou yet linger? Time speeds on; One last farewell, and then begone! Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, And let me read thine aspect _now_! No! stay thee yet, and learn the meed Heaven’s justice to my crime decreed. Slow came the day that broke my chain, But I at length was free again; And freedom brings a burst of joy, E’en guilt itself can scarce destroy. I thought upon my own fair towers, My native Rhine’s gay vineyard bowers, And in a father’s visions, press’d Thee and thy brother to my breast. --’Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet Recall the moment when we met? Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, Thy arms around me fondly clung; Scarce aught than infant seraph less Seem’d thy pure childhood’s loveliness. But he was gone--that son for whom I rush’d on guilt’s eternal doom; He for whose sake alone were given My peace on earth, my hope in heaven-- He met me not. A ruthless band, Whose name with terror fill’d the land, Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild Had reft the father of his child. Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, Full on that cherish’d scion burst. Unknown his fate.--No parent nigh, My boy! my first-born! didst thou die? Or did they spare thee for a life Of shame, of rapine, and of strife? Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, A wanderer lost, without a guide? Oh! to thy fate’s mysterious gloom Blest were the darkness of the tomb! “Ella! ’tis done--my guilty heart Before thee all unveil’d--depart! Few pangs ’twill cost thee now to fly From one so stain’d, so lost as I; Yet peace to thine untainted breast, E’en though it hate me!--be thou blest! Farewell! thou shalt not linger here-- E’en now th’ avenger may be near: Where’er I turn, the foe, the snare, The dagger, may be ambush’d there; One hour--and haply all is o’er, And we must meet on earth no more. No, nor beyond!--to those pure skies Where thou shalt be, I may not rise; Heaven’s will for ever parts our lot, Yet, oh! my child! abhor me not! Speak once! to soothe this broken heart, Speak to me once! and then depart!” But still--as if each pulse were dead, Mute--as the power of speech were fled, Pale--as if life-blood ceased to warm The marble beauty of her form; On the dark rock she lean’d her head, That seem’d as there ’twere riveted, And dropt the hands, till then which press’d Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. There beam’d no tear-drop in her eye, And from her lip there breathed no sigh, And on her brow no trace there dwelt That told she suffer’d or she felt. All that once glow’d, or smiled, or beam’d, Now fix’d, and quench’d, and frozen seem’d; And long her sire, in wild dismay, Deem’d her pure spirit pass’d away. But life return’d. O’er that cold frame One deep convulsive shudder came; And a faint light her eye relumed, And sad resolve her mien assumed. But there was horror in the gaze, Which yet to his she dared not raise; And her sad accents, wild and low, As rising from a depth of woe, At first with hurried trembling broke, But gather’d firmness as she spoke. --“I leave thee not--whate’er betide, My footsteps shall not quit thy side; Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, But yet thou art my father still! And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed, For some kind spirit, tenfold need, To speak of heaven’s absolving love, And waft desponding thought above. Is there not power in mercy’s wave The blood-stain from thy soul to lave? Is there not balm to heal despair, In tears, in penitence, in prayer? My father! kneel at His pure shrine Who died to expiate guilt like thine, Weep--and my tears with thine shall blend, Pray--while my prayers with thine ascend, And, as our mingling sorrows rise, Heaven will relent, though earth despise!” “My child, my child! these bursting tears, The first mine eyes have shed for years, Though deepest conflicts they express, Yet flow not all in bitterness! Oh! thou hast bid a wither’d heart From desolation’s slumber start; Thy voice of pity and of love Seems o’er its icy depths to move E’en as a breeze of health, which brings Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. And there is mercy yet! I feel Its influence o’er my spirit steal; How welcome were each pang below, If guilt might be atoned by woe! Think’st thou I yet may be forgiven? Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven? Oh! if it yet avail to plead, If judgment be not yet decreed, Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, Till pardon shall be seal’d on high! Yet, yet I shrink!--Will Mercy shed Her dews upon this fallen head? --Kneel, Ella, kneel! till full and free Descend forgiveness, won by thee!” They knelt--before the Cross, that sign Of love eternal and divine; That symbol, which so long hath stood A rock of strength, on time’s dark flood, Clasp’d by despairing hands, and laved By the warm tears of nations saved. In one deep prayer their spirits blent, The guilty and the innocent; Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, Age, soil’d with every stain of earth, Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, One sacrifice of agony. --Oh! blest, though bitter be their source-- Though dark the fountain of remorse, Blest are the tears which pour from thence, Th’ atoning stream of penitence! And let not pity check the tide By which the heart is purified; Let not vain comfort turn its course, Or timid love repress its force! Go! bind the flood, whose waves expand, To bear luxuriance o’er the land; Forbid the life-restoring rains To fall on Afric’s burning plains; Close up the fount that gush’d to cheer The pilgrim o’er the waste who trode; But check thou not one holy tear Which Penitence devotes to God! Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne’er Was roused by huntsman’s bugle there-- So rude, that scarce might human eye Sustain their dread sublimity-- So awful, that the timid swain, Nurtured amidst their dark domain, Had peopled with unearthly forms Their mists, their forests, and their storms,-- She, whose blue eye of laughing light Once made each festal scene more bright; Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, By torrent wave and mountain brow, Is wandering as an outcast now, To share with Lindheim’s fallen chief His shame, his terror, and his grief. Hast thou not mark’d the ruin’s flower, That blooms in solitary grace, And, faithful to its mouldering tower, Waves in the banner’s place? From those gray haunts renown hath pass’d, Time wins his heritage at last; The day of glory hath gone by, With all its pomp and minstrelsy: Yet still the flower of golden hues There loves its fragrance to diffuse, To fallen and forsaken things With constancy unalter’d clings, And, smiling o’er the wreck of state, With beauty clothes the desolate. --E’en such was she, the fair-hair’d maid, In all her light of youth array’d, Forsaking every joy below To soothe a guilty parent’s woe, And clinging thus, in beauty’s prime, To the dark ruin made by crime. Oh! ne’er did heaven’s propitious eyes Smile on a purer sacrifice; Ne’er did young love, at duty’s shrine, More nobly brighter hopes resign! O’er her own pangs she brooded not, Nor sank beneath her bitter lot; No! that pure spirit’s lofty worth Still rose more buoyantly from earth, And drew from an eternal source Its gentle, yet triumphant force: Roused by affliction’s chastening might To energies more calmly bright, Like the wild harp of airy sigh, Woke by the storm to harmony! He that in mountain-holds hath sought A refuge for unconquer’d thought, A charter’d home, where Freedom’s child Might rear her altars in the wild, And fix her quenchless torch on high, A beacon for Eternity; Or they, whose martyr spirits wage Proud war with Persecution’s rage, And to the deserts bear the faith That bids them smile on chains and death; Well may _they_ draw, from all around, Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, From the deep power of earth and sky, Wild nature’s might of majesty, Strong energies, immortal fires, High hopes, magnificent desires! But dark, terrific, and austere, To _him_ doth nature’s mien appear, Who midst her wilds would seek repose From guilty pangs and vengeful foes! For him the wind hath music dread, A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead; The forest’s whisper breathes a tone Appalling, as from worlds unknown; The mystic gloom of wood and cave Is fill’d with shadow’s of the grave; In noon’s deep calm the sunbeams dart A blaze that seems to search his heart; The pure, eternal stars of night Upbraid him with their silent light; And the dread spirit, which pervades And hallows earth’s most lonely shades, In every scene, in every hour, Surrounds him with chastising power-- With nameless fear his soul to thrill, Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still! ’Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, And the leaves fell thick o’er the wanderers’ way; The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, Foretold the tempest gathering round; And the skirts of the western clouds were spread With a tinge of wild and stormy red, That seem’d, through the twilight forest bowers Like the glare of a city’s blazing towers. But they, who far from cities fled, And shrunk from the print of human tread, Had reach’d a desert scene unknown, So strangely wild, so deeply lone, That a nameless feeling, unconfess’d And undefined, their souls oppress’d. Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl’d, Lay like the ruins of a world, Left by an earthquake’s final throes In deep and desolate repose-- Things of eternity whose forms Bore record of ten thousand storms! While, rearing its colossal crest In sullen grandeur o’er the rest, One, like a pillar, vast and rude, Stood monarch of the solitude. Perchance by Roman conqueror’s hand Th’ enduring monument was plann’d; Or Odin’s sons, in days gone by, Had shaped its rough immensity, To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, A temple meet for rites of blood. But they were gone, who might have told That secret of the times of old; And there, in silent scorn it frown’d, O’er all its vast coevals round. Darkly those giant masses lower’d, Countless and motionless they tower’d; No wild-flower o’er their summits hung, No fountain from their caverns sprung; Yet ever on the wanderers’ ear Murmur’d a sound of waters near, With music deep of lulling falls, And louder gush, at intervals. Unknown its source--nor spring nor stream Caught the red sunset’s lingering gleam, But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, Arose that mystic voice of waves.[199] Yet bosom’d midst that savage scene, One chosen spot of gentler mien Gave promise to the pilgrim’s eye Of shelter from the tempest nigh. Glad sight! the ivied cross it bore, The sculptured saint that crown’d its door: Less welcome now were monarch’s dome, Than that low cell, some hermit’s home. Thither the outcasts bent their way, By the last lingering gleam of day; When from a cavern’d rock, which cast Deep shadows o’er them as they pass’d, A form, a warrior form of might, As from earth’s bosom, sprang to sight. His port was lofty--yet the heart Shrunk from him with recoiling start; His mien was youthful--yet his face Had nought of youth’s ingenuous grace; Nor chivalrous nor tender thought Its traces on his brow had wrought Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, But calm and cold severity, A spirit haughtily austere, Stranger to pity as to fear. It seem’d as pride had thrown a veil O’er that dark brow and visage pale, Leaving the searcher nought to guess, All was so fix’d and pa