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Full text of "The poetical works of Felicia Hemans : complete, with a critical preface"

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, 
&- 



. OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



FELICIA HEMANS, 



COMPLETE, 



WITH A CRITICAL PREFACE, 



NEW YORK: 

AMERICAN BOOK EXCHANGE, 

764 BROADWAY. 
1881. 



PEE FAC E. 



Ir has Vs*n oid by a fine writer, that, 
although gwiius is the heir of fame, the loss 
of life is the uundition on which the bright 
reversion mum. be earned ; that fame is the 
recompense hot. of the living, but of the 
dead, its ten^pie standing over the grave, 
and the flame or its altar kindled from the 
ashes of the great. There is truth in the 
thought, as well as beauty in the expression 
of it, though, like most general remarks of 
the same description, it is open to both quali- 
fication and exception. It is true that fame 
is not popularity merely. It is not the shout 
of the multitude. It is not ' the idle buzz 
of fashion, the venal puff, the soothing flat- 
tery of fa7^ur or of friendship.' But is it 
alone, on the other hand, the spirit of a man 
surviving himself, as Hazlitt describes it, in 
the minds and thoughts of other men ? Or, 
as he splendidly represents it again, is it 
only ' the sound which the stream of high 
thoughts, carried down to future ages, makes 
as it flows deep, distant, murmuring ever- 
more like the waters of the mighty ocean?' 
This is fame, indeed. No reputation can be 
called such, that will not endure that test 
But may it not begin also in the life of him 
that earns it ? May it not begin, and con- 
tinue, coincident with the mere popularity 
which is so often mistaken for itself, as the 
immortal soul disdains not the envelope of 
perishing humanity, which it is destined so 
soon to leave, and to outlive so long ? May 
not the spirit of a man transfuse its influence 
into the spirits of other men, without the 
mythological transmigration which, accord- 
ing to this theory, death implies ; and the 
force of that influence be felt, and recognized, 
and acknowledged, imperfectly and tardily 
we admit that it generally is, ere yet the 



' swift decay' of him that so works tor the 
world, and for posterity, shall quite relcam 
him from his toils? It is truly a wee v 
life' 

" A wasting task, and lone" 
as that of the diver, in Eastern Seas, for tr 
gem that, gleam as it may, 'a star to all a* 
festive hall', 

"Not one 'midst throngs will say, 
' A life has been, like a rain-drop, shed. 
For that pale quivering ray ' "* 

A weary life ! And who will think, the 
mournful fancy adds, 

" When the strain is sung, 
Till a thousand hearts are slirr'd. 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung. 
Have gush'd with every word 7" 

" None ! none ! his treasures live like thine, 

fie strives and dies like thee, 
Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea !" 

And this also is doubtless true, that, 
weary and wasting as it is, this diving for 
the gems of thought, the world, that is to 
wear the rich results, does not and cannot 
appreciate, or but slowly and slightly at the 
best, the exhausting effort which it costs 
That can be understood only by him who 
suffers it, and it is the province of the one 
party even to enjoy ' the price of the bitter 
tears' of the other. But it is enjoyed ; and 
that is fame. It is the influence of mind 
upon mind, independently of every personal 
consideration ; and that is fame, however 
much those considerations, or some of them, 
were they known and felt, as they cannot be, 
might add to the interest of that influence, 
and even to its force. 

The best confirmation, melancholy though 
it be, of the truth of these remarks, is fur- 



Mn. Hemans'a i><e* 



PREFACE. 



rushed by the case of the gifted, accomplish 
ed, and amiable writer whose beautiful illus- 
tration of her own career not to call it a 
prediction of her own destiny we have 
borrowed, and whose works are now for the 
first time gathered together, in the following 
pages, we trust with something like a com- 
pleteness corresponding to the exertion which 
has been made by the Publisher, as well as 
to the merit and charm of the works them- 
selves. The mere popularity of these 
poems, their cotemporaneous notoriety, 
and especially as indicated by the notice of the 
periodical press, has been perhaps entirely 
unexampled in the history of literature of 
this description. Such at least was the re- 
putation of the larger portion of them, all 
her later productions included ; for it is true, 
as critics have remarked, that not only the 
debut which she made in a juvenile volume, 
at Liverpool, while yet in her childhood, (a 
collection of little effusions written between 
the ages of eight and thirteen, to which she, 
who had the right of decision, did not her- 
self subsequently choose to give a place 
among her mature 'works',) but even the 
much more elaborate compositions of many 
succeeding years, including the Restoration 
of the Works of Art to Italy, (published in 
1817,) and other poems studded as richly 
with brilliant passages, did not have the ef- 
fect to establish her reputation. In fact, the 
Records of Woman, which appeared only 
some eight years since, may be considered 
aa having fairly laid its foundations. From 
that time, however, as we have said, the fa- 
vour her poems met with was unexampled 
But who will pretend that it was no more 
than * favour ;' that it was but a transient air 
of popular whim which sustained them, but 
gave no test nor pledge of an inherent and 
enduring buoyancy ? Who will deny that 
Mrs. Hemans has enjoyed or, if we use 
the term which is applicable to the personal 
effort and effect, that she has suffered, in 
her own life-time, a true fame, even the 
truest, dearest, best, of all its species, though 
only as the dim beginning of the brightness 
which awaits her name ? Even the extra- 
ordinary newspaper popularity (so to speak) 
of her later writings, is itself an indication, 
cm the whole, of the fact It shows the feel- 
ing of the people, which dictates the fashion 
of the press ; and although there are many 
of the works of genius which may largely 
attract the attention and admiration of the 



world, for a time, and for various and obvious 
reasons, without leaving their mark on tho 
minds or hearts of men, others there are, 
possessed of a vital spirit, that, once ap- 
predated, they will not ' willingly let die. 
The notoriety of such an auth j, as an 
author, is equivalent to his fame. It is aa 
true of virtue, especially, as of vice, that it 
' needs but to be seen ;' and although thai 
conventional corporation which has the 
name of 'the public,' merely, are not seldom 
deceived by false pretences, and dazzled by 
brilliant shows, the world at large is wiser 
than the public, (as much as it is wiser than 
any individual,) and will see. It will feel, 
too ; and acknowledge what it feels. It will 
acknowledge it, not in the columns of the 
newspapers, to be sure, alone though these 
certainly have their part to play but as 
Scott's was acknowledged, when a traveller 
states that he found, in the remotest regions 
of Hungary, a volume of one of his delight- 
ful romances in a peasant's cabin ; as Thom- 
son's was, when a shabby, soiled copy of ' The 
Seasons* was noticed, by a man of genius, 
lying on the table of an obscure ale-house, 
in England. That,' said he, ' is true 
r ame !' And it was, and is so. Such is the 
feme of the Vicar of Wakefield, and John 
Gilpin, and the Pilgrim, and poor Robinson 
Crusoe, and the Cotter's Saturday Night 
It is seen not in the diamond editions that 
glitter on the centre-tables of genteel society, 
or crowd, with everything else, the biblio- 
pole's multifarious collections of rarities; but 
the ragged volumes of every circulating li- 
brary, grown old and illegible before their 
time by dint of reading and the thumb- 
ed copies that lie on the window-ledge of 
the poor man's cottage, with the leaves turn- 
ed down by the good woman to ' keep the 
place* and the song, or the ode, which the 
milk-maid trolls on the hill-side, or a band 
of freemen (like the descendants of the Ply- 
mouth Pilgrims) adopt for the festal com- 
memoration of their fathers glory, those 
are the quick pulses that prove the existence 
of an author in his fame. Su>.., nas been 
already the success of Mrs. Hcinans She 
addressed herself not to passion, or fashion, 
or the public, or any class of the community 
or country she lived in, but to human beings, 
as such, to their hearts, a? well as their 
heads with truth's transparent and glowing 1 
passport in her hand ; and it was an intro- 
duction that never yet failed to be effectual, 



PREFACE. 



nor ever will. Fashion will pass away, and 
passion subside in satiety ; and the frivolous 
industry that ministered to the gratification 
of the one, and the false excitement that led 
the other to its own destruction, will be de- 
spised first, and then forgotten ; but man re- 
mains the same, from first to last ; and truth, 
which also remains, is mighty, and, worthily 
interpreted, must prevail. How long it may 
be in making its way, depends upon the cir- 
cumstances of each particular case. It may 
address the head, or the heart, or both. It 
may be more or less a matter of necessity, 
or of luxury alone. It may be left to the 
recommendation only of its own modest 
merit, or be drawn into notice by fortunate 
crises, or casual accompaniments, well adapt- 
ed to excite a seasonable sympathy as it were 
at the mere sight of its features, or the sound 
of its name, while its absolute character is 
yet unknown. Meanwhile 

" The soul whence these high gifts are shed, 
May faint in solitude," 

exhausted by these same efforts, or borne 
down by circumstances which have little or 
no connexion with them ; or it may thrive 
as the young tree that leans over running 
waters, and grow stronger as it gives more 
fruit, till it lives to feel, in the airs that reach 
it from many a far-off shore, the joy of its 
own blossomy breath returned to it, and to 
hear the blessing of the poor pilgrim who 
has paused in the dust of the way-side of a 
weary life, and the school-girl's glee, and 
the child's murmur of sweet delight, as they 
turn down from the heat of the day, to be 
refreshed and rejoice together in the gloom 
of its green repose. 

So, we say, has it been already, and so, 
we venture to predict, it will be still, with 
much of the poetry of Mrs. Hemans. She 
strove to be the worthy interpreter of worthy 
truth, deeply concerning the happiness of her 
race ; and the vital spirit of virtue has in- 
spired her to be equal to the task. This is 
her praise ; and it is praise enough ; not 
that she has spent her strength in the rearing 
of dazzling fabrics of fancy, as brilliant and 
as useless us the ice-palaces of the northern 
Queen ; not that she has chosen to indulge 
the impulse of a wayward temperament in 
the reckless expression of feeling without 
principle, and of sentiment without point ; 
not that she has dealt only in the cold oracles 
of a selfish philosophy, more thoughtful of 
truth, and of proof, than of the use of either 



in the wants of the world ; not that she has 
indulged unholy passion in her own breast, 
or the breast of any living creature ; nol 
that she has dared to exaggerate, that at all 
events she might astonish, or deigned to be 
mean, in the miserable hope of amusing 
No ! She has neither failed to feel the high 
dignity of her profession, nor forgotten to 
observe it. She has made no vain displa 
of genius faithless to its trust. She has cul 
tivated self as the means, not consulted it as 
the end. She has been ambitious less tc 
gain honour, than to give pleasure, and do 
good. She has not assumed to assert what 
is doubtful, or to deny what is not. She has 
not dogmatized, criticized, or theorized. 
She has not speculated. She has not trifled 
She has not flattered, nor inflamed. But she 
did strive to ennoble virtue ; to encourage ex- 
ertion ; to sustain hope ; to increase the happi- 
ness of men, by increasing their capacity to be 
happy, and developing their taste for what is 
deserving of pursu it. She strove, in a word, as 
we began with saying, to be the worthy inter- 
preter of worthy truth. And she was so. 

This, we say, is her praise ; and it is the 
greater for its rarity. There has been too 
much among us of extravagant excitement, 
even from the master-minds of the times, 
as if there were no way of avoiding the cold 
gorgeousness of the mere phantasmagoria 
of fancy, or the idle insipidity of a soulless 
sentimentalism, or any other of the deficient 
styles of the day, but by rushing headlong 
to the opposite extreme. Mrs. Hemans has 
taken the reasonable medium, which her na- 
tive sense and sensibility alike approved. 
She has shown us that nature alone is strange 
enough, and strong enough, for all the pur 
poses of interest and instruction which po- 
etry demands : and that its true office is not 
to distort, but to describe ; not to magnify, 
but to simplify ; to do justice, strictly, to di- 
vinity, and to humanity, and to the universe 
around us, not by assuming to paint them 
as they should be, but by faithfully labouring 
to interpret them as they are. 

No Delphic frenzy could aid in the dis- 
charge of such a service ; it would have 
made it, as in so many other cases, (not 
heathen,) it has done, a worse than worth- 
less labour. She wanted the powers of per- 
ception, and reflection, to appreciate the 
world without, and the world within; and 
these she had, and did ; but not as if to 
know, and to think, only, were the life of 

VOL. L-3 



PREFACE. 



the soul. She wanted sensibility, the more 
exq aisite the better, and the more cultivated 
with all the faculties in due proportion, the 
better, ' for what is it to live, if it be not 
to love ?' * She wanted to be ready to feel, 
as only the good can do, ' at the sight of 
whatei er is excellent, an emotion like that 
which the sweet remembrance of infancy 
causes ;' an instinct to recognize the face 
of the beautiful, wherever it may be, and to 
rush, as it were, into its arms, as the Syrian 
pilgrim,t from all his wanderings returned 
to his mother's home again, into hers. She 
wanted enthusiasm even, in the exercise of 
these capacities, enthusiasm to make the 
exercise a delight, and to inspire her to com- 
municate to other bosoms the rejoicing of 
her own. But with all these, which she had, 
she needed no morbid disorder. She had 
none. She knew that " we preserve this 
precious faculty of the heart" even this 
'only in proportion as we cultivate truth, 
and guard against the exaggerated, affected, 
or factitious.' She kept herself calm even 
for the purpose of feeling of feeling right- 
ly as much as of seeing clearly, knowing 
also it is a fruitless torture we choose to suf- 
fer, 'to force ourselves to be false to ourselves, 
and to everything, that we may learn how 
to be true :' that the mind may faithfully 
mirror, only in a state of composure, the im- 
pressions which meet it ; that the knowledge, 
the knowledge of all nature, and especially 
of his own, which the poet pursues, flees 
from the rushing footstep of passion, even as 
the haste of tiie hunter startles his game- 
' And why, after all,' the philosopher we 
have cited so often, inquires, ' why should 
we be disturbed ? What should we gain by 
so much toil '! Why do we not allow our- 
selves time to breathe ? The good we fol- 
low' and this is as true in poetry, as in 
philosophy ' is nearer to the soul than we 
think ; it would come to MS, if we only con- 
tented to be calm.' 1 

This calmness it is, which eminently cha- 
racterizes the poetry of Mrs. Heman^, and 
which most distinguishes it from the revo- 
lutionary poetry of the revolutionary age we 
live in. It is a self-possession which never 
forsakes her in the heat of her highest enthu- 
siasm of joy or sorrow. There is a divine 
dignity, unsurpassed even by the grandeur 
of Milton, in the rapture of an admiration 



' Degerando. 



t The Crusader's Return. 



that seems almost to lift her in her song, M 
upon angels' pinions, 

" To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, or lyre-note soft and slow :"* 

and again, in the darkest mood of the ' ten- 
der gloom' which beautifully tinges the 
whole surface of her works, (like the dim 
religious light of an ancient forest, or of one 
of her own lonely fanes 

"A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast,)" 
there is yet a more than wakeful, a cheerful, 
an inextinguishably cheerful spirit, an 
immortal hope, 'a calmness of the just,' 
as manifest and as majestic in herself as in 
her own ' Alvar's glorious mien,' t and 
making its voice heard hi the midst of its 
sorrow, like the martyr's 

" Sweet and solemn-breathing strain. 
Piercing the flames, untremulous and clear." 

We have called it the vital spirit of virtue 
which sustains her. Let us say, in her own 
language, again, 

" It is a tearful, yet a glorious thing, 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from the unsounded gulfs of human woe ! 
Alvar! Theresa ! What is deep 7 what strong? 
God's breath within the soul!" 
For such an exhaustless reservoir of re- 
sources, after all, is the secret of her inspi- 
ration. And this, too, is the inspiration of 
truth, deep-seated, but calm, as a lake of the 
hills, in the sun-bright silence of the breast. 
This, then, we regard as the principle of 
the poetry of Mrs. Hemaris, its truth. It im- 
plies much, in detail. It implies perception, 
imagination, sensibility, self-control, and 
control over language; and truth, and taste, 
in all; for there is need t.> km,\v, Vel, reason, 
conceive, and describe, and ;.ll in their due 
proportion and sens.m ; in ntiu-r words, as 
truth requires, since to .eel too much 'frT 
example) is of course as false to Nature as 
to feel too little, or not at all ; and as regards 
the party to whom poetry is addressed, to 
be unable to command the means of convey- 
ing what is felt, by suitable language, is the 
same, so far as the deficiency exists, as if 
there were nothing to l>e ronveyed, and nc 
effort made to do it. 

This characteristic implies, then, that 
what is attempted, is done. It does not im- 
ply, necessarily, the highest order of genius, 
in the popular sense of the term, or, not to 
settle the precedence of the diversities of 
genius, it does not imply every kind of it 



* League of the Alps 



t p oret Sanctuary. 



PREFACE. 



In the Evening Prayer at a Girls' School, 
Mrs. Heinans may have exquisitely succeed- 
ed in doing justice to the trutli of a beauti- 
ful subject (as we think she has) without 
evincing (as we think she has not) the uni- 
versal power of Shakspeare to identify him. 
self, intuitively, as it has been described 
vith every character which he wished to re- 
wesent, " and to pass from one to another 
ike the same soul successively animating 
iitfbrent bodies." This may be necessary 
to a perfect dramatic talent, but not to every 
species of composition ; the writer himself, 
whose splendid sketch we refer to, admits 
that even the universality of his genius 
was ' perhaps a disadvantage to his single 
works? the variety of his resources some- 
times diverting him from applying them to 
the most effectual purpose. 

Mrs. Hemans did not attempt everything, 
though her range certainly was wide enough 
to content the mere ambition of most authors. 
Nor did she equally succeed in everything 
she did undertake, especially in the earlier 
part of her career, while it remained yet to 
be decided by trial, to her own satisfaction, 
what she was best qualified to do. It is one 
of the traits she most deserves to be praised 
for, that she has not attempted some things, 
as much as that she succeeded so eminently 
in others. It were far better for the world, 
as well as for those who write for it, if they 
would exercise a good deal more of the mind 
they do possess, in the shape of a sound 
judgment and a nice tact, to determine what 
they cannot accomplish, and what they 
should not attempt. There would be far more 
work done, and far worthier of being done, 
and better done ; and far fewer of those 
abortive abuses which consist in the jug- 
gling torture, and end often in the sacrifice, 
of real poetical power, with only the reward 
of the open-mouthed gaze of the moh, up- 
turned for a moment, who are silly enough 
to surround the stage which it plays its 
pranks on. There is no necessity of parti- 
cularizing those portions of the works of our 
authoress, in which she has succeeded best, 
or least, upon this principle of following her 
bent Suffice it to say that she made it a 
study at the expense of experience, of 
course - a serious and conscientious study ; 
and thai she finally devoted herself, for the 
most part, with a sgacity and a self-dcniaj 
equally worthy of all admiration, to the de- 
partment she found herself to be fitted for. 



Thus, too, did she follow out the principle 
of her genius, its truth. She was true to 
herself, as well as to nature ; true to her own 
nature, we should rather say ; and because 
she was so, in no small degree it is, that she 
achieved, in those departments, a success 
unrivalled in the history of the literature to 
which we allude. 

It might be expected that poetry to which 
these remarks were applicable, should be 
strongly distinguished by its simplicity ; and 
it is so. Truth is always simple, as every 
species of affectation necessarily is other- 
wise, and stands directly in its light. These j 
compositions are as simple as they are calm ', 
and serene. They will please therefore, it 
least, when they do not surprise ; nay, in 
the midst of all the whirl and turmoil of the 
machinery of the poetry-factory of these 
days, they will surprise, even, by their serene 
simplicity. They did so, especially at their 
first appearance ; and it is only because Mrs. 
Hemans herself has accustomed the public 
to this rarest of the novelties, that the im- 
pression of its charm may have been in any 
degree even transiently disparaged, as by 
the charge, for example, of monotony. An 
accomplished writer, to whom we are proba- 
bly more indebted in this country, than to any 
other individual, next to the authoress her 
self, for the early acquaintance we have made 
with her poems, has well illustrated her mer- 
it in this respect, as compared with the noisy 
and difficult jargon of many who have gone 
before her, by reference to the anecdote of 
Napoleon's coronation, as emperor, in the 
cathedral of Notre Dame. The fondness 
of the French for parade and effect, is well 
known, and this was the most brilliant era 
of the great man's career. The Parisians, 
to astonish everybody, filled the orchestra 
with eighty harps, which were struck toge- 
ther with unequalled skill. 'The whole 
world* was delighted. But presently enter- 
ed the Pope. A few of his singers, who 
came with him from Rome, received him 
with the Tu s Petrus of Scarlatti. Not an 
instrument was heard ; there were no fash- 
ionable flourishes ; but the simple majesty 
of the old-fashioned air, ' annihilated at 
once the whole effect of the preceding fan- 
faronade.'* We have had a liberal allow- 
ance of instrumental in tlie poetry of our 



* Nnrth Americnn Ri'viexv. for April, 1827. We need 
rearccly say, that allusion in made above to the editor 
of tl- TiciHtmi eclniui) of thu KurliiT Pacing of Mrs. He 
mans. 



PREFACE. 



times ; and the Voice of Spring is worth 
the whole of it What a strength is in its 
simplicity ! What power from lips that 
seem to tremble, as 

" They strive to epeak, 
Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm !" 

So spake the Switzf' Wife, when the Spells 
of Home inspired her : 

"Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light. 

And took her fair child to her holy breast. 
And lifted her sort voice, that gather' d might 

As it found language : " Are we thus oppressed 7 
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod. 
And man must arm, and woman call on God !" 

" I know what thou wouldat do, and be it done , 
Thy soul is darken'd wilh its fears for me. 

Trust me to Heaven, my husband ! This, thy son. 
The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! 

And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 

May well give strength if aught be strong on earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills, thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, 

Tuke to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois-paths, and through the forest! go; 
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 

To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow. 
God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away ! 
Kless but thy child, and leave me, I can pray!" 
He pprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 

To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air: 
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears, breaking 

From his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, 
And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 
"That man for thee should gird himself to die." 

Here, it must be confessed, after all, is the 
forte of Mrs. Hemans, the fireside; and 
we come now to say, in a word, that we 
consider her not only, as the Edinburgh Re- 
view pronounced her some six years since, 
1 The most touching and accomplished writer 
of occasional verses that our literature has 
yet to boast o/,' splendid as that compli- 
ment is, but as the model, in every respect, 
of what a female writer of poetry should be. 
Her poetry, itself, is the model of female 
poetry, so to speak. It has not simply a 
negative merit, of course, though that in 
onr times is something to be distinguished 
by, if not to boast of; the merit of being 
free from the characteristic faults or foibles 
of men or women ; of being perfectly amia- 
ble as well as decorous, and meek and mod- 
est in all the fervour of its earnestness. 
This fervour itself, pure as it is, is an ex- 
quisite quality which belongs, in its true 
fineness, only to a woman's heart. Mrs. 
Hemans had a generous share of it in her 



f temperament ; and she has poured an 

! ed it out, strong and fresh as the rushing 

waters of her own 'streams and founts' of 

the Spring, when they burst 

" From their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves " 

What devotedness, what fearless, uncaU 
culating, uncompromising confidence, the 
confidence of the heart, of a woman's heart 
breathe, as with a living ardour of the 
warm lips themselves, in the agony of Inez at 
the Auto da Fe, when the ' breathless rider* 
found her by the gleam of the midnight fire, 

"And dash'd off fiercely those who camo to part. 
And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to his heart! 



And for a moment all around gave way 

To that full burst of pagsion ! on his breast. 

Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay. 

But blest in misery's very lap yet blest! 

Oh love, love, strong as death ! from such an hour 

Pressing out joy by thine immortal power. 

Holy and fervent love ! had earth but rest 

For thee and thine, this world were all too fair! 

How could we thence be wean'd to din without despair 1 
But she as falls a willow from the storm. 
O'er its own river streaming thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form 
And clasping tirms. PO passionately twined 
Around his neck with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold, 
As if naught earthly might th' embrace unbind ! 
Alas! a child's fond faith, believing still 

1U mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to kill ! 
What u picture is this ! How do we fee> 

that only one who has herself a heart, and 

such a heart, can render such justice to 

" The strife 

Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast!" 

flow do we seem to hear, as her hero ' woos 
her back to life,' in his frenzy, her 'soft 
ooice in his soul .'" How do we see, again, 

" Her large tears gush 

Like blood-drops from a victim ; with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour, 
9s if her life wouldmelt in that o'erswelling shower" 

Not an ' inalienable trust' is this, alone ; 
but what an exquisite tenderness is mingled 
with it ; and how does that trait pervade 
this poetry everywhere, till it must melt the 
manhood even of the ' stoics of the wooa,' 
the savages in sentiment, who would have 
been themselves ashamed forsooth ' to 
stain' their Indian page ' with grief.' Yet 
have they wept with the Bride of the Greek 
Isle, when leaving the vine at her father'! 
door, and the myrtle once called her own, 

" She turn'd and her mother's gaze brought b k 
Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 
Oh ! hush the song, and let her lean 
Flow to the dream of her early years! 
Holy and pure are the drops that fall 
Wher the young bride goes from her fathers' hiD 
Vol.. I_3 



PREFACE. 



Aie goes unto love yet untried and new. 

She parts from love which hath still been true ; 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring IB clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast. 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept yet laid her hand the while 

In his that waited her dawning smile, 

Her souTs affianced, nor cherish'd less 

Par the gvsK of nature's tenderness I" 

These, we say, are the fervour, and the 
trust, and the tenderness, of a woman's po- 
etry Shakspearc himself, perfect as even 
nis female characters are, as for as they are 
not female, but only human, -did not write 
thus, and could not, for though he was like 
all other men, excepting that he resembled 
nobody, as Hazlitt describes him, he was 
not like woman, and he could enter into the 
feeling of her character, the female feelingi 
m some respects perhaps but little better 
than Milton himself. It is no reproach to 
him that he could, not, any more than it is 
to Mrs. Hemans that she could not write like 
him. It may, however, occasion n dramatic 
deficiency, more or less perceptible to the 
reader, as he or she is possessed more or less 
of the quality itself in question, wherever 
the play moves over ground which does not 
belong to this genius of man: and hence 
Shakspeare appears best upon his own ground, 
and so far forth as he represents the influ- 
ence, rather than the absolute existence, of 
the other sex. And the same is true of her, 
and sfher heroes. If it be true to a greater 
extent, on one hand, she has gained and 
saved something, on the other, by the exer- 
cise, in this instance, again, of that excellent 
tact itself almost a characteristic of the sex 
which she has generally employed to so 
good purpose in the choice of subjects as 
well as of style, and not less in forbearance 
than in effort. She has avoided, almost en- 
tirely, mere masculine materiel, and has gra- 
dually abandoned even those topics of gene- 
ral interest, which do not actually require 
the exertion of her more peculiar power. If 
she leaves the fireside occasionally, she does 
not travel ir; male disguise, still less does 
she cease to be what she is. Her Household 
gods go with her wherever she goes, and 
the sound of their parting footsteps is audi- 
ble with her own. With the wreck and the 
treasures of the deep, 'mid gold and gems, 
and buried isles, and towers o'erthrown, we 
find 

" The lost and lovelr ! those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long !" 



She brings her 'flowers' for crowns to th 
early dead, and for 

" Brides to wear, 
They were born to blush in their shining hair!" 

She sends the Crusader to Syrian deserts, 
that he may find his way back again to 
'some fond mother's glance,' that 'o'er Aim, 
too, brooded in his early years.' She makes 
the conqueror in his sleep, 'a child again." 
The Traveller, at the source of the Nile, 
thinks of the wild sweet voices of the streams 

in 

"Haunts of play. 

Where brightly through the beechen shade. 
Their waters glanced away." 

Her trumpet sounds for the lover to quit his 
marriage altar, and 

"The mother on her first-born son, 
Looka with a boding eye ;" 

and it is still ' woman on the field of battle ' 
itself. She felt that here was her empire. 
She knew that it was the spells of home 
which inspired her, and she clung even to 
the forsaken hearth, and to the graves them- 
selves, of the household. The element of her 
poetry was the warm air of the fireside. 
The faith, the trust, the fear, the love, even 
the anguish, of a woman's heart, sustained 
her, and she revived with the 'taste of 
tears,'* and again, and again, while yet she 
weeps, like the Bride of the Isle, till her voice 
seems lost with the choking swell, sweeter 
and clearer than ever do 

" Her lovely thoughts from their cells find way. 
In the sudden flow of the plaintive lay." 

We say, then, the distinctive character of 
her poetry is female and in its being in 
that department just what it should be. It 
is all the records of woman ; all, the songs 
of the affections. It is the poetry of the 
household, the poetry of the heart. 

Nor let us, in this connexion, lose sight 
altogether of the aid she derived from her 
personal experience, her experience as a wife 
and a mother, and still more, the Jessons 
which circumstances, more individual, must 
have taught her. We will not go largely 
into these, but it is essential to a right appre- 
ciation of her poetical character, that as much 
of her history as a popular foreign writer 
has lately communicated, should be known.t 

* Forest Sanctuary. 

t " Felicia Dorothea Browne was born in Liverpool, 
in a small quaint-looking house in St. Anne s>reet, now 
standing, old fashioned and desolate, in the midst of the 
newer buildings by which it is surrounded. Our ab- 
staining from any attempt minutely to trace her history, 
requires no apology ; it is enough to say that when sh 



10 



PREFACE. 



They learn in suffering what they teach in 
eong,' was Shelley's maxim; and Mrs. He- 
mans did more '.lian to adopt it as a theme.* 
She lived it her Mfe long ; and, like her Va- 
lencian heroine, she took her toils nobly on 
her, knowing how 

'' Strength is born 

In the deep silence of long-suffering heart*. 
Not amidst joy;" 

though mourning, with the Sicilian, as she 

did, 

"That there should be 

Things, which we love with such deep tenderness, 
B it, through that love, to learn how much of woe 
L *ells in one hour like this." 

Yet loved she on, and learned on, till her 
jioetry has been imbued with such a spirit 
of the heart, as could seem only, like the dy- 
ing breath of the trampled violet, to have 
been crushed out of it in the act of its ex- 
tinction. There was no need of affectation. 
She had in herself, again, the truth. Siic 
looked in her heart, and wrote, f 

Much might be said of the perfect purity 
and dignity of the poetry of Mrs. Hcmans ; 
but these are inferable from the sketch we 
have given already, as general as it is. She 
has not been surpassed in these attributes by 
any writer of the severest school. It was 
the result with her, of an ambition of the 
highest order a deep religious principle no 
iiiMrr thun .VI i lion's 'to be raised from the 
heal of youth or the vapours of wine ;* * nor 
t< be obtained by the invocation of Dame 
Memory and her siren daughters ; but by 
devout prayer to that eternal Spirit who can 
enrich with all utterance and knowledge, 
and sends out his seraphim with the hallow- 
ed fire of his altar, to touch and purify the 
lips of whom he pleases.' To such a mind 
'here was a beauty in every thing which 
-Jod has created ; and although it was no 
3rror of hers, as it has been of so many be- 
fore her, to search out the materials of poetry 
with such microscopic eyes as to degrade its 
noble office describing the interior of a cot- 
tage, (as a witty critic remarked of Crabbe,) 

was very young, her family removed from Liveipool to 
the neighbourhood of St. Asaph, in North Wales; that 
he married at a very early age that her married life, 
after the birth of five sons, was clouded by the estrange- 
ment of her husband that, on the death of her mother, 
with whom she had resided, she broke up hei establish- 
ment in Wales, and removed to Wavertree, in the 
neighbourhood of Liverpool from whence, after n resi- 
dence of about three years, she again removed to Dub- 
in her last resting place." Jitkinawn. 

* See The Dioer. 

t Sir P : iilip Sydney 



like a person sent there to distrain for the 
lease, and recording a rent in a counterpane 
as an event in history none could be more 
alive than she was to the respectability, so 
to speak, of all that reason discovers and reli- 
ligion reveals, of the spiritual meanings of 
the universe around us, in the least as well 
as the grandest of its parts. She has told ui 
where we may trace these meanings in our 
daily paths. She had traced them herself. 
She had looked upon nature with eyes of 
love, that clothed it, in all its shapes, with the 
mind's mystery, like the ' faith, touching all 
things with hues of heaven.' No author has 
luxuriated in the beauties of the physical 
world with a keener relish than she has ; and 
none has come nearer to raising them as it 
were into life itself, by the connexion with 
the lessons of li r e which she gives them. 
There is no little genius to be exercised in 
prescrvi:ir the delicate relation between the 
dignity of humanity, of mind, time, eternity, 
virtue, truth, of God himself, the highest 
themes of song, in a word, on one hand, 
and that of the subordinate subject-matter, 
equally to be regarded in its way, on the 
other. This relation she has seen and re. 
^pected. All her imagery, borrowed from 
nature, rich as it is, is made, like oriental 
flowers, to mean something, and to utter it 
in a language of its own. It is a sort of 
trellice-work, for thought and affection to 
climb upon. The Palm Tree, for example, 
is laden, as it were, with a moral, as with 
clusters of golden grapes. 

In respect to the religious dignity which 
she attached to her profession, the late wri- 
ter in the Athenaeum, referred to above, 
quotes from a Icttei winch lay before him : 
1 1 have now,' she says, ' passed through the 
feverish and somewhat visionary state of 
mind often connected with the passionate 
study of art in early life ; deep affections and 
deep sorrows seem to have solemnized my 
whole being, and I now feel as if bound to 
higher and holier tasks, which, though I may 
occasionally lay aside, I could not long wan- 
der from without some sense of dereliction. 
I hope it is no self-delusion, but I cannot 
help sometimes feeling as if it were my tru 
task to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, 
and extend its influence. When you re- 
ceive my volume of ' Scenes and Hymns,' 
you will see what I mean by enlarging its 
sphere, though my plan as yet is very im 
perfectly developed.' How muct she ae 



PREFACE. 



11 



coinplished in this noblest sphere of her la- 
bours, will be seen in the following pages. 
How much remained to be done, which she 
might have accomplished, is a reflection that 
must add a new poignancy to the sorrow her 
death has occasioned 

She speaks here o f the passionate study of 
art in early life. And this is not the least 
of her merits, that she did study, early and 
late, her whole life long, making poetry, as 
it deserves, no less a subject of science than 
a gift of genius. She was above the misera- 
ble disparagement of labour, and learning, 
and practice, and the advice of the world. 
She profited continually by them all ; and 
the critics have in no respect rendered her 
fuller justice, than in noticing the astonish- 
ing progress indicated by her successive pro- 
ductions. There are embryo traces, indeed, 
of her peculiar mind, and particularly of her 
fervid temperament and rich imagination, 
even in the juvenile volume alluded to above 
and passages of the Sceptic are scarcely 
surpassed in strength by anything which 
has followed them but, in general, the con- 
tinuity of character, so to speak, from first 
to last, is little more than sufficient to show, 
at tiie same time with the identity of tho 
intellect, the wonder-working effect of what 
Milton calls ' industrious and select reading, 
steady observation, insight into all seemly 
and generous arts and affairs.' A glance at 
her i uitcs, mottoes, and translations alone, 
wi!l roiivry the notion of a learning in the 
lancruaovs which would seem to be result 
eii<>i!,T|i, in itself, for the toil of a life like 
hrr-j. Hence much of her glowing facility 
and felicity of language. Much of it, indeed, 
the unrivalled elegance, (for there is no- 
thing in English literature which exceeds 
her in this regard,) the exquisite grace, the 
indescribable tact of phraseology, these 
were original with her, and were especially 
among 1 thr> female traits of her genius. Even 
these, however, were improved with the 
rest, til! by dint of discipline, added to na- 
tive ability, she came at length to be mis- 
tress of an inimitable finishing-power, a 
power of doing precise justice to the niceties 
of conception with which perhaps the mind 
of a woman only is conversnnt, a minia- 
ture minuteness, such as nothing short of 
the powrr itself would enable us properly to 
describe. The enthusiasm of Mrs. Hemans 
made even her industry indefatigable. Those 
who affect her more attractive qualities, will 



do well to imitate this. It requires no small 
share, in the outset, to study her works at- 
tentively enough especially as they are 
read cursorily with such eager interest to 
appreciate the credit she deserves in this re- 
spect It was the most difficult result of her 
labour that she succeeded in concealing the 
effort, while she proved the effect. 

Tims, then, is her poetry distinguished. 
Others have possessed her imagination, her 
taste, her ambition, her art, her glowing 
feeling, her Christian principle ; but they did 
not all undertake, and they were not all com 
potent if they had, to devote the exercise oJ 
every energy, effectually, to the one object 
of her labours, the composition of a model 
which might perfectly represent what fe- 
male poetry is and should be. This Mrs. 
Hemans has done. She had a genius wor- 
thy to be the representative of that of her 
sex, and she sounded the depths of its capa- 
cities of exertion and suffering, and trained 
them, with every faculty, to do justice to 
herself, her sex, her race, her Creator, in the 
discharge of the true office of the profession 
she chose, the illuminating or figuring forth 
of truth, (as Sydney describes it,) and espe- 
cially of the truth most worthy of the work, 
which it most concerns men, as such, to 
feel the force of, and which, also, she was 
herself best qualified so to set forth ' by the 
speaking picture of poetry.' She wrote not 
only as none but a woman could write, but 
so wrote as that, in her department, neither 
her predecessors, or successors, of her own 
sex, have been, or will be, able to surpass her. 

In introducing her works entire, for the 
first time, it may be proper to allude to the 
interest she has been frequently known to 
express in our peculiar institutions and pros- 
pects, and the gratification she derived from 
the evidence, to which she could not be blind, 
that her productions were nowhere more 
cordially welcomed, or more fully appreci- 
ated, than here. For the numerous compo- 
sitions founded on American themes, such a 
reception was rather to be anticipated, as a 
mark of the pleasure we felt in the worthy 
illustration of our national topics, and espe- 
cially by the talent of one who by no means 
deemed it necessary to be faithless to her 
own country, or to any thing else her own, 
that she might do justice to the world at 
large beside. But this was not her sole re. 
commendation to us. Five years since an 
English authority of note suggested that 'her 

VOL. I. 1 



PREFACE. 



peculiar beauties were first pointed out to us 
by our trans-atlantic brethren.' There was 
great truth in the remark ; and the fact is 
as creditable to one party, as the admission 
of it is to the other. She has lost nothing 
among us in later days, and her American 
fame was dear to the last. The feeling with 
which the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
is regarded, was rightly represented to her 
during the last season, by a gentleman from 
New-England, who called on her at Dub- 
Un, and the enthusiasm of gratification she 
expressed to him, was such as the composi- 
tion itself might lead us to expect. She had 
composed that poem in the glow of a burst 
of admiration, immediately awakened by the 
chance perusal of a part of some Plymouth 
Oration (as it seemed to be) which she found 
on a scrap of an old newspaper. ' And I can 
tell you the portion of it we like best,' our 
friend added, 

"And they Itft unstained, what there they found ;" 

' Ay, freedom to worship God r she quickly 
subjoined ; ' the truth was the boat part of it, 
I know : I rejoice that it is IK* and that 
you so understand it' 

We trust it will be so understood, as long 
M the old Rock itself shall stand. To tell the 
truth of that grand occasion, was praise 
enough for any poet ; it was a truth stronger 
than fiction ever was, and which fiction 
could but degrade. But we know her more 
than as the poet of the Pilgrims. We shall 
cherish the fame which was born with us ; 
she has trusted it safely to our hands. We 
shall remember her as she would herself 
have desired to be remembered, in all ' words 
that breathe, and thoughts that burn.' She 
asks, let us hear her once more, 
" Whon will ye think of me, my friends? 
When will ye think of me 1 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away 
When the air with a deep'ning hush is fraught, 
Ana the heart grows burden'd with tender thought. 
Then let it be ! 



When will ye think of me, kind friends 1 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the rose of the rich mid-suminor time 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious p ime 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled. 
From the walks where my ''outsteps no more may 
tread 

Then Kit it ae ! 
When will ye think of me, sweet friends? 

When will ye think of me ? 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your ey* 
At the sound ofsome olden melody. 
When yo hear the voice of a mountain stream 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream 

Then let it be ! 
Thus let my memory be with you, friends! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone 
As of a bird from a chain unbound. 
As of a wanderer whose home is found- 
So let it be!" 

Ay, and so will it be. It will be with the 
thousands of hearts which have been, lika 
Sydney's, 'moved more than with a trumpet,' 
now by the soft sweetness that pleaded for 
room in the Pagan Heaven, 'mid all the 
4 nobler dead,' for the unknown ' most loved,' 

" Of whom fame speuks not, with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls;" 

and now with the majestic spirit of the strain 
that gives a ' memory on the mountains,' to 
the brave bands who pledged their faith for 
freedom 

" Where the light 

Of day's last footstep bathes in burning gold 
Great Right's cliffs ; and where Mount Pilate's height 
Casts o'er his starry lake the darkness of his might." 

It will be, as long as the deep yearnings 
which she knew so well to express, and to 
address, shall remain with men. It will 
be, in the Hour of Prayer, and the Hour of 
Death ; and the Dreams of the Better Land 
will be lighted with hues of the haunting 
beauty of remembered visions of the song. 
It will be while yet the honour of heroic 
virtue shall live upon human lips, and till 
the holy love, in human hearts FO sorely 
tried, shall find, after all its weaiy tossing 
upon time's waives, a home where it may 

rest 

" remembering not 

Toe moaning of the wa 1" 



CONTENTS. 



The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy, 17 

The Abencerrage 25 

The Widow of Crescentins 39 

The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra... 47 

Alaric in Italy 48 

TbflWife of Asdrnbal 60 

HeliodoruK in the Temple 51 

Might Scene in Genoa 51 

The Troubadour and Richard Cceur de Lion... 53 

The Death of Conradin 65 

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHEH 
POETS. 

High in the glowing heav- 
ens, 56 

Wrapt in sad musings 67 

If in thy glorious home 57 

This mountain scene 57 

Those eyes whose love 57 

Fair Tajo ! thou, whose 67 

Thou, to whose power 67 

Spirit belo ved ! whose wing 58 

How strange a fate in love.. 68 

Should Love, the tyrant .... 68 

Oft have I sung 68 

Saved from the perils 68 

Beside the streams of Baby- 
lon Cft 

There blooms a plant 68 

Amidst the bitter tears 69 

He who proclaims 69 

Waves of Mondego ! 69 

Where shall I find some de- 
sert 69 

Exempt from every grief... 69 
No searching eye can pierce. 69 
Jfetastatio. In tears, the heart oppressed 
Filicaja. Italia! thou by lavish Na- 
ture graced 60 

Pastorini. If thus thy fallen grandeur. 60 

Lope de Vega,, Let the vain courtier 60 

Manuel. Pause not with lingering 

foot 60 

Delia Oata. These marble domes, 60 

Bentivoglio. The sainted spirit 60 

Jfetastaeio. He shall not dread 60 

The torrent wave 61 

Sweet rose! whose tender. 61 

Fortune! why thus 61 

Wouldst thou to love 61 

Unbending 'midst the win- 
try 61 

Oh! those alone, whose 61 

Ah ! cease those fruitless.. 61 

Amidst these scenes 61 

Thou, who has fled from 

life's 62 

Thoa, in thy morn, wert 

like 62 

This green recess 62 

Thou that wouldst mark ... 62 

If to the sighing breeze 62 

Thou, the stern monarch... 62 

Sylph of the breeze ! 62 

Hail I morning sun 63 

Listen, fair maid 63 

Thou grot, whence flows. ... 63 



Quevedo. 
J\Mn de Tarsi*. 

Torquato Tasgo. 

Bernardo Tasso. 

Petrarch. 

Petrarch. 

Bembo. 

Loremtni. 

Oessner. 

(German Song.) 

C'ltaulieu. 



Garcilaso de la Enjoy the sweets of I'/e's 
Veya. luxuriant May 63 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Lines written In a Hermitage on the Sea 

Shore 63 

Dirge of a Child 64 

Invocation 64 

To the Memory of General Sir Edward Pack- 

enham 64 

To the Memory of Sir Henry E-ll-s, who fell 

in the Battle of Waterloo 64 

Guerilla Song 65 

The Aged Indian 65 

Evenings among the Alps 66 

Dirge of the Highland Chief in Waverley 65 

The Crusader's War Song Ml 

The Death ofClanronald 66 

To the Eye 06 

The Hero's Death 67 

Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Char- 
lotte 67 

The Sceptic 69 

Stanzas to the Memory of the Late King 72 

Modern Greece 74 

Dartmoor 84 

The Meeting of Wallace and Bruce on the 

Banks of the Carron 87 

The Last Constantino 8t 

The Siege of Valencia '. 101 

The Vespers of Palermo 123 

The League of the Alps 147 

Arabella Stuart 166 

The Bride of the Greek Isle. 157 

The Switzer's Wife 169 

Properzia Rossi 160 

Gertrude, or Fidelity till Death 161 

Imelda 161 

Edith, a Tale of the Woods 162 

The Indian City 164 

The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 166 

Indian Woman's Death Song 166 

Joan of Arc, in Rheims 167 

Pauline 167 

Jnana 168 

The American Forest Girl 169 

Costanza 171 

Madeline, a Domestic Tale 171 

The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 171 

The Memorial Pillar 1F2 

The Grave of a Poetess 173 

A Spirit's Return 177 

The Lady of Provence 17> 

The Coronation of Inez de Castro 180 

Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 161 

To a departed Spirit Ifl 

The Chamois Hunter's Love Ifel 

Song of Emigration 182 

The Indian with his Dead Child 182 

The King of Arragon's lament for his Brother 183 

The Return 183 

The Vaudois Wife 183 

The Guerilla Leader's Vow 184 

Theklaather Lover's Grave 184 

The Sitsters of Scio ISo 

Bernardo del Carpio 1M 

The Tomb of Madame Langhaus ISO 



(13) 



14 



CONTEXTS. 



FADE 

The Exile's Dirge 186 

The Dreaming Child 187 

The Charmed Picture 187 

Parting Words 187 

The Message to the Dead 188 

The Two Homes 188 

The Soldier's Death-Bed 188 

The Image in the Heart 189 

Woman on the Field of Battle 189 

The Land of Dreams 190 

The Deserted House 190 

The Stranger's Heart 190 

Come Home 191 

The Fountain of Oblivion 191 

The Themes of Song 191 

Rhine Song of the German Soldiers 192 

A Song of Delos 192] 

Ancient Greek Chaunt of Victory 19.S 

Naples, a Song of the Siren 193 

The Death-Song of Alcestis 1P3 

The Fall of d'Assas 194 

The Burial of William the Conqueror 194 

Chorus from the Alcesti of Alfieri 195 

Near thee, still nearthee 195 

The Sisters, a Ballad 195 

Oh! droop thou not 196 

Mignon's Song, translated from Goethe 197 

The Last Soug of Sappho. 197 

Dirge 197 

A Song of the Rose 197 

Night Blowing Flowers 198 

The Wanderer and Night Flowers 198 

Echo Soug 198 

The Muffled Drum 199 

The Swan aod the Sky Lark 199 

Ancient Battle Song 200 

The Zegri Maid 200 

The Rio Verde Song 200 

Seek by the Silvery Darro 200 

Spanish Evening Hymn 200 

Bird that art singing on Ebro's Side 200 

Moorish gathering Song 201 

Song of Mina's Soldiers 201 

Mother, oh ! sing me-to rest.... 201 

There are sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles. ... 201 

The Cm-lew Song of England 201 

The Call to Battle 201 

And I too in Arcadia 202 

The Wandering Wind 202 

Ye are not missed, Fair Flowers 202 

Willow Song 203 

Leave me not yet 203 

The Orange Bough 203 

the Stream set free 203 

The Summer's Call 203 

Genius singing to Love 204 

Oh! Sky-Lark, for thy wing 204 

Music at a Death-bed 205 

Where is the Sea ? Song of the Greek Islander 

in exile 205 

Marshal Schwerin's Grave 205 

Introduction 205 

The Brother s Dirge 206 

The Alpine Horn 206 

Oh! ye Voices 206 

I Dream of all things free 206 

Far over the Sea 206 

The Invocation... 206 

The Song of Hope 207 

The Bird at Sea 207 

The Ivy Song 207 

The Dying Girl and Flowers 207 

The Music of St. Patrick's 20S 

Keene, or Lament of an Irish Mother over her 

Son 208 

England's Dead 208 

Far away 209 

The Lyre aod Flower 209 

Sister, since I met thee last 209 

The Lonely Bird 209 

Dirge at Sea 210 



Pilgrim's Song to the Evening I -r 210 

The Spartan s March 210 

The Meeting of the Ships 210 

The Rock of Cader Idris, a Legend of Wales.. 211 

A Farewell to Wales 211 

The Dying Bard's Prophecy 211 

Come away 211 

Music from Shore 212 

Fair Helen of Klrconnel 212 

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes 212 

I go, sweet friends 212 

If thou hast crushed a flower 212 

Brightly hast thou fled 213 

Sing to me, Gondolier 213 

O'er the far blue mountains 213 

thon breeze of Spring 2H 

Come to me, dreams of Heaven 213 

Good Night 214 

Let her depart 21 

1 would we had not met again 214 

Water Lilies, a Fairy Song. 214 

The broken Flower 214 

Fairies' Recall 214 

By a mountain stream at rest 215 

The Rock beside the Sea 215 

ye voices gone 215 

Is there some Spirit sighing? 215 

The Name of England 215 

Come to me, gentle sleep 215 

Old Norway 216 

English Soldier's Song of Memory 216 

The Home of Love 216 

Books and Flowers 217 

For a picture of St. Cecilia attended by An- 
gels 217 

The Voice of the Waves 217 

The Haunted House 218 

O'Connor's Child 218 

The Brigand Leader and his Wife 213 

The Child's return from the Woodlands 219 

The faith of Love 219 

The Sister's Dream 220 

Written after visiting a Tomb near Wood- 
stock 220 

Prologue to Fiesco 221 

A Farewell to Abbotsford 221 

Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 221 

The Victor 222 

The Storm of Delphi 222 

The Bowl of Liberty 223 

The Voice of Scio 223 

The Urn and Sword 223 

The Myrtle bough 223 

Jhe Cid's Departure into Exile 224 

The Cid's Death-Bed 224 

The Cid's Funeral Procession 224 

The Cid's Rising 225 

The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey 226 

Nature's Farewell 226 

The Lyre's Lament 226 

The Wounded Eagle 227 

The Nightingale's Death-Song 227 

The Diver 227 

Triumphant Music 228 

The Sound of the Sea 228 

The Funeral Genius 228 

Troubadour Song * 229 

Owen Glendwyer's War-Song 229 

The Penitent's Offering 229 

The Wish 230 

The Welcome to Death 230 

The Voice of Music 230 

Swiss Home-Sickness 231 

Monumental Inscription 231 

A Thought of the Rose 231 

Stanzas. 231 

To the Sea 2S1 

The Voice of Spring ; 232 

The Child and Dove 232 

The Vaudois Valleys 232 

Christ's Agony in the Garden 233 



CONTENTS. 



OB a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 233 

The Angels' Call 233 

The Voice of God 234 

The Spell. 234 

Tne Shepherd Poet of the Alps 234 

The Release of Tasso 235 

The Prayer for Life 237 

The Battle Field 237 

Things that Change 237 

A Thought of the Future 238 

A Farewell Song 238 

The Bell at Sea 238 

A Thought of Home at Sea 238 

The Cottage Girl 238 

Death of au Infant 239 

Man and Woman 239 

The Ruined House 239 

Song 240 

The Recall 240 

The Summons 240 

To the Memory of a Friend and Relative....... 241 

Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants -. 241 

Fragment 241 

The Fountain of Marah 241 

Haunted Ground 242 

The Ivy of Kenilworth 242 

The Childe's Destiny 242 

The Subterranean Stream 243 

Woman and Fame 243 

The Sleeper of Marathon 243 

We Return no More 244 

The Chieftain's Song 244 

The Tombs of Platwa 244 

Love and Death 245 

Lights and Shades 245 

The Meeting of the Brothers 245 

The View from Castri 246 

The Festal Hour 246 

Song of the Battle of Morgarten 247 

Chorus, translated from Mauzoui's " Coute di 

Carmagnola" 248 

The Meeting of the Bards 249 

O, ye Hours 230 

The Song of the Gifted 250 

Marguerite of France 251 

The Fallen Lime-Tree 251 

The Freed Bird 252 

The Flower of the Desert 252 

"fhe Huguenot's Farewell 253 

The Wanderer 253 

The Silent Multitude 253 

Washington's Statue 253 

The Broken Lute 254 

Sabbath Sonnet 254 

The Cross of the South 255 

Poetry of the Psalms 265 

Moorish Bridal Song 256 

The Sword of the Tomb 256 

The Bird's Release 257 

Valkyriur Song 258 

Swiss Song on the Anniversary of an Ancient 

Battle '. 258 

The Cavern of the Three Tells 259 

The Messenger Bird 259 

The Stranger in Louisiana 260 

The Bended Bow 260 

The Isle of Founts, an Indian Tradition 200 

He never smiled again 261 

Coeur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father 261 j 

The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree 262 . 

The Wild Huntsman 263 I 

Brandenburgh Harvest Song 263 ! 

The Shade of Theseus 263 ; 

Ancient Greek Song of Exile 263 

Greek Funeral Chant or Myriologne 264 

The Parting Song 265 

The Sulioto Mother 266 

The Farewell to the Dead 266 

The Bridal Day 267 

The Ancestral Song 267 

The Magic Glass 268 i 



Connne at the Capitol 268 

The Ruin 269 

Tho Minster .".' '" 269 

The Song of Night ".."" 270 

The Storm Painter in his Dungeon '. 270 

Death and the Warrior 270 

The Two Voices 271 

The Parting Ship .' 271 

The Last Tree of the Forest 272 

The Streams 272 

The Voice of the Wind !...'.."""!.' 273 

The Vigil of Arms '. " 273 

The Beings of the Mind 274 

Tasso's Coronation 274 

The Better Land 274 

TheKequiem of Genius 275 

Sadness and Mirth 275 

Second Sight 27P 

The Sea-Bird Flying Island 276 

The Sleeper 276 

The Mirror in the Deserted Hall 276 

The Forest Sanctuary 277 

The English Martyrs 292 

Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 294 

Cathedral Hymn 296 

Wood Walk and Hymn 296 

Prayer of the Lonely Student 298 

The Traveler's Evening Song 298 

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forest... 299 

Easter-Day in a Mountain Church-Yard 300 

The Child Reading the Bible SOI 

A Poet's Dying Hymn 302 

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott ............ 302 

The Prayer in the Wilderness 303 

Prisoners' Evening Service 304 

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times 

of Persecution 305 

The Indian's Revenge 305 

Prayer at Sea after Victory 307 

The Day of Flowers 307 

Evening Song of the Weary 308 

Hymn of the Traveler's Household on his Re- 
turn 809 

A Prayer of Affection 309 

The Painter's Last Work 309 

Mother's Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child.... 310 

Night Hymn at Sea 310 

Female Characters of Scripture. A series of 

Sonnets 310 

The Two Monuments "" 312 

The Memory of the Dead 313 

Augel Visits 313 

A Penitent's Return 314 

A Thought of Paradise 314 

Let us Depart 314 

On a Picture of Christ bearing the Cross 315 

Communings with Thought 315 

Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial 316 

Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull 318 

The Palmer 313 

The Water-Lily 313 

Thought from an Italian Poet 318 

Elysium 319 

Belshazzar's Feast 319 

HYMNS FOB CHILDHOOD. 

Introductory Verses 323 

The Rainbow 323 

The Sun ^. 323 

The Rivers 324 

The Stars 324 

The Ocean 324 

The Thunder-Storm 324 

The Birds 325 

The Sky-Lark 325 

The Nightingale 325 

The Northern Spring 326 

Paraphrase of Psalm CXLVIII 826 

Christmas Carol 326 

Christ Walking on the Water 826 

A Father reading the Bible 834 



16 



CONTENTS. 



MM 

A Mrge _ 327 

Th Child's First Grief 327 

Epitaph over the Grave of two Brothers, a 

Child and a Youth S27 

Birth-day Lines to a young Child in Autumn. 327 

On a similar occasion 327 

Hymn by the Sick-bed of a Mother 327 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The Treasures of the Deep 328 

The Crusader's Return 328 

Bring Flowers .. 329 

Thekla's Song ; or the Voice of a Spirit 829 

The Revellers 329 

The Conqueror's Sleep 330 

Our Lady's Well. 330 

The Parting of Summer 330 

The Songs of our Fathers 331 

The World in the open Air 331 

Kindred Hearts 332 

The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 332 

Casabianca 332 

The Dial of Flowers 333 

Oqr Daily Paths 333 

The Cross in the Wilderness 333 

Last Rites 334 

The Hebrew Mother - 334 

The Wreck. 335 

The Trumpet 33S 

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School, 336 

The Hour of Death 336 

The Cliffs of Dover 336 

The Lost Pleiad 337 

The Graves of Martyrs 337 

The Voice of Home to the Prodigal 337 

The Hour of Prayer. 337 

The Wakening ^ 338 

The Breeze from Shore 838 

The Dying Improvisator* 338 

Music of Yesterday ..^....^ 339 

The Forsaken Hearth..... 830 

The Dreamer.., ..;.... 899 

The Wings of the Dove. 840 



Psyche borno Ij Zephyrs to the Island of 

Pleasure 840 

The Boon of Memory 341 

The Homes of England 841 

The Sicilian Captive 341 

Ivan the Oar. S4J 

Carolan's Prophecy 848 

The Lady of the Castle 34 

The Mourner for the Barmecides 344 

The Captive Knight 343 

The Spanish Chapel 345 

Tha Kaiser's Feast 846 

Tassoandhis Sister 347 

! Ulla, or the Adjuration 347 

To Wordsworth 348 

A Monarch's Death-Bed 848 

To the Memory of Heber 348 

The Adopted ChUd 349 

Invocation 349 

Korner and his Sister 349 

The Death-Day of Korner 330 

An Hour of Romance 350 

A Voyager's Dream of Land. S61 

The Effigies 351 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New 

England 332 

The Spirit's Mysteries 352 

The Departed 352 

The Palm-Tree, 353 

The Child's Last Sleep 355 

The Sunbeam 353 

Breathings of Spring 354 

The Illuminated City 354 

The Spells of Home 364 

Roman Girl's Song., .~.... 356 

The Distant Ship 355 

The Birds of Passage 355 

The Graves of a Household 354 

Mozart's Requiem 354 

The Image in Lava 354 

The Last Wish 887 

Pairy Favors 367 

A Parting ftonff ,.,,.,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,., 



THE 



RESTORATION 



WORKS OF ART TO ITALY, 



A POEM. 



'But the Joy of discovery was short, and the triumph ,/f ta*le tranfitory. The Fremh, wbo IB 
every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and |J<JVH i-.\ ...>! or rather surpass-ed ti. 
rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, la.il their sacrilegious haud:> uu the unparalleled collection 
of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and dragging them 1'iuiii their temples 
of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull bulleu hail.-, or ruiher 
tables, of the Louvre." Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii., p. 60. 



Ttalid, Italia) O to cut feo la Sorts 
Doiio infelice di kellezza, uncle hal 
Fiu *ta lote d' iunuiti guui, 
Che 'u fronte fccritti per gran doglia porte ; 

J> JJ, fueei tu men beila, o aliueu piu forte. 



THE 

RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART 
TO ITALY. 



F.AHD of departed fame ! whose classic plain* 
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and 

brave. 

Day-stars of lite, 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 diimn'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain 
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again! 
Lost, lovely realm! once more 't is 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 arid chivalry; 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove. 
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel grove; 
On rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
?cize 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 ; 
Wlio!e 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 'mid those scenes renew'd th' achievement* 

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 mightiest and the last! 
Nervod 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, 
Ulow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 

Oh hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom. 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, 
Ye, firm and faithful, in th 1 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 watch-word blended with your fame ; 
Aid 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 
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane, 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd 1 , and fell 
Warm in their souls, shrill 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 the 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 a while forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes ! fair creations, to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought I 
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, inatr hlrss works! your presence shall restort 
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 
(19) 



HEMANS' POETICAL, WORKS. 



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 'mid 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 m<ole 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, 
'Mill prostrate altars, and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes in each lonely spot. 
With shp.dfis }_' :hose who ne'er shall be forgot; 
There was your home, and there your power im 

prest, 

With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
A >id 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! Gtueen of Arno's lovely valel 
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 t'hey 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 life imbued, 
Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. ' 

Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pridfi is o'er. 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more I 
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 dreams 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 de- 
plored 

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 thinn 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhausllessmine. 
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 death-like trance; 
Whose rallyingcall bade slumbering nations \vake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break; 
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose. 
And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repoe; 
And bade its pealing energies resound, 
With power electric, through the realms around 
Oh ! high in thought, magnificent in soul I 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more. 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore I 
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed tlys : 
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 Mindl 
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 th sculptor's intellectual sight, 
How many a glimpse reveal'd to him alone, 
Made brighter brings, 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 kindli jg 

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 Augelo 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 zcnl, 
Buoyant with loftier hopes his soul shall rise, 
Imbued, at once, with nobler energies; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar, 
And worlds of visionary grace explore. 
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams 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 fanH 
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 thin<2 ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cart 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Acain 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 the 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 fnrm'd to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms o{ 

air; 

To range uncurh'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 1 
Moulded by Art to dinnify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne. 
Since first her skill their fiery crace 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 I 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



n 



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 call'd 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's towering plume un 

furl'd, 

Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, 
Kternal city ! round whose Curule throne 
' ic 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. 
Bwell'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, oh Rome ! a god-like train. 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Barils, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august, 

O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dusf. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control; 
Will) 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 antl heroes ! could those flames return, 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardour burn 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first. 
Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur burst ! 
With one bright glance dispel the horizon's gloom, 
With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread yEgis with majestic frown. 
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight, 
To bathe its plumage in the fount of light. 

Vain dream! degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er, 
Once lost, tliy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days. 
Who fix'd on tliee 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 zeiuth. 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 tiophied 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 Bhatter'd oak! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine. 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Itright with Btern 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 day-star ! 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; 
ERC!) 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 the ennobled and refined, 
Breathe and enchant, trauscendently combined 1 
Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 
Have how'd in speechless homage, at thy throne; 
And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 
Shall gaze, absorb d in ecstasy, on thee 1 

And thou triumphant wreck, (1) e'en yet sublime 
Disputed trophy, claim'd 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 
Liived 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 dar; 
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 hand de- 
faced 

The work of wonder, idolized by taste? 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode, 
Mould of a conqueror ! (2) ruin of a god! 
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless 

beam 

From each bright fragment pours its vital stream 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'il, 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; 
Filld with immortal life, each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells. 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last. 
Of Grecian Freedom, (:J) ere her reign was past. 
Nurse of the mighty, .'he, 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 I 

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many 

throe 

Seal'd with the >mage of eternal woe: 
With fearful t.uth, terrific power, exprest. 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize 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 
Mid the dread circles of the venon'd fold; 
Yet the strong spirit lives and not a cry 
Shall own th might of Nature's agony ! 
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals. 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeal*. 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath 
Nor yields one moan to torture or toWeath ! (4) 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart. 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every veil 
Cold t ln-iii s of fear, keen sympathies of pain , 



KKMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Vet 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 drest in richer dyes, 
Morp mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies; 
Or dreams of bliss, to dying Martyrs given, 
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oil! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
ts depth nf shadow, and its blaze of light, 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy 1 who stand alone. 
And unapproach'd, 'midst regions all your own ; 
What scenes, what beings blest your favour 'd sight 
Severely grand, unutterably bright 1 
Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gazeuntired, undaunted, uncontroll'd, 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendoui 

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 arid 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 mellowmt 

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 naught 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 I 
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 iileas 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 ; 
Th.it realm where first the light of life was sent, 
The loved, the punish'd, of tli' 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(5) deep, 
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 I 
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, 
Breath'd ' still small' whispers on the midnight gale. 
There dwelt her spirit there her hand portray'd, | 

* ) 



'Mid 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 re*t, 
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 power*, 
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 ! (G) 
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head; 
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fullness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted g r oup, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpower'd by th* excess of light I 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
Bv truth inspired to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness, 
And strong in hope, anticipats the day, 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray; 
To realize, in some unclouded sphere, 
Those pictuted glories feebly imaged here! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, 
Taint effluence of "the Day-spring from on highP 

NOTES. 



NOTB 1. 

The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, an4 
of many other distinguished artists. 

NOTE 2. 

" Quotque cette statue d'Hercule ait etc roaltraitee et inutile* d'unt 
maniere et range, se trouvaut sans tele, sans bras, et uns jambes, elle 

ceux qui savent percer dans tes mysteres de 1'art, se la represeitent 
dans toute sa beaute. L'artiste, en voulant representer Hereule, a 
forme un corps ideal au-dessus de la nature. * * Get Hereule 
paroit done ici tel qu'il dut etre, lorsque, purifie par le feu des foi- 
blesses de ITiumanite, il obtint I'immortaHte, et prit place aupres de 
dieux. II est represente sans aucnn besoin de ncmrriture et de repa- 
ration de forces. Les veines y sont toutes invisibles." WmcfceJ. 
matin. Biitoire tie Uirt cAez la J)nacni, torn. ii. p. 248. 

NOTE 3. 

" Le Torso d'Hercule paroit un des dermers ouyrages parfaits que 
Part ait pnduit <-n Grece, avant la perle de sa liberte. Car apra 
que la Grece fut reduite en province Homaine, Phisloire ne fait men- 
tion d'aucuu artiste celebre de cette nation, jusqu'aui temps du Tri- 
umvirat Romam." 1 WmdUlmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 250. 

NOTS 4. 

" It ii not, in the same manner, in the agonized limbs, or in the 
convulsed muscle* of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its compo- 
sition resides, it is in the majestic air of the head, which has iiot 
yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which 
seems to be still su/imo! to all its afflictions, and significant of 
mind that cannot be subdued " vHion' Essayt, vol. n. p. 408. 

"Laocoon nous ofTre le spectacle de la nature hvmaine dans U 
plus grande douleur dont elle soil susceptible, sous Pimage dtiomma 
(,ui tache de rassembler contre elle toute ta force de 1'esprit. Tandi? 
lie I Vices de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment lei. 
nerfj, le courage se montre sur le front gonfle : la poitrine s'eleve 
ivec peine par la necessile de la respiration, qui est egalemeut con 
irainte par le silence que la force de I'ame impose a la douleur qu'ell* 
vudroit etouHer. * * Son> '" "st plaintif, et non eriard." Winck 
Kiruinn, ibid. torn. ii. p 

W :TE 5. 

Almotana. The nan /en by the Arabs to the Dead Sea, 

NOTE 6. 

The TransfiguratiotL <"'jht to be so perfect a specimen of art, 
Tut. in honour of RapT el, it wa carried before his body to in* 



HISTORIC SCENES. 



Le Manre ae Be venge pas parce qae sa colere dure encore, mais parce que la vengeance geule pent 
ecarter de sa tele Je poids d'iula&iid dout il est accable. 11 se veuge, parce qu'a sea yeux il u'y 
a qu'une ame basse qui puisse pard^uuer le.-. affronts ; et il uourrit sa raucune, parce qua s'il la 
teutoit b'tteiuJie, il croiroit avec elle. Avoir pel Jii uue verm. Siauiondi. 



The eveuts with which llie folluwiug tale is iuterwoveu, are related iu the "Historia de Ua 
Guerras Civiles Ue Grauada." They occurred iu the reign of Abo Abdeli or Abdali, the lost Mourinh 
kiug of that city, called by the Spaniards El Key Ulticu. The couquest of (jrauada, by Ferdiuaud 
and Isabella, is said, by some historians, to have been greatly facilitated by the Abeucerrages, wliuse 
defection was the result of the repeated injuries they had received from the kiug at tuc iu^igatiou 
of the Zegris. Oi>* of the uiost beautiful hails of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where 
KO inauy of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; and it still retains their nauie, being called 
the "Sala tie Ion Abeucerrages. " Many of the utoat interesting old Spanish ballads relate to lb 
event* of tliis chit aii-oua and roiuautic period. 



THE ABENCEPvRAGE. 



CANTO I. 

LONELY and still are now thy mnrble hall. 
Them fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er, 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls, 
Blend the wild notes of minstrelsy no more. 

Hjsh'd are the voices, that, in years gone by. 
Have mourn'd exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers; 

(Vithin thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high, 
Arid all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowters. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows. 
Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam 
smiles. 

And many a tint of softcn'd brilliance throws. 
O'er fretted walls, and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, 
So vast, so silent, and so wililly fair. 

Some ch&rm'd abode of beings nil unknown, 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads the enchanted ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 

rJtvc windo and founts diffusing freshness round. 
Through the light domes a nd graceful colon nadea. 

For oiher tones have swell'd those courts along, 
Ii. days romance yet fondly loves to trace ; 

Dis ciash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
Tfce levels, combats, of a vanish'd race. 

And yet avhi:, at Fancy's potent call, 
Sha I rje .*iai race, the chivalrous, tho boldl 

Peopling o. ce -no.-e each fair, forsaken hall, 
With stately i^rms, the knights and chiefs of ol 

The sun decent* upon Nevada's height 
There dwells mJlo.v flesh of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pina.Me of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of ;hat nailing glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects t,ach passing dye 
That melts and mingtss in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from roa a.'d c.tron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness o.' the hour: 
Hush'd are the winds, and X'atu-e soemj to deep 
In light and stillness; wood, and u we., and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, onlv &'ve.i 
To the rich evening of a southern he& -en ; 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell i. fr&'.tgh.. 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never o/'igh 
Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her a; re*t 
The fiery passions of the human breast. 
Hark ! from the Alhambra's towers what storm) 

sound, 

Each moment deepening, wildly swells around * 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng, 
Not the light zambra, (1) nor the choral song; 
The combat rages 't is the shout of war, 



Tis the loud clash of shield and scymetar. 
Within the Hall of Lions, (2) 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 (3) 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 aveniysd 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 the ; ' bier. 
For thus alone the brave should wee.T for tliv^e 
Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
Not such their fate a tyrant's ster.- corii 
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble h;i..<l. 
As, with the flower of all their high-lx.-n t e, 
Suininon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger high. 
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 rung from gate to gate, 
And of that lineage each surviving son 
Rush'd to the scene whtre vengea.ice might b 
won. 

F<<r thia young Ilrmet mingles in the strife. 
Lender of battle, procujral of life, 
IIrgii:, his followers, till their foes, beset, 
SUnd uint mnd b/eath'.?$s, b.-t undaunted yet. 
Brave Ab<.*>-Zur"ab>, on I ;>ne e5ort more. 
Yours ic the triun.ph, and tht. contil-t o'e* 
(88) 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



But lo! descending o'er the darken'd hall, 
The twilight shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased tho' scarce the 

know. 

Through that thick gloom, the brother from the foi 
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 nurnber'd with the valiant df ad. 
His champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
But when the twilight spread hor 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 (4) green expanse, his flying footsteps 

lead. 

He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bower* 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flow- 
era 

In dew and starlight there from prot 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 flips from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; 
There sm'.les no Paradise on earth so fair, 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Ahilallah 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, 
Moonlieht 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, lix'd awhile remains; 
In stern, deep silence o'er his farerish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly flow, 
But waft, in fitf.il murmurs from afar, 
Sounds, indistinctly fearful as of war. 
What meteor bursts, with sudden blaze, on high, 
O'er tho blue clearness of the starry sky 7 
Awful it rises like some Genie-form, 
Seen 'midst the redness of the desert storm, (5) 
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 flre; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height. 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

Oh Heaven 1 the anguish of Abdallah's soul. 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control I 
Vet 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 clifTon high, 
Throueh 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 rung so late ! 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's b!as 
Hatit o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd. (6) 



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 foigot. 

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 agaJa 
Mourners, who call'd the loved, the lost, in vai. 
Yet smiles the day Oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career. 
Nor is the earth less lauching or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may set 

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 pathwa) 

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 
Mis 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 fl<xi 
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 nf scarce dissembled rage 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age. 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill th' indignant heart can veil, 
And passion, like the hush'd volcano's power, 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No mnre the clarion, from Granada's walls 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls; 
Vo more her graceful daughters, throned on high 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly raiii&nt 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 
jow in the dust the sons of glory steep; 
"url'd are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall 
Vildly their chargers range the pastures o'er, 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no mnre ; 

And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Vhom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive, 
VOL. I. 7 



REMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



That race, of lineage hieh, 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 drk 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 fruitlessglow 
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 ! 't is thine, thou foe to all her race I 

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. (7) 

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 he forgot ? 
'Tishe but changed that eye, whose elance 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 spirits eloquence hath fled, 
And in its wild expression may be read 
Stern 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; 
Rut 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, 
'''e 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 
Rut 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." 

" Aik 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 I 



Foster'd in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learn'd to surfer 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 skiefl I 
Too well I feel, with griefs prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days, we part. 
We part! and e'en this agonizing hour, 
When Lovefirst feels hisowno'erwhelmingpowel 
Shall soon to Memory's fix'd and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness for thou wert nigh I 
Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed. 
As days to days all wearily succeed. 
When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 't will be 
Almost like rapture to have wc-pt 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 despait. 
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 un veil'd be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shall not be deceived for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed and would thf 

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 stern 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 stern 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 thought? 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 roge-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, seicne delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breatk 

could hlisht ; 

The smiling stillness of life's morning-lionr. 
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. 
Mean while through groves of deep luxuriant shad* 
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 leavet, 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves. 



28 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 voici; of glory thrills their hearts no more ! 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
\o 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. 

Tiiere, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 

Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead. 
Where two fair pillars rise, embower')! and lone. 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown. 
Young Unmet 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, 
lit 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 ; 
Thoe, 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 delisht will come. 
And thou shall triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

'' Thou, too. my brother! thou art pass')! away, 
Witlm-it thv fame, in life's fair dawning day: 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In '.he 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'sl 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, oh 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!" 



CANTO II. 



Oh ! ben provvirfe il Ciclo, 

Cb 1 uotn pur delitti mai lido Don sia. 
JUfieri. 

F*IR land ! of chivalry the old domain. 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain I 
Though not for thee with classic shores to Tie 
In charms that fix'd the 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 shr 
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 serrana 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 heroir 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. (8) 

Round fair Granada, deepening from alar. 
O'er that green Vega rose the din ot war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeam? 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 sislit by clenrXenil co'-W 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 mantlinp 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 hroider'd fold. 
Floats to the wind a standard rirh with gold: 
There imaged on the cross, his form appears, 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears. (9) 
His form, whose word recall'd the spirit, fled. 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er tile dead 
(:r yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
b'ain 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. (10) 

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, (11) 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! 'midst that host of foes. 
Why shi nes thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train. 
Oh son of Afric, 'midst the sons of Spain 1 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief by hope of vengeance tired? 
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 

way ? 
No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd 

breast. 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexprest. 

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 sliitli 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field: 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



it ut 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. (12) 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throw* 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed art 1 the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hauiet 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. (13) 
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, aud solitude serene. 
There, 'ne.ath 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 shall yet be blest I" 

Such his vague musings but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low half-stifled moan, thai seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns: Who shares witli him that lonely shade? 
A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid, 
All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, 
The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast 1 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd 
With life's last force convulsively rolain'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 coiiVeys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh I is it thus," he cries, "we meet at last? 
Friend of my soul, in years for ever past I 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle ere that heart is cold. 
Receive thy latest agonizing breath, 
Ati'l, \vith vain pity, soothe the pangs of death? 
Yet li;t me bear thee hence while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, 
Some lu-aling b>ilm thy sense may still revive, 
Hope is not lost, and Osmyri 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 Harnet'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, 
TJiat seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; 
^nd the mind's grandeur in its parting hour 
Looks from that brow with morci than wonted 
[mwer. 

" Away !" he cries, in accents of command, 
Anii proudly waves his cold and trembling hand, 
" Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be free, 
E'fii now it soars, disdaining aid from time : 



'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies; 
Noffor 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'r 
fame 1" 

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 mor 
Till life's delirious dream itself is 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 
Fn the high spirit and unbending thought! 
Yet. from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Siill Hainct struggles with indignant pride; 
While his soul rises gathering all its force, 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To time, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own. unchanged, through many a stor.uy 

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 thu aims 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 obscui-e ha 

pats'd, 

And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove, 
Tlie 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 is 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 tarns the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes : 
But that is fleeting it is past and now 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow; 
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe 
"Hence, Aben Zurrahldeathsurroundstheeherel" 

" Zayda ! what means that glance, unlnce 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 dounts dispel, 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well I" 

" Not thus we met in other days ! oh no! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe f 
Those days are past we ne'er shall meet again 
With hea'rts all warmth, all confidence, as then 



30 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS, 



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 early vow forgot 1 
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 faith hath naught in store. 
Of joy or sorrow, e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zfigri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly. 
From the stern 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 expressed, 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. 
ifes! 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 bnsom 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 poor 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 past." 

"Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come, 
Husten'd by thee, to snal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scones 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 hear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail. 
When the clouds gather, and the blasts assail ; 
Thou hast hut 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 woe I wept 



And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soul is firm for what remnins to dread ? 
Who shall have power to suffer and to bear, 
If strength and courage dwell not with Despair I 

"Hamet, farewell ! retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood, in minsled murmurs, It." 1 .. 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Ves! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Names uriforgotten consecrate the scene. 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee tfwe, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering ail ? 
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 ns she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Wns lighted up with inborn majesty, 
While her fair form and youthful features caught 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous! (14) awe-struck and amazed, 
In silent trance awhile 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! 
O form'd for happier love! heroic maid! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismay'd. 
Farewell, and be thou blest! all words were vain 
For him who ne'er may view that form again . 
Hun, whose sole thought, resembling bliss, must be, 
He huih been loved, once fondly loved, by thee!" 

And is the warrior gone? doth Zayda hear 
His patting footstep, and without u 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 I we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds iu 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 theif 

wave, (15) 

Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave; 
Mourn ! for thy doom is fix'd the days of fear 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near! 
Within, around thee are the trophieil 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 counsels 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. (Hi) 
Whose are those tones with power electric fraught 
To reach the source of pure, exalted tli .night? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



II 



Bee on a fortress-tower, with beckoning bind, 
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 displayed, 
The helmets glittering, and the line array'd ? 
Heard ye the inarch of steel-clad hosts? he cries, 
"Children of conquerors! in your strength arise 
O high-born tribes : oh names unstain'd by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear! (17) 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. (18) 
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? (19) 

When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain, (20) 
And Afric's tecbirswellVI thro' yielding Spain? (21) 
Is the lance broken, is the shield decay'd. 
The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dnmay'd ? 
Shall no high spirit of ascending worth 
Arise to lead the sons of Islam ibrth? 
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 1 

" O ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks, of Spain 1 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 1 
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, 
fn 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 :>f 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 burst 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 I 
High feeling wasted! generous hope betray'd! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save, 
ETn 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, (22) 
Power, wealth, and freedom, are your own no 

more ; 

And for your children's portion, but remains 
Thai bitter heritage tne stranger's chains. 



CANTO III. 



Frrmoni il fin il cor che balzo tanto. 

Ippoltto Pinitnumti. 

HEROES of elder days ! untaught to yield, 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field, 
Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore (23) 
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 lengtk 
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, (24) 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone is power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by. 
Couquerer of Kings ! exult, OC'id! on high. 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile I 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bandi 
Rush'd from their palmy groves and burning land* 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain! (25) 
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. (20) 
What banner streams afar from Vela's tower 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice ? 
" Castile and Arragon ! rejoice, rejoice I" 
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 shies, 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric tower*, 
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-Zurrhs ! wave. 
There Hamet moves; the chief whose Softy port 
Seems nor approach to shun, nor praise to court, 
Calm, stern, collected yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle unconfcst ? 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen. 
Nor c oud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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, 
Bornn on their trophieii car lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascenM 
Rear'd and ariorn'd by Moorish kings of yore, 
VVbose lost descendants there shall dwell no' 

They reach those towers irregularly vai , 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric ca. t: (28) 
They enter to their wondering sight is given 
A genii palace :in Arabian heaven ! (29) 
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 
Its forms and colours seem alike of air. 
Here by sweet orange-houghs, 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, 
Aerial 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 j!w 
Of rainbow tints, above, around, below ; 
Brignt-sireaming 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 seem* 
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, 
ThroaS" pi'lar'd halls, where, exquisitely wrought, 
Rich arh;'sques, with glittering foliage fraught. 
Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 
A wild, romantic, oriental mien : 
While many a verse from eastern banla of oJd, 
Borders the wall in characters of gold. (30) 
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, (31) 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air, 
While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Arragon !" (32) 

'T is night from dome and tower, in dazzling 

maze. 

The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; (33) 
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 thf re. while all would seem to heedless eye 
One blaze of pomp, one hurst of revelry. 
Are hearts tinsoothed by those delusive hours, 
GalPd by the chain, though deck'd awhile with 

flowers ; 

Btern passions workine in th' indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, hreh feelings unexprest. 
Heroic spirits, unsiihmitting 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 la*- -vhate'er his fathers won, 
Whose dou>>' -nd fears his people's fate hav 

vr" ., 

Wa~- .^x alike in crmnejl and in field ; 
*""* ^, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
..all a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afrir.'s wilds the royal exile flies, (34) 
Vet pauses on his way, lo 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 fe> 

light. 

All in one moment bursting on his sigftt. 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanish'd y**" 1 , 
And wake the source of unavailing tewt 
Weep'st thou, Abdallah ? Thou dor 

weep, 

O feeble heart! o'er all thou couldst not 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not, as a man, to die. (35) 

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 htish'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 beuay'd. 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid; 
A vcico of sorrow swells in every gale. 
Each wive, low rippling, tells a mournful tale ; 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, 
E'.tfi leaf hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur "Thou hast driven hei 

hence !" 

And well he feel? 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 hitter 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 ! 
Th' avenger's task is closed : (90) he finds too late, 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
His was a lofty spirit, turned 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 no* 

less 
From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour in the sunbeam's glare, 
VOL. I. 8 



HEMA.NS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Midgtthe wild Alpuxarras; (3T) there, on high 
Where mountain-snows are mingled with the 

sky. 

A few brave tribes, with spirit yet unbroke, 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard'ayoke. 

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 ; 
Rivine, aud glens, and deep resounding caves, 
Thu* uld communion with the torrent-waves; 
And ye. the unstain'dand everlasting snows, 
That dwell above in bright and still repose: 
'J o you, in every clime, in every age, 
Far from the tyrants or the conquror's rage, 
Math Freedom led her sons; untired to keep 
Her fearless vigils on the barren steep 
Khe like the mountain Eaglo still delights 
To f,'ze exulting from unconquer'd heights, 
And build her erie in defiance proud, 
To dare the wind and mingle with the cloud. 

Kow her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells, 
Wild Alpuxarras, through your inmost dells, 
There, thedark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength hath nerved each frame, 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Dnauenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 

earth. 

More like brieht creatures of ae'rial birth, 
Nurslings of palaces. Jiave fleil to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear. 
All undismav'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 c:.v rn cell. 
And rear their offspring 'midst thr rocks to be 
If now no mor" Hi" ini-htv. Mill Hie free 
And 'midst that band of veterans, a'er whoM 

head 

Borrows and years their mingled snow have shed: 
They saw thy glory, they iiave wept thy fall, 
O royal city! and the wreck of all 
They loved and hallowed most : doth aught re- 
main 

For these to prove of happiness or pain ? 
Life's cup is drain'd earth fades before their eye, 
*> :ieir task is closing they have but to die. 
i.sk ye. why fled they hitlier? 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, fallen on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze, 
As on th' 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 huntsman 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 firei, 
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? 

Ptartline with martial sound each rude recess. 
Where the deep echo slept in loneliness. 
These are the sons of Spain! Your foes are near: 
Oh, exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 
Hear! wake! arise! and from your inmost cave* 
Pour like the torrent in its might of waves) 



Who leads th' invaders on ? his features bear 
The deap-worn traces of a calm despair; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty and his eye 
Speaks of a soui that asks not sympathy, 
"fis he I '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 hia country's children though he leads 
Dastilian 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 rising through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene. 
There Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingled 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-notes and the clash of spears, 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Wherh thy sad daughters, lost Grenada! 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, whpre 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 't were bliss too great to die. 
Yes! Aben-Zurrahl there are deeper woes; 
Reserved for thee, ere Nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate caa 

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 'ts light of beauty there hath past, 
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 bless'd if aught remain'd to fear. (38) 
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 liat'i his footsteps 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 
Koves 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 dies 
Kival the tints that float o'er summer skies ; (39) 
And the pure glitteiing snow-realm, yet mur 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



There IB no track of man where Hamet stands 
Pathless the scene as Libya'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 pines, 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 T 
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 
la rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy bean thrill, O Hamet, at the tone? 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan 7 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled. 
The un forgotten accents of the dead ? 
E'en thus it rose and springing from bis trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Ita 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 tort. 7 
Weep and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow 1" 

But scarce her voice had bre;i*sd that well- 
known name. 

When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance ; by affliction's powci 
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 lip's 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 shoura thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier I 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand. 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band 7 



The morn beheld that conflict ol despair: 
'T was then he fell he fell ! and thou wert luerel 
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 miuisler'd by thee." 

" I had not deem'd that aught reuiain'd below 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe; 
Kut 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 might'st 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 shouldit 

have known 

Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone t 
Oh, yet forgive ! be all my guilt forgot. 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot t" 

" 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 these are traced, 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced t 
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 I 
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 lol 
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 1 
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 pare. 
And calm, deep sadness marks each mourner's fate, 
And all is hush'd till he who seems to wait 
In silent, stern devotednc-ss, 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 pas 
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 t> 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast, 
Where, in that hour, her head may calmlv n t 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 I 
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 1 
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 1 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 1 who may paint 
The grief, to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, th' 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 1 

It was not form'd for earth. 
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 
Which brightly past, 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 shall 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 I 
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 I 
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 shaft 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 I 
Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest!" 

A few short years, and in the lone.y cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hairnet's grave. 
Bever'd in life, united in the tomb 
Buch of the hearts that loved BO well, the doom 1 



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 tho 
Who thus have BufTer'd, and who thus repose. 

NOTES. 



NOTB 1. 

Not the light uunbra. 
Zambra, > Mooruh dance. 

NOTES. 

Within tht hall of Liora, 

The nail of Lions was the principal one ol the Albambra, an*! 
was 90 called from twelve sculptured lions, which supported aa 
alabaster basin in the centre. 

NOTB 3. 

Hit Abm-Zurrahi there young Hamet leadi. 
Aben-Zurrahs ; the name thui written is taken from the tranala- 
tionof an Arabic MS. given in the 3d volume of Bourgoanne's Tra- 
vels through Spain. 

NOTE 4. 
The Pega't green expann 



actic 



NOTE 5. 
Seen 'midst tht rednen of the desert ttorm. 



NOTB 6. 

Ktillneu like that, when fierce the Kamtm't Wait 
Hath o'er the dwelling! of the deiert fatted. 
Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have th 
following account in Volney's Travels : "These winds are knows 
in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because 
they prevail more frequently in the fifty days precedmgand follow- 
ing 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 subtile dust, which penetrates 
everywhere : respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched 
and dry, tb> lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed 
with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, irou, 
water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot : the streets are de- 
serted, and a dead silence appears everywhere. The natives of town 
and villages shut themselves up m their houses, and those of the 
desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, wliere they wait the termi 
nation of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to th* 
traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: be must suSei all 
iti dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal." 

NOTE 7. 

tPhtle ttarltu eyti enjoy the honey-dnet oftltrp. 
" Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber." Shakiptan. 

NOTK 8. 

On the green Vc&a won in tmgU fight. 

Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a singls) coDibat 
(in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada. 

NOTB 9. 

Who drank for man the bitter cup of tear/. 
" El Rev D. Fenundo bolvio a la Vega, y puso su Real a la vista 
de Hueca. , A veyui / seys dias del mes de Abril, adoude fue fort i 
ficado de todo lo necessario ; poniendo el Christiano todi su Rente en 
esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas. y su Real Eitandarte, el 
qual llevava nor d>n-a un Cbristo crucifieado." Hutoria it la 
Querraf Civile* de Granada. 

NOTK 10. 

from yon rich province of the western itar. 
Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, tht region of the evening or of tht 

wtst ; in a word, the Haperia of the Greeks See Corn Bibiiot 

Jtrabico-Hapana, and Gibbon'i Decline and Fall, 

NOTE 11. 

The mma-white charger, and the attire en*. 
" Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada libra azul y 
blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata. las plnmas de la misma 
color: an sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que des> 
quixalavan leones, y otrps no mundo que lo deehazia un selvage coo 
un baston." Guerrat Cifilu de Granada. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



NOTE 12. 

Th' eternal mow that croumt Veliia's head. 

I those called Malba- 

NOTE 13. 

The wounded lottght a sheltrr~-and expired. 
It if known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dyfnf 
Dd the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to tbc 
belter afforded by any bush or Tucket on the field. 

NOTE 14. 

Severely leauttout. 
* Severe in youthful beauty." Milton. 

NOTE 15. 

While streams, that bear thee treasure] m their wave, 
Granada stands upon two hills, separated by the Darro. The Genii 
runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry with its stream 
.mall particles of gold, and the Genii, 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 Bowgoaune's and other Travel*. 

NOTE 16. 

The hcarti of warriors echo to itt call. 

'At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were sunk in 
indolence, one of those men, whose natural and impassioned elo- 
quence 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 despera* 
tion, to attack the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his 
subjects than of the eneni;-. resolved immediately to capitulate, and 
made terms with the Chris>ians, by which it was agreed that the 
Moon should be allowed the free exercise of their religion and laws : 
shnuld be permitted, if they thought proper, to depart unmolested 
with their eflecls 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 liar- 
bary." See Jacob 1 ! Travel* in Spain. 

NOTE 17. 

Jzarquet, Zegris, Mmoradis, hear! 

Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moon of 
Grauada, all of high distinction. 

NOTE 18. 

Dyed with no blood but that of hostile lands. 
The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the civil dis- 
tensions which, at this period, prevailed in the city. Several of the 
Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, were fully prepared for 
tubmission to the Spaniards ; others had embraced the cause of Mu- 
l< v el Zaftal, the uncle and competitor for the throne of Abdallah (or 
Abo Abdeli), and all was jealousy and animosity. 

NOTE 19 

What TariKt bands o'eripnad the western short, 
Tarik, the first lea ler of the Arabs and Moors into Spain "Th 
Ksracens landed a! the pillar or point of Europe : the corrupt and 
familiar apoellation of Gibraltar (Rebel 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 adja 
cent governors informed the court of Toledo of the descent and pro- 
gross 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 
k ng of the Romans, which is employed by an Arabic historian, may 
bf excused by the close affinity of language, religion, and manners 
between the nations of Spain." Oibbon's Decline and fall, Hie. 
vol. ix. pp. 472, 473. 

NOTE 20. 

When the long combat raged on Seres' plain. 
" In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has been Inns 
trated 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 Xerts 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 ? Fol- 
low your general ; I am resolved either to lose my life, or to trample 
oti the prostrate king of the Romans.' Besides the resource of de- 
spair, he confided in the secret correspondence and nocturnal inter, 
views of count Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The 
two princes, and the archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most im> 
portant post: their well-timed defection broke the ranks of the 
Christians ; each warrior was prompted by fear or suspicion to con- 
sult his personal safety; and the remains of the Gothic army were 
scattered or destroyed in the flight and pursuit of the three following 
inyt."Uibbun's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. pp. 473, 474. 

NOTE 21. 

And Afnc's teebir swelled through yielding Spain. 
The tetbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in battle. 



I NOTE 22. 

Tour Ung hath yielded I Valour's dream a o'er. 
The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of popular feel, 
ing seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli s capitulation. " Ater- 
rado Abo Abdeli con el alborolo, y temiendo no ser ya el Dueno de 
un pueblo amotinado, se apresuro a concluir una capitulacion, la 
menos dura que podia obtener en tan urgentes circunstancias, y ofr 
cio enlregar a Granada el dia seis de Enero." Paseos en GranuUt- 
vol. i. p. 208. 

NOTE 23. 

Ye, that around the oaken cross of yore. 
aba oaken cross, carried by Falagius in battle. 

NOTE 24. 

Jnd thou, tht warrior, born in happy hour. 
See Scuthey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior is fro 
jbently styled, " he who was born in happy hour.'" 

NOTE 25. 

fen m the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriots vigilance, remembering Spain / 
"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 bpain, 
since the destruction of the kings of the Goths, the Cid Campeador 
remembered his country in that great danger ; for the night brfcrt 
the battle was fought at the Naras 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 vigi Is 
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 cauie there to call up King Don Ferrando 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 Toloea was 
fought, wherein sixty thousand of the misbelieve were slain, which 
was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the Moors." 
SouMey'i Chronicle of the Cid. 

NOTE 26. 
O realm of evening : 

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. 

NOTE 27. 

What banner streams afar from fela't tower T 
" En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes ne la Cn.i. 
de St lago. y el de los Reyes de Castilla se tremolaron sobre la torn 
mas alia, llamada de la Vtla. ; y un exercito prosternado, inundan- 
dose en lagrirnas de gozo y reconocimiento, asistio al mas glories* 
de los espectaculos." Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 299. 

NOTE 28. 

They reach those towers irregularly vast 
Jnarude they seem, in mould barbaric cast. 

Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by Charles T 
in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds : Adjoining (to ih, 
noith) 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, indis- 
putably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, perhaps 
:o Europe. In many countries you may see excellent modern tm 
well as ancient architecture, both entire and in ruins; but nothing 
to be met with anywhere else can convey an idea of this edifice, ex- 
cept you take it from the decorations of an opera, or the tale* of the 
genii." Swinburne's Travels through Spain. 

NOTE 29. 

A genii palace an Arabian heaven. 

' Passing round the corner of the emperor's palace, you are ad- 
mitted at a plain unornamented door, in a corner. On my first visit, 
I confess, I was struck with amazement as I slept 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 dtl 
Mesucar, that is, the common baths : an oblong square, with a deep 
bason of clear water in the middle ; two flights of marble steps lead- 
ing 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 ceil- 
ings 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. 

NOTE 30. 

Borders the walls in characters of gold 

The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with inscrip- 
tions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode of magnifi- 
cence," says Bourgoanne, " the observer is every moment astonished 
at the new and interesting mixture of architecture and poclry. To* 
palace of the Alhambra may be called a collection of fugitive pieces ; 
and whatever duration these may have, time, with which everything 
passes away, has too mudi contributed to confirm to them that title." 
See Bourgoannt's Travels in Spain. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



NOTE 31. 

TamlKinr, and flute, and atabal, an Oun. 
Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

NOTE 32. 

Gra-nada ! for Castile and Arragon t 

* T ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, y ncima 
t la torre de Comaros tan famosa se levantn la senal de la Snnta 
Criz, y lueiro el real estandarte de los dos Christianas reyes. Y a 1 
punto los reyes de armas, a grandes bozes dizieron, 'Uranada ! Gra 
ada! por su magestad, y por la reyna su muger.' La serenissima 
reyna I). Isabel que vio la senal de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa 
torre de Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hinro de R<>- 
dillas, y dio infinitas gracias a L)ios por la victoria que le av.a dado 
contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del rey 
lueco a canto de organo canto Te Deum laudamus. Fue tan grande 
el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra sonaron mil in- 
strunientos de musica de bellcas trompetas. Los Moros amigos del 
rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya cabeza era el valeroso Muca, 
tomaron mil dulzaynas y anafiles, sonando grande ruydo de atambores 
por toda la ciudad." Hittoria de lot Guerrat Cinder de Granada. 

NOTE 33. 

The fatal lampi innumerably Ware. 

" Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche jugaron 
galanamente alcancias y canas. Andava Granada aquella noche con 
tanla alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que parecia que se ardia la 
tierra " Hittoria de lot Guerras Civile* 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 fes- 
tival and day of rejoicing; and that the populace on that occasion 
paid an annual visit to the Moorish palace. 

NOTE 34. 

To A frit's teildt the royal exile flia. 

" tot Gomelea todos se passaron en Africa, y el Rey Chlco con 
ellos, que no quiso ettar en Espana, y en Africi le mataron lo Moros 
de aquellu paries, porque perdio a Granada." Outrrat Cradst sh 
Uranada. 



NOTE 35. 

Of kirn tofc) knew not, at a man, to die, 

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 Ayia : "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." 



Orv 

Abencerrage. M Quemst 



NOTE 36. 

Th' avengir't task it doted. 
" El rey mando, que si quedavan Zegris, Q,u< 
nada, por la maldad que hizieron c 
Civila de Granada. 

NOTE 37. 

'AfiM the wild Ah'uxarrnt. 

" The Alpunrras are so lofty that the coast of Rarbary, and ths) 
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 In* 
Moon took refuge." Baurgoanne't Traveli in Spain. 

NOTE 38. 

Wen but too blat if aught remained le fear. 
" Pint a Dieu que je eraigniae "Andromaqut, 

NOTE 39. 

Rival the tinti that float o'er rammer Oun. 
Mrs. Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the Rhine, thin 
-fesrrihes the colours of the granite rocks in the mountains of the 
lu'fstrasse. "The nearer we approached these mountains, the mor 
*r. bad occasion lo admire the various tints of their granites. Some- 
S~et 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 top near them 
heights to be deceived by the illusions of aerial colouring ; the real 
of their feature! were as beautiful, mi their magnitude WM 



TH1 



WIDOW OF CEESCENTIUS. 



' L'orage pent brtaer en nn moment lea flenra qni tiennent encore la tete leTee." Mad. <h StatL 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



" In the reign of Otho III., Emperor of Germany, the Roman*, excited by their Consul, Crescen- 
tins, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the republic, made a hold 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 afterward, con 
tinned to he called the Tower of Crescentins. 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 nufortnnate leader was betrayed into his 
power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephana, 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 Oarganna, 
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 afterward the cause 
ef his painful death." See Sitmondi History of the JtalUm Republics, vol. 1. 



THE 



WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



PART I. 

MIDST Tivoli's luxuriant glade*, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwell, 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; (11 
The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the varnish'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 ?(2) 
Now Athens weeps her shatter'd fanes. 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tiber'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 : 
Fach relic utters Fate's decree. 
The future as the past shall he. 

Halls of the dead I in Tiber's vale. 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale? 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, Ihe 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 betnty o'er decay. 
And sunshine, on ei.ch glowing hill, 
'Midst ruins finds a Jwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace, hut thy tomb, 
lludrian I hath shaied a prouder doom, (3) 
Though vanisli'd with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
And 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: (4) 
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 the imperial tomb a name. 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die; (5) 
And thou, whose Roman soul the last. 
Spoke with the voice of ages p&st, (6) 
Whoe 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, 
Rienza ! 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, 
Could'st gaze on Rome yet not despair! (7) 

'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 wild Campaena's solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanisli'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 ; 
Andlleaven'sown light. Ear til'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 plaint 
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 
And'they, the Pleiades of earth, 
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth 
(41) 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Lie spread beneath: not now her glance 
Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse ; 
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 
On Hadrian'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, 
Bought 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 I 
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 dye* 
Seem from the fire within to rise ; 
But deepen'd by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given 
Italian nrt 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 Hadrian's tomb hath ceased to wave 
'Tis lower'd and now Stephanie'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-nymphs 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, 
Cretcentius. 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, 
yuick 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 lives 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 ? 
O worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride I 
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, (8) 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : (9) 
Th' illusions that around her cast 
Their guardian spells have long been past. (10,' 
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 lix'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 chancres 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 1 
He heard it, and, at once subdued, 
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude, 
lie heard it, and his heart too well 
Whence rose that voice of woe can tellj 
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 agonizing 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. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 
IB scatter'd ne'er to reunite. 



PART H. 

HAST thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled 1 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of libeity'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 ; 
O 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 I (11) 
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 1 
Hath not thy pure and genial air 
Balm for all sadness but despair ? (12) 
No I there are pangs, whose deep-worn trace 
Not all thy magic can efface I 
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 I 

Where through Gargano's woody dells, 
O'er bending oaks the north-wind swells, (13 
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, (14 
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 tho lonely shade 1 



Years have gone by ; the hermit sleep* 
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 
Aerial 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 4 
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 Mf, 
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 I 
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 sufler'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 unhow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreijn to the heart. 
And rushing with an earthquake's powef . 
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 truce. 
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 Iip\. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow: 
And toft 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 Oiho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay. 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Par distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along, 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scattered o'er the silent plains; 
Or, lingering 'midst each niin'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, whe'n Rome 
Seems of heroic shade* the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recall* 
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 gramleiir in each tone, 
Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain, 
Young Guidol for awhile forgot, 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 
And rouse th 1 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 ex'ultinglyl 
And pour upon th' enraptured ear 
Such strains as warriors love to heart 
Let the rich mantling goblet flow. 
And banish al! 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! 

A way, vain dream ! on Otho's brow 
Still darker lowers the shadows now ; 
''hanged are his features, now, o'erspread 
With the. cold paleness of the dead ; 
Now erimson'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 1" 

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 stern 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 tliou quaffd ; 
And bitter as thy pangs may be, 
They are but guerdons meet from me I 
Yet, these are but a moment's throes, 
Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 
Soon shall 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 ToidT 
It is not phrenzied, but destroy'd 1 
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 1 
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. 
Prom peace, and light, and glory huri'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 fulfil I'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 h -art had shrunk from such a scene; 
That feeling long is past my fate 
Hath made 'me stern as desolate. 



nd. 



" Ye, that around me shuddering sta 
Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 
Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom f 
Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tombT 
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 1 
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 seen* 
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! shaft find repote.- 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eyet 
A few short hours and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh! thus with tempests of a day 

7 e struggle, and we pass away 



HEMANB' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 tr-ad, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



NOTES. 



NOTE 1. 

O'er Hadrian't mouldering villa twine. 

" .Petals alle passer quelques jours seul a Tivoli. Je partocrus les 
nviroris, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris rur la pluie 
au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai dans les Salles d3 funnel 
voisins du Pecile (monumens de la villa), sous un fipuierfll' avait 
renverse le pan d'un mur en s'elevant. Dans un petit salon octo- 
pme, (uvffrt devant moi. une vigne vierpe avait perce la voute de 
''edifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et torlueux. montait le long du 

mines, s'ou<fi.ient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. 
Des burasons de sureau remplissaient les salles desertes ou venaient 
se rpfngier qne'qnes merles solitaires. Les fragmens de maconnerie 
e-aienl tapisses des feuilles de scolopendre, aont la verdure satinee ae 
densinait comme un travail en niosaique sur la blanrheur des mar. 
bres : ea et la de hauts cypres remplacaient les colonnes tombees 
dans ces palais de la Mort ; 1'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs pieds, 
sur des debris, comme si la nature t'elait plu a reproduire sur cea 
tbef-d\ruvre mutile d'architecture, 1'ornament de leur beaute pas- 
tee." Chaieaubi iaild Souvenir! (f Italic. 

NOTE 2. 

Of each imperial monument. 

The gardent and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies of the 
most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions ; the Lycssum, 
the Acadcmia. the Prytaneam of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at 
Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c- 

NOTE 3. 

Sunk is thy palace, tut thy tomb, 
Hadrian 1 hath snared a prouder doom. 

The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St. Annlo. was 
fir.l converted into a citadel by Belmriu-, in his successful defence 
af Rome against the Goihs. ' 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 Ihe 
heads of the besiegers." He adds, in a note, that the celebrated 
Sleeping Faun of me Barbariui palace was found, in a mutilated 
stale, when the ditch of St. Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. 
In the middle ages, the moles Hadriatii was made a permanent for- 
tress 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 

NOTE 4. 

Baoe found, like glory't telf, a grave 
In time's abyss, or Tier's wave. 

" Les plus beaux monument dec arts, les plus admirable* statues 
ont etes jetees dans le Tifare, et sont cachees sous ses dots. Qui sail 
'i. pour let cbeicher, on ne ledeiournera pas un jour de ton lit? 
Mais quand on songe que les clief-d'uvres du genie humain sont 
oeut-etre la devant nous, et qu'un ceil plus percant les verrait a Ira- 
Jtrs lei ondes, 1'on eprouve je ne sais quelle emotion qui renait a 
Home sans cesse sous diverse! formes, et fait trouver une societe 
(our la pensee dans les objets physiques, muets pirtout ailleurs."* 
Had. de Staei. 

NOTE 5. 

There doted De Bracia't mutton high, 
From thence the patriot came to die. 

Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Ro- 
snan liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitu- 
tion of the republic, was put to dealh in the year 1155, by Adrian 
| IV. This event is thus described by Sitmondi, Hiitoire det Repub- 
Hquet Italiennet, vol. ii. pages 66 and 69. " Le prefect demeura 
dans le chateau Saint Ange avec SOD prisonnier ; il le fit transporter 
un matin sur la place destinee aux executions, devant la Porte du 
Peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, eleve sur un bucher, fut attache a un 
po'eau, en face du Cprso. II pouvo^ mesurer rits yeux les trois 
tongues rues qui abou'istoieqt devant son echafa/tf ; elles font pres* 
qu'une anoitie de Rome. C'est la qu'habitomX les hommes qu'il 
avoit ti touvent appeles a la Itberte. lit repos* Knt encore en paix, 
ignorant le danger de leur teeislateur. Le tun ulte de 1'execution et 
la flamme du bucher reveifleren! les Romains; ils s'armerent, ils 
accoururent, mats trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repousserent, 
avec leur lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, votlloient du 
oioint recueillir tea cendres comme de precieuses reliques." 

NOTE 6. 

Spdkt with the voice ofaget pall. 

"Posterity will compare Ihe virtues and failings of this extraor- 
dinary man ; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude the name 
of Rienzi has often been celebrated as Ihe deliverer of hit country, 
and the last of Ihe Roman patriots." GiWwn's Decline and Fall, 
tc. vol xi,. p. 362. 



NOTE 7. 

Couldxt gaxe on Rome yet not despair ! 

" Le consul Terentius Varron avoit ful honteusement jusqu'a Ve- 
nouse: cet homme de la plus batse naissance, n'avoit etc eleve aa 
consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse : mais le senat ne voulul pas 
jouir de ce malbeureux triomphe ; il vit combien il etoit necessaire 
qu'il s'atlirat dans cette occasion la con fiance du peuple. il alia au- 
aevant Varron, et le remercia de ce gu'ti u'avoit vat deiapere de I* 
republique." Mtjntetquieu. Grandeur et Decadence det Rnrnain* 

NOTE 8. 

Vain dream I the sacred ihieldt are gone. 

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'i reign a pestilence prevailed in Italy ; Rum* 
also felt its ravages. While the people were greatly dejected, we 
are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the bands of 
Numa. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received from 
Egena and the Muses: that Ihe buckler was sent down for the pre- 
servation of the city, and should be kept with great care: that 
eleven others should be made as like it as possible iu tize and 
fashion, in order that if any person were disposed In steal it, ha 
might not be able to dwinguish that which fell From heaven from 
Ihe rest. He further declared, that Ihe place, and the meadows about 
it, where he frequently conversed with the Muses, should b. conse- 
crated to those divinities; and that the spring which watered Ihe 
ground should be sacred to Ihe use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to 
sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the 
pestilence is aid to have confirmed the truth of this account." 
Life of Numa. 

NOTE 9. 

Sunk it the crowning city's throne. 

" Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning city, 
whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable 
of the earth ?" haiah, chap, xxiii. 

NOTE 10. 

Their guardian ipellt have long been post. 
" Un melange bizarre de grandeur d ame, et de foiblesse entroi' 
des cette epoque (1'onzieme tlecle) dans le caractere des domain-. 
Un mouvement genereux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-a- 
coup a I'abaltement ; ils passoient de la liberle la plus orageuse, a la 
servitude la plus avilissante. On auroit dil que les ruines et lea 
portiques deserts de la capilale du monde, entretenoient ses habitant 

de leur domination passee, les citoyens eprouvoient d'une manient 
trop decourageante leur propre nullite. Le nom des Remains qu'ils 
portoient ranimoit freo,uetnment leur enthousbsme, comme il le ra 
mine encore aujourdtiui; mais bientot la vue df Rome, du Forum 
desert, des sept collinet de nouveau rendues au patunge des Irou- 
peaux, des temples desoles, des monumens tombant en rume, les ra- 
menoit a tentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Romains d'autrefois." Ota- 
mondi. Hittoire da Repulliquu Italiennet, vol. i. p. 172. 

NOTE 11. 

Lingered the lord of eloquence f 

" As tor Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, 
ne immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circseum with 
a favourable wind. The pilots were preparing immediately to sail 
from thence, but whether it was that he feared Ihe sea, or had nnt 
yet given up all his hopes in Csnar, he disembarked, and travelled 
a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his 
destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, be 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 Cesar'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 ihis by ihe fear of torture. Oiher alterna- 
tives equally distressful presented themselves. At last he put him- 
telf in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by 
tea tnCajela, where he had a delightful retreat in the summer, when 
Ihe Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that 
coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towardt 
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 wrnt 
on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In 
the mean time a number of crows settled in the chamber-'vindnw, 
and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them evei. entered 
il, and alighting on Ihe bed, attempted, with its beak, to draw off 
the clothes with which he had covered hit face. On light of this, 
the servants began to reproach themselves. ' Shall we,' said they, 
1 remain to be spectators of our master's murder? Shall we not pm 
tect him, to innocent and so great a sufterer as he is, when the bru 
creatures give him marks of their care and attention ?' Then, par I 
by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into bis litter, and eat; 
him towards the tea." Plutarch. Lift of Cicero. 

NOTE 12. 

Calm for all tadnut tut despair f 

Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." Milton, 

NOTE 13. 

O'er bending ooJa the narth-wmd twettt. 

Mount Gargano. u This ridge of mountains form* a rery large 
promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from Utf 



40 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Apennines on the west by (be plain of Lucera and San Severn. W 
look a ride into the heart or the mountains through shady delli and 
noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that 
in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged 
side* of Garganus. 

Aquilonibut 

Querceta Gargani laborant, 

Et fbliis viduantur o 



Thr is a respectable brat of mitres* sad comae on, p 



hornbeam, chestnut, and mann 
duxriously cultivated, and see 
Uon." Swinburntl Traveli. 



i-aah. The sheltered valleri are n 
n to be bleat with luzuriut vegtta- 



XOT* 14. 

Then " bright apptarancu" have tmHed. 
' In yonder nether world where shall I seek 
His) bright appearances, or fooUlep tract r" J 



THE LAST BANQUET 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



1 Antony, concluding that he could not die more hon- 
ourably than in battle, determined to attack Cesar a( 
the same time both by sea and land. The night pre- 
ceding the execution of this design, he ordered hw 
servants at supper to render him their best service! 
that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for 
the day following they might belong to another mas- 
ter, whilst he lay extended on ihe ground, no lon?er 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 assu- 
rances 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 dny, on a sudden was 
heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise 
which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. 
This tumultuous procession seemed to past iirough 
the whole city, and to go out at the gate wr.Jch led 
to t> enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this 
prodiey concluded that Bacchus, the god whom An- 
tony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him " 

l.anekornc'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, 

[ti gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 
And brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 

A thousand lamps tin ir trembling lustre shed 
O'er many a column rich with trembling dyes. 
That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing 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 

[n god-like beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ' ^ow unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! in every face, 
Pome shadow from the tempest of the mind 

Rising by fits, this searching t-ye 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 tran- 
sient bloom 

May still survive the wearers and the rose 
Perchance may scarce he 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! 



"' epair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possess'a 
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged fe 
rest. 

Its joys! oh! mark yon proud triumvir's mien. 

And rea I thnir 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 stampof 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 stern 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 seum'st as empire had not pass'd away. 
Supreme in ruin 1 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 he 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 illumined 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 frou 
the chain. (1) 

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 woeil 
While he so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen Roman, ua7.es on thee yet. 
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soar'd, 

Can deem the day-star of its glorv set ; 
(V) 



48 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Fcare his oharm'd heart believesthat power can be 
la sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondiy 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!" hj cries, 

' Quaff, ere we part, tho generous nectar deep! 
Ere sunset gi'd once more the western skies, 

Your chietinco d f'irKetfiiilness may s'eep, 
"Whi'e sounds of re ve' float o'er shore and sea, 
And the red bowl again is crowu'd but not forme. 
"Yet weep not thus the strugf!^ is not o'er, 

O victors of Philippi ! many a field 
Hath yielded pa'ms to us: one effort more, 

By one stern couflict must our doom beseal'dl 
Forget not, Romans ! oVr a subject wor d 

How roya'ly your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though from his pyrii of dominion hur^'d 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head ; 
Yet sovereign sti 1, if banished 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 looka cloudless or a world of sleep; 
For those who wait the mem 'a awakening beams, 

The battle signal to decide their doom, 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; 

Best, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb. 
Dreams, dark and ominous, but thereto cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude aud 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 f orth,conf used and 

shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streetsthe 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 voicesclamerous 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: 
Arid 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 1 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Cffisar's cunip exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals thy doom "Despair 
and die !" (9.) 



, 

inful in the operation, she tried 

the capital convicts. Such poisons aa were quick in their 
, she found to be attended with violent pain and convul- 



NOTES. 



NOTE 1. 

Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain, 
Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being d 

to ascertai 

tbem 

operation, 

sions ; such as were mildest were slow in their effect : she therere 

applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures ; at .ength 

she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of doth. 

for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy. See Plutarch. 

NOTE 2. 
Despair and die! 

>nd bll thyedgeleu iword; despair and die' 

Richard Uf 



in 



After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the 
German and Scythian hordes, united under the com- 
mand of Alarlc, the historian of "The Decline and 
Pall of the Roman Empire," thus proceeds: "Whether 
fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alarie, 
he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardonr, 
which could neither be quelled by adversity, nor satia- 
ted by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme 
land of Italy, than ha was attracted by the neighbour- 
ing prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even 
the possession of Sicily he considered only as an inter- 
mediate step to the important expedition which he al- 
ready meditated against the continent of Africa. The 
straits of Kheginm 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 rf Scylla, and the whirlpool of CharylKjiB, 
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 Alarie, 
which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his 
conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarian? 
was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour 
and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. 
By tSc labor of a captive multitude they forcibly di- 
verted tie course of the Busentinus, a small river that 
washes tee 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, wtere the remains of Alarlc had been deposited, 
was forever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the 
prisoners who had been employed 'o execute the work." 
See The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. 
p. 329. 



HEARD ye the Gothic trumpet's blast? 
The march of hosts, as Alarie 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.(l) 
Nor heurd 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 Thermopylae? 
And left they riot their silent dwelling, 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling 7 
\o! 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 not Camilius from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol again ? 
Oh! who shall tell the days to be, 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



49 



Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast 1 
The march of hosts, as Alaric pass'd? 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep, (2) 
Burst on th' 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 criea 
Pour'd from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gavo 
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 1 
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 nojth, 
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, 
iVhose glassy waves in sunshine sleep; 
(c'eneath your olive and your vine 

ar other inmates now recline 
And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 
With rich libations duly shed,(M) 
O'er guests, unlike your vanishM friends, 
lt bowery canopy extends : 
For them the southern heaven is glowing, 
The bright Falernian nectar flowing; 
Fur 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 Pa-stan roses twine. 
To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 
Vet 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 lire of heaven, 
Enshrining in the forms he wrought 
A bright eternity of thought, 
lu vain the natives of the skies 
In breathing marble round them rise. 
And sculptured nymphs, of fount or glade 
People the dark-green laurel sharie; 
Cold is the conqueror's heart and eye 
To visions of divinity; 
And ruife his hand which dares deface 
The models of immortal grace. 

Arouse ye from your soft delights I 
I'hieftaiiis! the war-note's call invite*; 

Vnd other lands must yet be won, 

\nd 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,(4) 
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 conqueror hath been there 1 
A conqueror yet his paths are peace. 
He comes to bring the world's release; 
He of the sword that knows no sheath, 
Tir avenger, the deliver Death 1 

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 cnlm at length. 
The land where heaven unclouded shines, 
Where sleep the sunbeams on the viuog ; 
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 I 
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 tliou, 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, 
Th' 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 th-n and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept; 
Temples of gods, and douit-s of kinars, 
Are moulderiiie with forirotten things; 
Yet shall not asn-s e'er molest. 
Thi> viewles-! home nf Marie's rest: 
Still rolls, like thriii. til' unfailing river, 
The guardian of his dust for ever. 



NOTES. 

NOTE 1. 

Spared not the living for the rfeorf. 
After the taking nf Athens by Sylla, "thmish s 



put 



h numbers wtn 

ord,"there were as many who laid violent hindi npoo 
in irrief fnr their sinking country. What reduced th 
best men among them to this despair of find in? any mercy or mode- 
rate terms for Athens, was 'he well-known cruelty of Sylla: et 
partly by the intercession of Midirw and Calliphon, and the exilei 
who threw (hemsehes at his feet, partly by rhe entreaties nf tha 
senators who attended him in 'hat expedition, and being himself sa- 
tiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop hi 
hand, and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, u he for- 
pive the many for the sake of the few, {he living for tla dtad. r - 
Plutarxh. 



50 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



NOTE 2. 

That fearful sound, at midnight deep. 

" At the hour of midnight, the Salarian ca'e was silently opened, 
it.- the inhabitant! were awakened by the tremendous sound of the 
Gnhic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the 
foundation of Rome, the imperial ci'y, which hid subdued and civi 
lized so considerable a portion of mankind, was delivered to the li- 
tentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia." Decline and 
Full of the Raman Empire, vol. v. p. 311. 

NOTE 3. 

With rich libationi duly ihed, 

The plane-tree was much cultivated amon? the Romans, on ac- 
unt of its extraordinary shaoe; and they used to nourish it with 
ine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observesj that 
Th's tree loved that liqu >r as well as those who used to drink un- 
ler its shade." &e the notet to MtlmolKs Pliny. 

NOTE 4. 

Soon thaU the itle of Cera toeep. 

Sicily wan anciently considered as the fivoure/ 1 and peculiar do- 
Minion of Ceres. 



WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



"This governor, who had braved death when it WM at 
a distance, and protested that the sun should never 
see him survive Carthage, this fierce Asdrubal, wai 
c mean-spirited, as to come alone, and privately 
throw himself at the conqueror's (eel. The general, 
pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted hii 
life and kept him to grace his triumph. The Cartha- 
ginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their 
commander had abandoned the place, than they 
threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in pos- 
session of Byrea. The Romans had now no enemy 
to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, 
being reduced to despair, retired into the temple Oi 
Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the 
first ; there the proconsul attacked them; anrl these un- 
happy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, 
eet fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they re- 
treated frnm one part to another, till they got to the 
roof of the building ; there Asdruhal's wife ap- 
peared 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 
hnst done tn save thy life shall not avail thee : thou 
(halt 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 L'niver- 
lal 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 VI by the wind, they wave while glares th 

' 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 victor's tents with ivy crown'd.* 
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, 
Rut a wild couraee sits triumphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; 
A ilaring spirit, in its wors elate, 
Mighti r than death, imtamo.ible by fate; 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound, 
Waves lik" a warrior's floating plumage round; 
Flufh'd is> h r cheek, inspired her haughty mien, 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 

Are those her i.it'a Ms, that with suppliant cry. 
Cling round Iier, shrinking as llir rlanu- draws nig ii 
Clasp with their feeble hands hrr 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 cliil>. run's martyrdom; 
Who, when his countiy prrish'd, tied the strife, 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
"Live, traitor, live!" she cries, "since dear to 

thee. 

E'en in tliy fetters, can existence be ! 
Scorn'd and dishonour'd live ! with hla?ted name, 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, i> .t shame. 
O slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain. 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes 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, shall yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not? 'T was 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-bloc.. 

streams; 

With frantic laugh she clasps them to her 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 mortt 

eyt. 

* It was a Roman custom to adorn the tent* of victors with >T 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



in the ^Temple. 



From Maccabees, book 2. chapter iii. 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 pure, for those that had committed 
them. 23. Nevertheless. Heliodorus executed that 
which was decreed. 24. Now as he wag there pre- 
sent himself with his i/uard 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 
in with him were astonished at the power of God, 
and fa.nted, 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 Httliodorus with hut fore- 
feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had 
a complete harness of gold. 2ti. Moreover, two other 
young men appeared lietbre 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 Heliodo- 
rus 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 mani- 
festly 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 (laughters. 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 dis 
may ; 

While knelt thy priests before Ms 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 rrsn, with eye unhallow'd, views th' abode. 

The serer'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 hlest? 

Thou! I hat didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne, 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God! that through th' Assyrian host. 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour. 

To tariif the proud, to hush th' invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avengirie power. 

Till hur?t the day-sprins on the silent scene. 

And death alone reveal'd where thou hadst hoen 

ilt thou not wake, O Chastener ! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill. 

Where oft froin heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath stream'd, the house of holiness to fill ? 

Oh! yet once more di/fcnd thy loved domain, 

Eternal one! Delivfrer! 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 Ais heart though age unsuccour'd die 

And want consume the cheek of infancy? 

Away, intruders ! hark ! a mighty sound 1 
Behold a burst of light ! away, away 1 

A fearful glory fills the temple round, 
A vision bright in terrible array 1 

And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 

His path a whirlwind, and his breath a flame! 

His neck is clothed with thunder* and his nmnr 
Seems waving fire the kindling of his eye 

Is as a meteor ardent with disdain 
His glance his gesture, fierce in majesty! 

Instinct with liehl he seems, and form'd to hear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, 

Throned on that burning cimrger ? bright hi 

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 with 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 p,tle 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
Mists, as of death, s ispend 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 theirdreadful 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 1 thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA 



[From Siemondfs " Repu.bliqncs ftaliennet "J 
En meme temps que lea Genois poursuivoient avec ar 
deur la guerre centre Pise ils etoient dechires eux- 
memes par une diseorde civile. Le consuls de Tan- 
nee 1169, pour etablir la paix dans leur patrie au 
milieu des factions gourdes a leur voix et plus puis 
sanies qu' eux, furent obliges d'ourdir en quelque 
sorte une conspiration. Ils commencerent pars'assu 
rer secretement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs 
des citoyens, qui cependant etoient entraines dang les 
emeutes par leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; 
puis. se concertant avee le venerable vieillard, Hugues, * 
leur archeveque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du 
solid, nppelerau son des cloches les citoyens au parle- 



' Hant ilmn e ; vf n >he horre strength ? Hut thou clothed hi i 
i'h Ihnntfer '''Job, xxxix. 19. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



eette convocation inattendue, au milieu de I'obacu- 
rite de la nuit rendroit I'assemblee et plus complete el 
plus docile. Lea citoyens, en aecourant au parlement 
general, virent, au milieu de la place puhlique. le vieil 
archeveque, entourede son clergeen habit de ceremo- 
nies, et portant des torches allumees, tandig que les re- 
liques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, 
etoient exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens leg 
plug respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix sup- 
pliantes. Des que 1'assemblee fut formee, le vieillard se 
leva, et de sa voix cassee il con jura les chefs ile parti, 
au nom du Dieu de paix au nom du salut de leure 
ames. au nom de leur patrie et de la liberte, dont leurs 
discordes entrnineroient la ruine, de jurer sur 1'evan- 
gile 1'oubli de leure querelleg, et la paix a venir. 

' Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avancerenl 
aussitot vera Roland Avogado, le cbef de 1'une des 
factions, qui etoit present a 1'assemblce, et, secondes 
par les acclamations de tout le peuple, et par les pri- 
eres de ses parens eux-memes, ils le gommerent de se 
conformer au voeu des consuls et de la nation. 

" Roland, a leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asse- 
yant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela a haute 
voix les morU qu'il avoit jure de venger, et qui ne lui 
permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. 
Comme on ne pouvoit le determiner a s'avancer, les 
consuls eux-memes, I'archeveque et le clerge g'np- 
procherent de lui, et, renouvelant leurs prieres, ils 
1'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur 1'evangile 
1'oubli de ses inimities passees. 

* Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et 
Ingo de Volta, n'etuient pas presens a 1'assemblee, 
tnais le peuple et le clerge se porterent en foule a 
leurs maisons ; ils les trouverent deja enranle* par ce 
qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, profitant de leur emo- 
tion, ils leur firent jurer une reconciliation sincere, et 
donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction oppo- 
gee. AloYs les cloches de )a ville sonnerent en to- 
moignge d' allegresf e, et PrchVPqtw do rofnnr gur 
la place publique entonna un To Devm avec toute le 
peuple, en honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve 
jeur patrie." Uistoire dc3 Republiquet Italiexnet 
rol. ii. p. 149150. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



IN Genoa, when the sunset eavo 
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 alnnu-b ll'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; 
Throiish darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold councils 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 Moating o'er each tall arcade. 
Around the pillar'd scene display'd, 
In light reveal'd 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 aeed patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resign'd, 
The calm sublimity of mind. 
Years o'er hi* snowy head had 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 lisht 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 hy naught 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 whisppr'd sound ; 
Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glanet 
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 forgi've ; 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine, 
Each ancient feud in peace atone, 
Wiekl 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 bis robes he sternly speaks 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks. 

" Father ' not thus the wounds may C!OM 
Indicted by eternal foes. 
Deem'st thou thg mandate can efface 
The dread volcano's burning trace ? 
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 
Be smiling, as it once hath beenl 
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 1 
'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 flnme; 
Hearts that have long been still and COM 
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; 
Naught else can pay that mighty debt 
The dead forbid us to forget." 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



53 



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 tliou t/iey retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain I 
Of guilt incurr'd in days pone by. 
Aught but the fearful penalty? 
And say'st thou, mortal! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone ? 
There hath been blood by FIIM 't was shed 
To expiate every crime who bled ; 
Th' absolving GoJ \vho died to save, 
And rose in victory from the gravel 
And by that stainless offering given 
Alike from all on earth to heaven ; 
Bv 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 minplcd sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence, 
Pervading all his soul, lie bows 
To offer on the cross his vows. 
And that best incense to the skiei 
Bach evil passion's sacrifice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing. 
High hrarts 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, 
Hi see 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 sunbeam hears them on the deep, 
So mellow'd by the pale they seem 
As the wild music of a dream ; 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Feals the triumphant anthem's tone, 
For beings of a purer sphere 
tond with celestial joy to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR 

AMD 

RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 



1 Not only the place of Richard's confinement" (when 
thrown into prison by the l)uke of Austria.) if we be- 
lieve the literary history of the times, but even the 
circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed 
by his vindictive enemies: and both might have re- 
mained unknown but for ibe grateful attachment of 
a Provencal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who 
had shared that prince's friendship and tasted his 
bounty. Having travelled over all the European con- 
tinent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, 
Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain ens- 
ile in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction w 
confined and guarded with great vigilance. Per- 
suaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the 
King of England, tlie 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, gome 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. Troubailaurs.) To this discovery the Enelisb 
monarch is said to have eventually owed hie re- 
lease,.' ' 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 song of chivalry, 
His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine b'eeze- 
And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 
From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave 
He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brav* 
And yet, if still on earth thou art, 
O monarch of the lion-heart! 
The faithful spirit, wliich distress 
But heightens to devotedness, 
By toil and trial vanquished not. 
Shall guide thy minstrel to th-- .pot. 

He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine 
And woods that wave o'er tl< lovely Rhine; 
The feudal towers that crest Is height 
Frown in unconquerable mi, J.t ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullc i sta'.e, 
No helmet hangs o'er the m&ssy ^ate(i) 
To bid the wearied pilgrim lest, 
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 or high, 
Like a thundercloud 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 prison' r 6 moan, 
Or the wild huntsman's bugle-bl ' 
When his phantom-train are burning past (21 



54 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



The weary minstrel paused his eye 

Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 

Within the lengthening 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, hy tempests riven. 

Yet mingling with the calm blue heaven. 

Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 

But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below ; 

In purple lints 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 (3) its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 
'T was 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. 

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 professM, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine, 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vert, 

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? 

' 1 have stood where thousands by Salem's tower*, 

Have fallen 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." 

" Ihavebeen where thecrown 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 fathers' 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 V 



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 ! lr:ft 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, (4) 
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. 



NOTES. 

NOTE 1. 

So Mmtt Hanfi o'er the masfy gate. 

It was a custom in feudal times lo hang out a helmet on acastta, 
a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospi- 
tality. So in the romance of ' Perceforest,' " 11s fasoient mettre au 
plus hault de leur hostel un htaulme, en signe qne tons les gentill 
homines et gentilles femmes entranent hardimeiit ei leur hostel 
comnie en leor propre." 

NOTE 2. 

Or thi wild huntttiifin's bu^le-blast, 

When hit phan'oni-train art tiurriiing pait. 

Popular tradition has made several mountains in Germany the 

haunt of the wild Jagfr. or supernatural huntsman the superstitious. 

tales relating to the Unterbunr are recorded in Eustace's Classical 

Tour; aud it is still believed in tlie romantic district of the ("Men. 

wald, that the knight of Rodenstem, issuing from his ruined castle, 

Esuouncee the approach of war by traversig the air with a uoisy 

armament to the opposite castle of Schuellerts. See the Manud 

fottr let Koyoffeur* rar le Xhin, and Jii*luum on the Xhiru. 



NOTE 3. 
OH the Great Plain iti nota hav 



Great 



The plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the "Gre 
Plain ;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the " Field of Megiddo, ' t 
" Galilean Plain." This plain, the most fertile of all the land of C 
naan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the firs! 
ages of Jewish tratory, 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 Nabuehodonosor, king of the Assyrians, until the disastrous 
march of Bonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out of " every 
nation which is under heaven" have pitched their tents upon the Plain 
if Esdraeloa, and have beheld the various banners of their natioBi 
et with the dews of Hermon and Thabor. Dr. Clarlx'i Travels 

NOTE 4. 

The gem on the botom of the wave. 
" This precious stone set in the silver sea." 
VOL . I .15 Shalutfeart't KclWffi II 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



55 



of 



[From Sismondi's "Republiques Italiennct. 1 '] 
La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre uno terms 
ni a see malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charlei 
d'Anjou). L' amour du peuple pour 1'heritier legitime 
du trone, avoit eclate d'une maniere clTrayanto; ilpou- 
voit causer de nouvelles revolutions, si Conradin du- 
meuruit en vie ; et Charles, revetant sa defiance et sa 
cruaute des formes de la justice, resolut de faire perir 
gur 1'ecbafaud le dernier rejeton de la Muison do 
Souabe, 1'unique esperance de son parti. Un seul juge 
Provencal et sujet de Charles, dont lea historiens n'onl 
pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, 
d'autres se rentermerent dans un tiniide et coupable 
silence; et Charles, sur 1'autorite de ce seul juge, fit 
pronouncer, par Robert de Baii, protonotaire du roy- 
auine, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et lous ses 
compagnong. Cette sentence tut communiquee a Con- 
radin, comme iljouoitaux echecs ; on lui laissa peu 
de temps pour se preparer a eon execution, et le 26 
d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la 
Place du Marche de Naples, le long du rivage de la 
mer. Charles etoit present, avec tout sa cnur, et une 
foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueuret le roi con- 
damne. Conradin etoit entre les mains des bourreaux; il 
detanha lui meme son manteau, et s'etant mis a genoux 
pour prier, il sereleva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, 
quelle profonde douleur te causera la nbuvelle <ju on 
va te porter de moi !' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la 
foule qui 1'entouroit; il vit les larmes, it entendit leg 
sanglots de son peuple ; alors, detachaut son gant, il 
jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un combat de 
vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. Apres lui, 
sur le memeechafaud, Charles fit trancher la tete au 
Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Barto- 
lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Geiaid de Galvano 
Douoratico de Pise. Par une rafinement de cruaute, 
Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, precedat 
son pere, mourut entve ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres 
ses ordres, furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes 
eans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. ce- 
pendant fit dans la suite batir, sur le meme lieu, une 
eglise de Carmeliteg, comme pour appaiser ces ombres 
irritees." 



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 past 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 olu, 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 say luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine ov. A transparent skies. 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While far on high, Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrow'tl and dark with many a lava streak. 



O ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! 
Rich with all Nature's and all Action'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 siren-haunted seas beside. 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells iriore potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,(l) 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around. 
Hovering in beauty o'er the 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 born* 
The sighs of exiles never to return. (2) 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail, 
Mourning for buried heroes while to her 
That elowing land was but their sepulchre. (3) 
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. (4) 

Past are those ages yet another crime, 
Another woe must stain the Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore 
Tt 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 IIP 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, haired, pity, must be all snppress'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 tierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, (5) 
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 1 

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! whoshould'st have known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, array'd thus richly for the tomb, 
Nor feel, deep-swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! tJ ambition's altar led, 
Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth ca 

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. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



The low sweet iiiunnur 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, oa 

him : 

He mounts the scaffold doth his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? 
Oh ! it may IM forgiven him, if a thought 
(/ling to that world, for him with beauty fraught 
To all the hopes that promised Glory's meed, 
And all th' affections th.-it. with him shall bleed 1 
If in his life's young day-spring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glriws, 
One human f.;ar convulse his partinc breath. 
Ami shrink from all the bitterness of death 1 

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 riot to man his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone! 
A 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 t 
Vet '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 awhile 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, 
"Vhen thy lost child is gone?" that thought can 

thrill 
riis 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 I 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou ! but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful eummoner e'en yet to thee I 

The scene of death is closed the throngs depart, 
A deep stern 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 th' unruffled bay; 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, (6) 
Her mien withhope arid 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 sunk 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, transflx'd in speechless grief, 
Whose death-like trance denies a tear's relief, 
Awhile she kneels till roused at length to know, 
To feel the might, the fullness of her woe, 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard "My Conradin ! my child!" 



NOTES. 



NOTE 1. 

Long from Us sanctuary of slumber torn, 
The urn, supposed to contain the ashes of Virgil, bu lonf Mt 
been lost 

NOTE 2. 

The fight cj exiles never to return, 

Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to om 
of the small islands in Ibe 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 Ger- 
mauicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. 

NOTE 3. 
That glowing land was l/ut their sepulchre. 

nous sonimes, que la veuve de Pompee, Cornelie, conserva jusqu'a 
la mart son noble deuil j Agrippine pleura long-temps Germamcus 
iur ces brds. Un jour, le meme assassin qui tui ravit son epoui la 
trouva digne de le suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieu* dt 
Brutus et de Portie." Madame de StaeiCurinne. 

NOTE 4. 

Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 

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 
Agrippiua's tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the 
neighbouring cliffs and hills. Nero, therefore, flying from such tra 
ical scenes, withdrew to Naples. -See AtKient'Unitxrsal Baton/ 

NOTE 5. 

Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene. 

" Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani, "fut sage et prudent dara 
conseils, preux dans lea armes, apre et fort reroute de tous les roi* 
du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensees qui t'tgalnient aux plus 
grandes entreprises ; inebraulable dans I'adversite, ferine et fidele 
dans toutts ses procnesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, ne ritint 

rendre justice, feroce dans ses regards. Sa taille etoit grande et ner- 
veuse, sa couleur olivatre, son nez fort grand. II paroissoit plui fait 
qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale. II ne dormoit 
presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux trouba- 
dours, et aux gens de tanu.^Simondi. ItepuUigucs Italienna, 
rol. iii. 

NOTE 6. 

Tfience on the beach descends a female form, 
" 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 Cou- 
rad in's mother, who, landing on the beach with her son's ransom, 
found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his bartaroui 
conqueror." SwinLurne's Travel* in the Two Sicika. 



^Translations 

FROM 

CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. 



Sbuno nati veramente in un secoto in cui gl' ingegni e gli sludj degli 
uomini sono rivolti all' utilita. L'Agricohura, le Arti, il Commer- 
cio acquistano luttodi novi lumi dalle ricerche de'Saggi; e il vo 
ler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, r.uand'allri v> aspira con 
piu giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 70. 

Na metade do Ceo subido ardia. 

HIGH in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, 
The sun had rcach'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 glad* 
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay ; 

When through the glassy vale a lovelorn 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 nciio's murmuring voice " T/iou art not loved I" 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 282. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 



Na ribeira do Euphrate 



ntado. 



WRAPT in sad musings l>y Euphrates' stream 
I sat, retracing days for over flown, 
Wliili; rose thine image on the exile's dream, 
O much-loved Salami'" and thy glories gone. 

When they who caused the ceaseless tears T shed. 
Thus t-i their captive spoke, Why sleep thy lays? 
Sing of thy Ui-asiiivs lost, thy splendour fled, 
And all thy in.implis in departed days! 

" Knovv'st thon not, Harmony's resistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm ? 
Ping then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answer'd, " When the cup of woe 
Is filTd, till misery's hitter draught o'erflow, 
The mourner's cure is not to sing, but die." 



CAMOENS. PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 



Be la no issento da maior altez 



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 forever from his sight, 
And with that vanish'd sunshine, loit 
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 ijurmurs discords to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rayi 
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, 
Tile 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. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 271. 



A formotura delta fresca tern. 



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 declin'ig 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 band? di*pen4, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every fen 



Ne'er in thy absence, can delight my breast : 
Naught without thee my weary soui beguiles; 
And joy may beam, yet 'midst her brightest smile* 
A secret grief is mine that will not rest. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 186. 



Os olboe 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 1 

Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, 
Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn, 
Touch'd by the hand that gathers but to blight I 
Oh ! how could Love survive his bitter tears ? 
Shed, not for her who mounts to happier spheres, 
But for his own tad fate, thus wrapt in starless 
night 1 



CAMOENS. SONNET 108. 



Brandai aguai do Tejo que paoando. 



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 1 I know not when my steps again 
Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, 
f have no hope to meliorate my pain. 
No dream that whispers I may yet return I 

My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings, and ordains despair, 
Commands me thus to leave thee and repine! 
And 1 must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, 
And blend my tears with other waves than thine I 



CAMOENS. SONNET 33. 
TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 



Chin 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 shall 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 
VOL. I. 16 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 19. 



Alma minha gentil, que te partiste. 



SPIRIT beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 
The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 
Now if 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 sf.ill the fervent love which glow'd 
In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 

And if thou deem 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. 



CAMOENS. 



Que ettnnho case de amor 1 



How strange a fate in love is mine I 
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; 
'T would 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 ia what none on earth must know. 



CAMOENS SONNET 5S. 



Se u penas com que Amor tao mal me trata. 



SHOULD Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart 
Vet long enough protract his votary's days, 
To see flie lustre from those eyes depart, 
The lode-stars 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 my 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. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 178. 



Ja cantei, ja chore! a dura guern. 



Oft have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woe, 
Which Love for years hath mingled with my fate, 
While he the tale forbade me to disclose. 
That taught his votaries their deluded state. 

" Your eye are lode-atari." 



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. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 80. 



Como quando do mar tempestuow 



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 t, who vainly oft in flight 

Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight. 

Make the firm vow, to shun 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. 



CAMOENS SONNET 239. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 



Embabylonia sobre 05 not, 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 1 
If I forget, 'midst grief and wasting toil, 
Thee, O Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 
May my right hand forget its cunning too I 



CAMOENS. SONNET 128. 



Hum* tdmiravel herva se eonhece. 



THERE blooms a plant, whose gaze, from hour t 

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 ?ieht! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



59 



<oy in my sou. unto>as nor fairest flower; 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms 
And of their light deprived, in grief consume!, 
Born but to live within thine eye-beam's power. 



CAMOENS. 



Folo nieu 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 ? 
Yt 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 confest, 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 day-spring of delight. 

CAMOENS. SONNET 205 



Quern diz que Amor he falso, o engamxo. 

HE who proclaims that Love is light and vain 
Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways ; 
Ah! sure too well has 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 foe* 

If Love bring evils, view them all in met 
Here let the world his utmost rigour see, 
His utmost power exerted to annoy : 
But all his ire is still the ire of Love t 
And such delight in all his woes I prove, 
I would not change their pangs for aught of other 
joy! 



CAMOENS. SONNET 133 



Doce>, e clans 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. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 181. 



Onde acharei lugar tao apartado. 



WHERE shall I find some desert-scene so rude, 
Where loneliness so undUturb'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 naught my sorrows can allay, 
There shall my sadness cloud no festal day. 
And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 



CAMOENS. SONNET 278. 



Eu vivia de lagrimu iseoto. 



EXEMPT from every grief, 't was 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 I 
Bade hope and happiness at once depart. 
And left but memory to distract my heart, 
Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown 



CAMOENS. 



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 
I.I the dark flint is hid from sight, 

It dwells within, alone. 



METASTASIO. 



Donque si sfnga in pianto. 

In tears, the heart oppress'd with grief 

Gives language to its woes ; 
In tears, its fullness 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? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



VINCENZIO DA FILICAJA. 

Italia ! Italia ! O tu cui feo la aorta. 

ITALI* ! thou by lavish Nature graced 

With ill starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been 

A fatal dowry, whose effects are traced 

In the deep sorrows graven on thy mien; 

Oh! that more strength, or fewer charms, were 

thine. 

That those might fi>ar thee more, or love thee leaf, 
Who seem to worship at thy beauty's shrine, 
Then leave thee to the death-pang's bitterness 1 

Not then the herds of Gaul would drain the tide 
Of that Eridanus thy blood had dyed ; 
Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd. 
Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield a foreign 

brand. 

Nor fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 
Still doom'd to serve, subduing or subdued 1 



PASTORIN1. 

Geneva mil, M con atciutto ciglio. 

IF thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 
My native Genoa! with a tearless eye, 
Think not thy son's \ingrateful heart is cold. 
But know I deem rebellious every Bighl 

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 Ihy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 

And lo 1 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 cortesaDO. 



LET the vain courtier waste his days. 
Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 
couch of down, the board of costly fare"; 
\>. his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 
/'hat waves the sceptre of command, 

-ii.l rear full many a palace in tli.: 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 face to bend, 

At Grandeur's altar to attend, 
Reflect hir smile, and tremble at his frown ; 

Nor ' ae a fond aspiring thought, 

A w..,/!, a sigh, a vision, fraught 
/ith Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless 
crown I 

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 ire equals all, the monarch and the i wain 



FRANCISCO MANUEL. 

ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVEMT. 



No baxei temerou, o peregrins. 



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, 
"J'is 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 7 
Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife 
Hope is reality, and time is life. 



DELLA CASA. 
VENICE. 



Queiti palazzi, t queste logge or coke. 

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 virtuous 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 oppresl' 



IL MARJHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 



L'aiiiiua bella, che dal vero Eliso. 



THE sainted spirit, which from bliss on high 
Descends like day-spring to my favour'd sight, 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 
Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright 1 

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 deprett. 



METASTASIO. 



Al furor d'avvera torte. 



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. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



61 



(n the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, 
Nursed anil matured, the pilot learns his art: 
Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms 
The lofty spirit and enduring heart! 



METASTASIO. 



QuelU onda che ruin*. 



THE torrent-wave, that breaks with force 
Impetuous down tho 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. 



METASTASIO. 



Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie. 



SWEET rose I 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, 
Bln-lter'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. 



METASTASIO. 



Che speri, initabil Dea, di tasi e spine. 

FJRTUHE! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 
Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like 

these j 
Think'st thou that 7 thy threatening mien shall 

dread, 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? 

Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, 
For VitsFa I -spirits that confess thy sway 1 
Mu constant soul could triumph unsubdued, 
Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 

Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried? 
\o 1 I he '5 long thine utmost power defied, 
And drawn fresh energies from every flght. 
Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, 
With each successive shock the temper'd steel 
More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. 



METASTASIO. 



Parlagli d> on periglto. 

Worr.DsT thou to Love of danger speak ? 
Veil'd are his eyes, to perils blind ! 
WotiKlst thou from Love a reason seek? 
He is a child of wayward mind I 



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. 



METASTASIO. 



Sprezza it furor del venlo. 



UNBENDING 'midst the wintry skies. 
Rears the tirm oak his vigorous form, 
And stern 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 befort 
He proudly struggles there. 



METASTASIO. 



Sol puo dir che tio eontento. 



OH! those alone, whose sever'd hearts 
Have mourn'd through lingering years in /tic. 
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 I 

METASTASIO. 



Ah ! frenate 1 pianto imbello. 



AH! cease those fruitless tears restrain, 
I go misfortune to defy. 
To smile at fate with proud disdain, 
To triumph not to die I 

I with fresh laurels go to crown 
My closing days at last, 
Securing all the bright renown 
Acquired in dangers past. 



QUEVEDO. 
ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 



Buscas en Roma a Roma, o peregrine I 

AMIDST these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thoi 

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 Ciesars dwelt in other days 
Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime- 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 
Tho triumphs won by Latium, than by Time. 

Tiber alone survives the passing wave, 

That bathed her towers, now murmurs by her 

grave, 

Walling, with plaintive sound, her fallen fanes. 
Rcmel of thine ancient grandeur all is past. 
That seem'd for years eternal framed to last 
Naught but the wave, a fugitive remain*. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 



Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernot anoi. 

THOO, who hast fled from Life's enchanted bowert, 
In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing mom, 
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 shun the midnight perils of the main ; 

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, 
While on thy soul the beams of glory risel 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore. 
With s-houts of triumph swelling to the skies; 
Oh! howshouldst than the exulting paean raise. 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on th) gaze. 



TORQUATO TASSO. 



Neyli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea I 



THOO In thy morn wert like a plowing rose, 
To the mild sunshine only half display'd, 
That shunned its bashful graces to disclose, 
And in its vale of verdure sought a shade; 

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied, with aught to 

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 briliant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 



Quest' ombia 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 mDre 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 rrjose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, 
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 



Chi raol Tfder quantunque pno utan. 



THOO 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 j 

Haste I and each outward charm, each mental 

grace, 

In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, 
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! 
Thi'ii thou shalt own, how faint my votive lays, 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze 
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



PETRARCH 



Se lamentar augelli, o verdi frondo. 



IP to the sighing breeze of summer-hours 

Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird: 

Or from some fount's cold margin, fringed wit.j 

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 divinely say.) 
"While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flowif 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, 
Died, to be deathless; and on Heavenly light 
Whose eyes but open'd, when they seein'd t* 
close I" 

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. 



O Muerte ! que ituta XT. 



TROD, the stern monarch of dismay, 
Whom Nature trembles to survey, 
Oh 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, 
All! sure ;irv far less keen than those 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI 



Zeflretto, 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 wins'd its flight 
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere; 

Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale 1 
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; 
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail 
To rend its honors 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, the monarch of the wind, 
Ne'er with rude chains by tender pinions bin, 
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and 
free! 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



63 



GESSNER. 
MORNING SONG. 



WiHkonimen, fruhe morgensoDD. 



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, the 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 mi ml 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 hpr light sleep is flown. 

Then 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 whpn her eyes unveil. 
That I, since morning's earliest call, 
Have sigh'd her name to every gale, 
By the lone waterfall. 

GERMAN SONG. 

Midchen, lermet 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 fiory glanre replete with guile? 

Oh ! doubt not then 't is 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 't is 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'ou wrt ce clair ruiseeau. 

Tnon 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 day-spring 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 there beheld me born, 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE LA VEGA 

Coged de vuettra ilegre priroavera. 

ENJOY the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 
Ere envious Age is hastening on its 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 I 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORK 

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 awhile, 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 sou] 

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? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 alonel 
\nd 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 I 
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 Ibrm of light. 

That Heaven benignly called 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! 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 tomfc, 

No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 

Ah! fitter for the vernal bloom 

Such dwelling to adorn. 
Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must ta 
The only emblems meet for thee. 

Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 
Adornld 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 I 
What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine, to messenger of heaven ? 



INVOCATION. 



HCSH'D is the world in night and sleep, 
Earth, Sea, and Air, are still as death; 
Too rude to weak a calm so deep, 
Were music's faintest breath, 
Descend, bright Visions! from aerial bowers, 
Descend to gild your own soft, silent hours. 

'T hope or fear, in toil or pain, 

The weary day have mortals past, 

Now, dreams of bliss, be yours to reign, 

And all your spells around them cast; 

Stea" 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, 

Whore the bright soul is fled: 



Where 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 Ma 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. 



TO THE MEMORY OP 
GENERAL SIR EDWARD PACKENHAM 



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 inaric'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 meed shall be, 
Yet, son of war! a prouder tomb 

Misht Fate have r^ar'd for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, O high-soul'd chief 
In those bright days of glory fled, 
When triumph so prevail'do'er prief, 

We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame 1 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 Vittoria's blood-red plain, 

Meet had thy death-bed 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 flane 
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. 



TO THE MEMORY OP 
SIR HENRY E LL S 

WHO FELL IN THI BATTLE OF WATERLOO 



WBEP'ST thou for him whose doom was scal'd 
On England's proudest battle-field ? 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full, resistless tide? 
Oh! mourn him not. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



By deeds like his that fluid was won, 

And Fate could yield to Valor's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry. 
He saw the vanquished eagles fly; 
And envied be his death of fame. 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name, 

That naught shall dim- 
No cloud obscured his glory's day. 
It iaw no twilight of decay * 

Weep not for him I 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone I 
Oli ! proudly should the war-song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour. 

When England, 'midst the battle-storm, 
I'll' 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 hit approving word. 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name ! 



GUERILLA SONG 



on the tory related of the Spanish Ptnot, Mimu 



On ! forget not the hour, when through forest and 

vale. 

We retiirn'd with our chief to his dear native halls; 
Through the woody Sierra there sigh'd not a gale, 
And (he moonbeam was bright on his battlement- 
walls ; 

Anil Nature lay sleeping, in calmness and light, 
Hound the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
sight. 

We enter'd lhat home all was loneliness round, 
Tlir 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 I 
Por the spoilers had pass'd, like the poison-wind's 

breath. 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh ! forget n-jt 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 day-spring 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 ; 
1 crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe 1 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 pone, 

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 
Bleep with the hidden things of timel 
With him, ye sons of former days ! 
Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 



His eyes, that hail'd your spirit's flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 
Have seen, since darkness veil'd your fame, 
Sous of the desert and the rock I 
Another, and another race, 
Rise to the battle, and the chase. 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 
Fearless of heart, and firm of handt 
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 1 

Shall then the warrior tremble now? 
Now when his envied strength is o'er 7 
Hung on the pine his idle bow, 
His pirogue useless on the shore? 
When death hath dimm'd his failing eye, 
Shall lie, the joyless, fear to die ? 

Sons of the brave! delay no more, 
The spirits of my kindred call I 
'T is but one pang, and all is o'er I 
Oh ! bid the aged cedar fall I 
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 1 

Yon torrent, foaming down the granite ,-teep. 
Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 
Where pi pes 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 tlie 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." 



Son of the mighty and the free ! 
High-minded Jeader of the bravel" 
Was it for lofly chief like thee. 

To fill a nameless grave 1 
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 I 
Yet oh ! if gallant spirit's power 
Had e'er ennobled death like thine. 
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour. 

Last of a mighty line) 



(55 



HEMANS* POETICAL AVOKKS. 



C'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 
But cannot chase their silent irlooni ; 
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 thp. 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 blaznn'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 he the strain thnu canst not hear, 

Last of a mighty line I 



THE CRUSADER'S 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, 
Lie 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-pane's power, 
How bright the joys of your immortal bower 

Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train I 

Pour forth your loftiest lays; 
Each heart shall echo to the strain 

Breathed in the warrior's praise. 
Rid every string triumphant swell 
Tli' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 

Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour 

The wildest rage of nirht. 
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 shalHhe 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 Sherift'mnor that young Clar- 
ronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. 
His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. 
But Glengnry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, 
started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round hii 
head, cried out, " To-day fo; 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, ar- 
ticle of " Cullodcn Papers." 



On! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot! 
Still f. urless 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 hut the battle-word given by the chief. 
"Tii-day for revenge, arid to-morrow for grief!" 

And wildly, Clanronald ! we echoed 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 join'd 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 Alliyn remembers the words of the chi< f, 
"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 yell 
Nor vainly have echoed the words of the chief, 
"To day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief 1" 



TO THE EYE. 



THRONE of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth BO oft the light of mental day, 
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam, 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart. 
Finds its own language to pervado the heart; 
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom halh 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 t/tee to Hatter and betray, 
Tlf ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, 
Orspeak one thought that interest would conceal; 
While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, givon 
But to reflect the purity of heaven ; 
Oh! then how lovely, there tinveil'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 vale of dews; 
Still does thy power, whose all-cnnmianding spelF 
C;wi pierce the mazes of the soul so well. 
Rid some new feeling to existence start, 
From its deep slumbers in t.h inmost heart. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS 



er 



\m\ 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 I 

STANZAS 

On ike late National Calamity, the Death of tki 
Princess Charlotte. 



"Helag! nous composing son histoire de tout c* 

qu'on put imaginer de plus glorieux Le passe et le 

presentnous garantissoient I'avenir Telleeioitl'agre- 

ohle hieloirn quo nous faisions ; et pour achever ces 
nnlilra pr<>ji!t8, il n'y avoit que la duree de ea vie ; dont 
nmig ne croycms pas devoir etre en peine, car, qui eut pu 
seulf men! penser, que les annees eussent du manquer a 
un jeunesse qui sembluitsi vivel" Bussuct. 



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 1 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past, 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast I 

II. 

Wa* it a dream ? so sudden and so dread 
That nwful flat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so hlest, 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 I 
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 coining, and thy way prepare? 
No warning voice, no harbinger, was thine, 
Danger and fearseem'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 t/iuii, dark Spirit! swift and unforeseen, 
Cain'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven i 
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 hur 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 the 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 
Uuendi'd in the glow and fullness 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, 
AH thought in this absorb'd she was and is no 
more I 

VI. 

We watch'd her childhood from its earliest hoar. 
From every word and look blest omens caught; 
While that young mind developed all its power. 
An! 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 day-spring all was cloudless t./iere; 
And oh! how lovely broke on England's gaze. 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of dis- 
tant 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 I 
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 I 
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 the* 

were vain I 

IX. 

Yet there is one who loved thee and whose sou. 

With mild affections nature form'd to melt; 

His mind hath bow'd beneath the stern control 

Of many a grief but this shall he unfelt! 

Years have gone by and given his honor'd heal 

A diadem of snow his eye is dim 

Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



The past, the future, arc a dream to him! 
Yet in the darkness of his fate, alone 
He dwells on earth, while t lou, in life's full pride, 
art gone I 

X. 

The Chastener'g hand is on us we may weep. 
But not repine for many a storm hath past, 
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 swene 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 flume, far streaming o'er th 

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 ! 't was the death-bell's note ! which full an i 

deep, 

Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swells on the stillness of the air alone! 
Silen'. the throngs that fill the darken'd street, 
Silen. the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet, 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart I 
All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, 
As in each ravaged homo 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, 
Grii'f 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, re- 
turns. 

XV. 

We mourn but not thy fate, departed One I 
WP pity but the living, not the dead ; 
A cloud hangs o'er us " the bright day is done."* 
Ami 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. 
HH. wiili iliine early, fond affections blest, 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; 
What but a desert to his eye, that earth. 
Which hut retains of thee, the memory f thjr 
worth? 



" The bright day ji done. 

And we are Cor the dark." Shaktptan. 



XVI. 

Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, 
Whose first rude shock but stupefies the soul; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabpur'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 fullness of its agony I 
Its death-like torpor vanish'd and its doom, 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature'l 
bloom. 

XVII. 

And such his lot, whom thou hast lovrd and left, 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall'd ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart ! by 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 he long re 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 re- 
turn ; 

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 l\ath been run, 
While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, 
Tells that thy crown though not on earlh--i* 

won. 

Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 
Naught but the bloom and sunshine and for thee 
Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone, 
The course of love ran smooth,* 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 
Hose in its glory on thine England's eye, 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy spirit came? 
Ours is that loss and thou wert blest to die ! 
Thou might'st have lived to dark and evil years. 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies oVinist ; 
But thy spring-morn was all nndinim'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 lliee that mortal cruwn. 
Which earth display'd to claim ihec from Hie 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 ?ich, 
Oh! tell those hearts, hath made that bliss eternity! 



*" The cwne of true love never did run nnooth." Shakipaut 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



69 



A POEM. 



Leur raiwa, qu'ili prennent pour guide, ne presente a leur esprit 
quc des ccujectures et des embarras ; tee absurdites ou ils tomuent 
fH niant la Religion devienneu! plus inaoutenables quc U* vrritet 
donl la hu(eur les etoun* ; et pour ne vouloir pu croire de niys- 
tern incompreheiuibln, ils suiveol 1'une iprej lautre d'iucom- 
prehensibles erreurs." Botntet, Oraisont Fimeira. 



WHEN the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
Flas learn'd to dare tile splendour of tile sky. 
Ami leave lite Alps beneath him in his course. 
To hathe his crest in morn's empyreal source, 
\Vill his free wing, from that majestic height, 
D.-scenil to follow some wild meteor's light, 
U'liich far helow, with evanescent fire, 
Climes to delude, and dazzles to expire ? 

Xo! still through clouds he wins his upward wty 
And proudly claims liis heritage of day ! 
And shall the spirit on whose ardent gaze, 
The day-spring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence, to the beam 
'Jf earth-horn light, that sheds a treacherous 

gleam, 

Curing the wanderer from a star of faith, 
I'o the deep valley of the shades of death? 
Vhat bright exchange, what treasure shall be 

given, 

Vir the high birth-right of its hope in Heaven? 
.f lost the gem which empires could not huy, 
Vhat 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 helow, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 
Vital 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 All the wine-cup high, 
And hind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 
Tis well, thine eye is yet nndimniM by time, 
And tliy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; 
mile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice. 
Ami, in the glory of thy strength, rejoice I 

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 tho* 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 briglit images of pleasure's train ? 
Vesl 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 strugnline. toth' unfathcnn'd grave! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, 
She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smites for 

all? 
Will she speak comfort? Thou hast shorn her 

plume. 

That miuht have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And liush'd the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown) 

For she was horn beyond the stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore; 
Thou cotfldst 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 lieav'n 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 world!- of light, 
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, reunite ? 
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 "/or ever" vibrate on thine ear! 
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 
Find more than anguish in the thought 't is gout 
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 thv trust. 
Lean on the willow, idolize the dust! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care., 
Think on that dread "/or ever" and despair! 

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm ther 

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 ? 
Vet may tin- 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 1 

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 (lit 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, u. veil of gloom, 
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb? 
Where shaltthou 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 he thy spirit's guest, 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
The 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 em 

brace 

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, nor 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 nil 
Bow down thy heart to Him. who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake 1 



ro 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Patient, because Eternal, (1) 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 bis foes. 
And haste! ere hursts the lightning from on high 
Fly to the City of thy refuge, fly !(2) 
So shall the Avenger turn his stops away, 
And sheathe 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 
Tn its own dread abyss of darkness chain'd. 
If the Deliverer, in his mieht at last, 
Its fetters, horn of earth, to earth shonH 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 niiuiieiicnafoly enshrined. 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, 
Born to he foster'il with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour, when o'er ihee 

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 Godt 

But hop'st 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 shy ? 
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, wandf ring 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 I 
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 lias 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 Koine. 

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 imag'ry, (3) 
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 :o Him 
Who dwells above between the cherubim I" 

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 spring* control 
There tracing all save Him who guides the whole. 

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had east 
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 depth of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanish' d race. 

Or did thy power pervade the Jiving lyre, 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire. 
Silenced all meaner notes, and sweird 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 lliy name, through distant empire* 

heard, 

Bade the heart bound as doth a battle-word? 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watch-fires 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 tleir 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 I 

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 sa\ ed 
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 I hWe 
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 mien, who died, " and made n 

sign !" 

Approach not, gaze not lest thy fever'd brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain ; 
Angels of slumber I 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 ana, forgot th' Atotier's lov* 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



O Thou ! th' unseen, tir all-seeing 1 Thou whose 

ways 

Mantled with darkness, innck 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 note, 
Who know'st no past, nor future Thou whose 

breath 

Goes forth, and bears to myriads, life or death I 
Look on us, guide us! wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee I 
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, 
\ treach'rous song allure us and we sink ! 

Oh ! by His Jove, 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 ; 
Kave, or we perish ! let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe the soul; 
Pervade the depths of passion speak once more 
The misrhty mandate, guard of every shore, 
"Here shall thy waves bestay'd" in grinf, 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 Thinu. 

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 (4) when we see 
Naught 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 slirinkinir 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, tile fire, the earthquake cease. 
Come in the still small voice, and whisper 
peace ! (5) 

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, 
I Well knows, that hour is awful. In the pride 
I Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 
! We talk of Death, as something, which 'twere 

sweet 

In Glory's arms ex'iiltingly 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 I 

Hush, fond enthusiast! still, obscure, and lone, 
Vet 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, 
Staitnot, 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. Imply mock'd before. 
We fain would stille but it sleeps no more I 
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 I 

Oh! vainly reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life hath naught to claim such lingering love, 
And ask, if ere the captive, half unchain'd, 
Clung to the links which yet his step reslrain'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 ttiee?" 
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 I 
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, 

fn whelming grandeur, on her vision first. 
When freed from mortal films? what viewless 

world 

Shall first receive her wing, hut half unfurl'dl 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried 1 
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 
Th' unknown, th' unseen, 'the future though the 

heart, 

As at unearthly sounds, before them start, 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirit 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 hasl 

drain'd 

The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd ; 
To thee the struggle and the pang were known 
The mystic horror all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring. 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting 7 
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 strait of fiercest agony; 
For thus th' Eternal, with propitious eyes, 
Received the last, th' almighty sacrifice I 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom I 
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 itai 

He rose! the everlasting gates of day 
Receiv'd (he King of Glory on his wav I 



72 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 n 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 sufl'.irer dies without a friend, 
He, whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dew-drop 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 stern 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 ? 
Rut 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 thon, just lent thy pladden'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 ! 
vVhen fled the hope through all thy pangs whicb 

smiled, 

VVhen thy young bosom, o'er the lifeless child, 
Yearn'd with vain lon?ine 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 ">e 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 I 

" It is the will of God !" yet, yet we hear 
The words that 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, 
Slill 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 en the watchers nf the land to rise, 
To set the sign of fire on every height, (6) 
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 hiffh and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow ? 
Froin the hricht fountain of her elory 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 tower*! 

Still, where thy hamlet-vales. O chosen isle! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, 
Where yew and elm o'ershirle the lowly fanes. 
That guard the peasant's records and remains, 
May the blest echoes of the riab!>.ilh-t>ell 
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 aiise. 
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 accents still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days. 
When Angels, whispering through a cedar's 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 1" 



NOTES. 

NOTE 1. 

Patient, Ucaiue E'.fmaL 

" He is patient, because he is eternal." St. AuguM-.m. 

NOTE 2. 

fly to tht City of thy Refuge, fly 

" Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuse for TOO , 
that the slayer may nee thither which killeth auy person at' un* 
tvarei. Ana 'hey shall be unto you cities for refuge from the aveii 
fer." Humbert, chap. xxxv. 

NOTE 3. 

And dor* the chambtrt of ill imag'ry, 
u Every man in the chambers of his imagery. " EzMil, chap. Tiit 

NOTE 4. 

Miat da-ink tht Clip of trembling. 

" Thou hast drunken the drees of the cup of trembling, and wrung 
them out."- Isaiah, chap. Ti. 

NOTE 5. 

Come in tht ttiUtmall voice, and whirptr peace. 
" And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wia4 
rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord ; 
but the Lord was not in thewinj : and after the wind, an earth 
quake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake ana after the 
earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was not in 're fire : and afler tlw 
fire a (till small voice." 1 A'.ngj, chap. x.z. 

NOTE 6. 

To let the tign of fire on toery height. 
u *"H set up a sign of ore." Jtremiah, chap, v i. 



STANZAS 

TO THE * 

MEMORY OF THE LATE KING. 



"Ar/nng many nations then 
" Know ye not that there a 
Jay in Israel ?" Samuel. 



I prince and a great man fallen tbil 



ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell, 

Startling the cities of the isle once more, 
With measured tones of melancholy swell, 

Strike on th' awaken'd heart from shore to shore. 
He, at whose coining monarrhs sink to dust, 

The chambers of our palaces halh trod. 
And the long-suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath return "d to God! 
Vet may not England o'er her Father weep. 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and toe 
deep. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



71 



Vain\<>- -of Reason, hush! they yet must flow 

TtK >\ straiu'd, involuntary tears: 
A tlvi'.isai I feelings sanctify the WOP, 

Ri..*rd y the glorious shades of vanish'd years. 
Tell ;< nn nore 'I is not the time for grief, 

Now lilt ill:' exile of the soul is past, 
And ~>eatl blest messenger of Heaven's relief, 

Man, IK, i e the \vamlerer to his rest at last ; 
For li:u. , E amity nath tenfold day, 
We feel, \ 5 know, 'tis thus yet Nature will 
have vay. 

What thoii) l amidst us, like a blasted oak, 

Saddeniii) the scene where once it nobly reign'd 
A dread tnci torial of the lightning-stroke. 

Stamu'd \\ th its fiery record, he reinain'd; 
Around thai shatter'd tree still fondly clung 

Tli' iindyii s tendrils of our love, which drew 
Fresh niirtui > from its deep decay, and sprung 

I,iix.."iant thence, to Glory's ruin true : 
While L igland hung her trophies on the stem. 
That dew. lately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of tliem unconscious! Oh mysterious doom! 

WhoshiilH unfold the counsels of the skies! 
His was tbe voice, which roused, as from the 
tomb 

Tin; real. n high soul to loftiest energies! 
His was the pirit, o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bos^iii, powerful to renew 

Earfi dying park of pure and generous thought 
The star of ttjnpest beaniing on the mast,* 
The seamen's torch of Hope, 'midst perils deepen- 
ing fast. 

Then from th' unslumbering influence of his worth 

Strength as of inspiration, til I'd the land; 
A young, but quenchless, flame went brichtly 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 four, 

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, queuch'd in night, the sun-beams have for- 
got; 

Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years, 
Ami sunk beneath their glittering weight at 

length; 
But I'ain 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 the 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 glowa 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 they 

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, the anointed of the sea I 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice, rich pageants glitter'd by 
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth. 

The old niaiMiifieencR of chivalry. 



The rlitterinr meteor, like a star, which often appear, about a 
ijnp during lemiwst., if seen upon the mainmast, u considered by 
fce iailori M an omen of food weatlier See Dantpier'i I'm/of a 



They reaclfd not thee, amidst them, yet alone 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and sbudowy 
throne. 

Vet was there mercy still if joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude, 
Earth hud no grief whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limns 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! 
II' the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom, 
Alike iintelt 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, Ann and faithful to the last, 

S.istain'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 fullness, 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 wopt 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 WM 

pure ! 
Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might 

shine. 

Where earthly image would no more endure I 
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 wander 
ing 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'* 

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 he with thee still the loved, the tried, 

The fair, the lost they might be with thee still I 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill; 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of th-; 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 re- 
stored ! 

Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd. 
To commune with a mind whose source of tear* 
was seal'd. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above, 

Those viewless regions, where the weary rert t 
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? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



Oh I Heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, 
Healing the broken heart; it smites but ne'er 
forsakes. 

These may be phantasies 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 enthral, 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now; 
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, 
Though vainly sweet as flowers, griefs tribute to 
the dead. 

But if tir ascending, disembodied mind. 

Borne on the wingsjof 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 Al- 
pine-height. 

Away presumptuous thought ! departed saint I 

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 tills the mercy -seat I 
And thou mayest 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 till'ii our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations : things re 
vered, 

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 1 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 
4 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 deed* are blest, 



When our sons learn, " as household words," th) 

praise, 

Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest I 
And many a name of that imperial line. 
Father and patriot I blend, in England's songs, 

with thine ! 



Jttottern frmr. 

A POEM. 

O Greece ! thou sapient uurse of finer art, 
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bora, 
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, 
In these bait led the way, iu these excell'd, 
Crowu'd with the laurel of assenting Time'. 

T/umuon't 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 wintry 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 mid 
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 his 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 I 
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 breathe and bloom. 
Round Doric Peestum's solitary fanes. (I) 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 

He feels the fervours of his spirit rise ; 

Thou birth-place of the Muse 1 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 Paeans whose exulting tone 
Swell'd o'er that tide (2) the sons of battle 

sleep 

The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice, alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmurs of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 

hues 

Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shores 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 1 

VIII. 

Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 
"T is 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 mayi ?mile, 
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile ; 
And mantling woodbine, veils 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 way, 
That the dnrk shades the night hath o'er thee 

cast 

Throw tenx'old ploom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair. 
Thy fate hati been unmatch'd in glory and des- 
pair. 

X. 

For thee, lost .and I 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, how'd to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee 



XI. 

I,o ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea! flies, (3) 
To seek repose 'midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest? Alas I his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm. 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain. 
Though earth is fruitfulnuss, and air in 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'* 

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 I 
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 worldl whose fresh, unsullied 

charms 

Welcom'd Columbus from the western wave, 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, (4 
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 
lu 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 wooited 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 hunts- 
man'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, (5) 

That images the fairy worlds it laves, 
And stillness, and luxuriance o'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowerg. 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers. 
And from those green arcades a thousand tonei 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture'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 hit 

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 hut that they, like him, are wildly 
free. 



IIEMANS* POETICAL WORKS. 



XVII. 

But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dwell? All! when was exile bleat? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum- 
mer-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, 
4s the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 

XVIII. 

Such grief, is Iheirs, 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 day-dreams of his heart ; 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 
Tnou, distant and in chains, art yet his spirit's 

borne. 

XIX. 

In vain for him file 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 CithiBron's height. 
Or dreams how softly Athens' towers would 

smile. 

Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliffs what sunset hues may sleep, 
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' Egeandeep; 

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 fel 
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, colu 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- 
ed 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 
Through the cleft heights, in antique grandem 

vast. 

Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same- 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time: (6) 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name, (7) 

Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts, and marble caves, 
Inlivinglustrestill break forththefountain-waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers. 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow, (8) 
Or 'midst th' exuberance of thy forest bovvers, 
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 whisper 

ing through thy dale. 

XXV. 

He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose. 
And trembling nationsheard theirdoorn foretold, 
By the dread spirit throned 'midst rocks and 

snows. 

Thoueh 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 hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held, (9) 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 CEta'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, (10) 
Or lone PlaUea'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 unhlamed 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 hitter 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 halh 

been ; 

Or solemn calm, on Ocean's breast that lie*. 
When sinks the storm, and death hath hush'd the 

seaman's cries. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



77 



XXIX. 

Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hnrl'd 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doom'il 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 may'st thou gaze ij) 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 1 
There the proud monuments of Valour's name, 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high. 
The rich remains by Art bequeathed to Fame 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength, and sym- 
metry. 

Blend in decay; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish'd 
here I 

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, (11 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile, 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilize the ground ; 
Nor wild bird's music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 



XXXIH. 

Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light. 
O'er conquer'd realms, in ages past away ! 
Full and alone it beam'd, intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose tli' Alhnmbra, with its founts and 

shades, 

Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers 
Irs sculptured lions, (12) richly wrought arcades, 
Aeriil pillars, and enchanted towers; 
Light, cplendid, wild as some Arabian talo 
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 nnnumber'd o'er the orient shone. 
Bright as that Pleiad, shrined in Mecca's 

fane. (i:<) 

From Bagdat's palaces, the choral strains 
Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound. 
And Science, woo'don 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 pass'd in radiance they hv 

pass'd, 

As sinks the day-star 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 forthee, fair Greece ! when Asia pour'd 
Her tierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall. 
When Europe sheathed, 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 ! (14] 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alor.e. 
Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain, 
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and 
not the chain. 

XXXVII. 

Hush'd is Byznntinm 't is the dead of night 
The closing night of that imperial race! (16) 
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 tlie midnight streets, at morn to die ; 
And to the cross in fair Sophia's fane, 
For the last time is raised Devotion's pye ; 
And. in his heart while fnith's bright visions rise. 
There kneels the high-snul'd prince, the summon'd 
of the skies. 

XXXVIII. 

Day breaks in light and glory 't is the flour, 
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 o'er Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel, 
Hound spire and dome the clouds of battle float , 
From camp and wave rush on the crescent's host. 
And the Seven Towers (16) 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 nge? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows, 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride, 
In mountain-might tho' 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 uncon- 

quer'd power. 

XL. 

Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 

Preserved inviolate their awful fane, (17) 
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 unearthlv war through wild Parnassus 

rang 



78 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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 1 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose (18) 
All arm'd ; and beaming on th' Athenians' ga: 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes ? 
Or they whose forms, to Alaric's awe-struck 

eye, (19) 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed, in airy panoply ? 

XLII. 

Ye slept, oh heroei! chief ones of the earth!(20 
High demi-gods 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 m&rtyr-spirit of resolve was fled, 
And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy; 
And by yoar graves, and on your battle-plains, 
Warriors! yoa? children knelt, to wear the stran 
ger's rl.ains. 

XLIII. 

Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your hornet 
Are moulder'd fiun the earth, while scarce re. 

main 

E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where uleepthe slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the deeds of glory flown, 
The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afai 
The halls that echoed to their sounds are gone, 
Perish'd the conquering weapons of your 

war; (21) 

And if a massy stone your names retain, 
T is but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vail* 

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 boot 
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 I seek your rest again, 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw you* 
glories reign. 

XLV. 

Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot evfcv 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains 
Whose sous 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, 
\nd terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaint* 
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 skici, 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain : 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where naught of earth may e'er in- 
trude, 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitnde. 



XLVII. 

There in rude grandeur, daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height: 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowningo'er vales, in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 

Girtt'ed 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 hills and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would 

roam; 

She lovbs 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 cty, 
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood, 

There is a voice of stern sur.limity, 
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'erSuli's frowning rocks she paused awhile,(22) 
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 1 't was then ye 

wrought 

Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand i 
As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought, 
And women mingled with your warrior-band. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood (23) 
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. 

HI. 

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, i 
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 wero not e'en enough remains, 
To lend their fall mournful majesty. (24) 



REMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Birth-place of those whose names we first r^ 

vered 

In song and story temple of the free ! 
Oh thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee I 
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 
bear the flower. 

LV. 

Such were thy sons their life a battle-day I 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is t .j.1 task, and they have pnss'd away 
Like softei beings train'd to aims less high. 
Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champion of thy cause, 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws 1(35) 
O lofty mother of heroic worth, 
How conlilst thou live to bring a meaner offspring 
forth 1 

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 sinjle brightness shone 
A watch-word cm the helm of liberty 1 
Thou shouldst have pass'd with all thy light of 

fame, 

And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains 
But sJowly set thy star 'midst clouds of shame, 
And tyrants rose amidst the falling fanes; 
And thou, surrounded hy thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy 



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 unrnark'd the sun-beams 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. 

Taygetus still lifts his awful brow, 
High o'er the mould'ring 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, (2(i) 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 

grave. 

LIX. 

Oh! thus it is with man a tree, a flower. 
While nntions perish, still renews its race. 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spread* in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
Thn laurel shoots when those have pass'd away 
( >uce 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 buy 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; (27) 
They waved around th' Olympic victor's head; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd biero'erspread: 
Those rites have vanish'd but o'er vale and 

hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd 

still. (28) 

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 ? 
duench'd is the torch of Ceres (2!>) 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. 

LXI I. 

And oh ! ye secret and terrific powers, 
Dark oracles! in depth of proves 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 nation 

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 in 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 own, 
Unearthly Beings walk on earth no more; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, 
The rustling wood breathes no fatiilic lore, 
Fled are the phantoms of Livn-tia's cave. 
There dwell no shadows, hut of crag and steept 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave, (30) 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep, 
Oh ! that such dreams alone had fled that clime. 
But grace is changed in all that could be changnd 
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, 
Thai lent the harp of jEschylus its tone, 
And proudly hallow'd Lacedffimon's gword, 
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 I 
How soon the tale of ages may be told 1 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame. 
The work of centuries we gaze on you, 
Oh cities! once the glorious and the free. 
The lofty tales thalcharm'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 ponr'd, 
Fair Eli* ! o'er thy consecrated vales? (31) 
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 t-pell is broke, 
Thou too hast heard the storm and bow'd beneatb 
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 1 
There, though at times Alpheusyet 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, 
Midat Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 
and dell. 

LXX. 

But thou, fair Attica 1 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, 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; (32) 
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 spell*, 
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 llissus' tide. 

Lxxni. 

Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, (33) 
On summei seas, that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strain! : 
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 yean 

LXX IV. 

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 licht proportions throws 
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 

LXXV. 

And !.vely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow. 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign. 
And on lliy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues thai the pencil emulates in vain. 
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in licht, 
Catch from soft clouds of purple and of eold. 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 
And seem indoM whate'er devotion deems, 
U hile 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 ffigis, 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 thn martyr'd brave: 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



31 



Holy the amaranth strew'd upon their grave! (34) 
And hark iinrivall'd eloquence proclaims 
Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice! 

Hark Pericles records their hnnour'dnames!(35) 
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 ? 

LXX1X. 

Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth; 
Theirs are enshrined 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 thon 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. 

'T is but a vision now yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Ofthee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 

thought. 

LXXX I. 

Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 
To choral melodies, and tragic lore; 
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 
The song that liail'd Bar modi UP peals no more. 
Thy proud Pirsus 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 (36) her image gone, 
Bilent the sage's bower the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 

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 nrch. or obelisk sublime. 
Can bid such reverence o'pr the spirit steal 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal. 

Lxxxiir. 

Though still the empress of the sun-burnt waste, 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand 

Though with rich gold (37) 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 display*; 
City of Pericles ! oh, who like thee 
"an teach how fair the works of mortal hand may 
be ? 

LXXXIV. 

Thou led'st the way to that immortal sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence 

didst bear 

Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair 

6 



And still to thee th' enlighten'd mind hath flown. 
As to her country ; thon bast 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 no- 
bler race. 

LXXXVHI. 

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, vanivh'd from the scene, 
I'o 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 rites 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. 

I,one are thy pillars now each passing pale 
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 hath shared: 



82 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Vet ait tnou honnur'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 un- 
born. 

XCI. 

Yes; in those fragments, though by time defaced, 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charrri th' enlighten'd eye of taste, 
On shores \vr.nre still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art. 
There in each wreck imperishably glows! (38) 
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 h<>ly festival's triumphal throng, 

I -i fair proceswon, to Minerva's fane, 

With many a sacred symbol move along. 

There every shade of bright existence trace, 

The tire 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 chiefs proud 

mien. 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the 

scene. 

XCIII. , 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, (39) 
Each pure, chaste outline exquisitely flows; 
There e'en the steed, with bold expression 

warm, (40) 

Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonized 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, 
Eternalize 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 

fa'te ! 

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 ihy last relics, e'en in ruin, bear 

A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- 

new'd . 

A light inherent let not man despair: 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
&nd art hath won a world in models pure as 
thine. (41) 

XCVI. 

Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced 
Yet there the germ of future glory lies! 
Their virtual grandeur could iiot be erased, 
It clothes them still, though veil'd from common 

*-yes. 

They once were gods and heroes (4-2) and beheld 
An the blest guardians of their native scene; 



And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell'd 
With awe that own'd their sov'reignty of mien. 
Ages have vanish'd since those hearts were 

cold. 
And still those shatter'd forms retain their godlike 

mould. 

XCVH. 

'Midst their origin 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. 

Th' 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 qurnchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- 
pand. 

XCVIII. 

Phi:!ias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thiiie, 

In human works thus blending earth and heaven. 
O'er Nature's truth hath shed that grace divine 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ? 
W r liat soul Imt thine, infusing all its power, 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could from their r lins bid young Genius tower. 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ? 
And guide deep thought to that secluded heiglit. 
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 Ancelo may rise to fame,(43) 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest ? 
Deem not, O England ! that by climes confi.'.ud, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial rav:(44l 
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 iiatb 
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 snaring 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 coan, 
Gems tar less rich than those, thus precious, an I 

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 remain? ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace. 
And cry, ' This ancient soil hath nursed a gloricui 
race I" 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



83 



NOTES. 



NOTE 1. 

found Doric Pmstvm'i solitary /ana. 

" The Piatan roie, from its peculiar fragrance and the lingularity 
.' blowing twice a year, is often mentioned by the classic ports. 
The wild rose, which now ihoots up among ihe 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." 
Sannburne't Travels in /. TwoSiciliet. 

NOTE 2. 

Swelled e'er that tide the ion* of battle sleep. 

In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it was usual for the 

soldiers before the fight to sing a paean, or hymn, to Mare, and after 

the fight anoiher lo Apollo." See Palter'* Antiquities of Greece, vol. 

ii, p. 155. 

NOTE 3. 

Her own bright East, thy son, Morta ! fliet. 
The emigration of the nalivea of the Morea to different parts of 
Alia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in his Itineraire de Paris 
la Jerusalem" " Parvenu au dernier degre <iu malheur, le Moraite 
I'ararche de son pays, el va chercher en Asic uu sort moius rignuieux. 
Vain espoir I il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans lei sa- 
bles de Jourdain et dans les deserts de Palmy re." 

NOTE 4. 

Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms. 
ID the same work, Chateaubriand also relate* his having met with 
several Greek emigrants who bad established theinselvet in the 
woods of Florida. 

NOTE 5. 

And i*la of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide. 

" La grace at toujours unie a la magnificence dans lei scenet de 
la nature ; et tandis que le courant dn milieu enframe vers la 
let cadavres des pins et des chent-s, on voit sur les deux courani 
lateraux remonter le long des rivages des iles flottantes de Pillia et 
de Nenuphar, dont les roses jauues s'elevent comme de petits papil- 
lont." Dexriplion of the bank* of the Mississippi, Chateau. 
briand's "Jltala." 

NOTE 6. 
Wild, at when sung by bardi of elder time. 

" Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of thii 
mountain-channel (Tempe) and contrasting it with Ihe course of the 
Peneus. through the p'ains of The-sa'y. 'he imagination instant! 
recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered wit 
water for which some convulsion ol nature had subsequently opened 
this narrow passage. The term uait, m our language, is usually 
employed lo describe scenery in which the piedouiiiiaut features are 
breadth, beauty, and repute. The reader has already perceived that 
the term is wholly inajpliiable to the scenery at this spot, and that 

1 he real tnat..cier ol Tempe, though it |,ernaps be le s beautiful, 
yet possesses more nl magnificence than is implied in the epithet 
giveu lo il. To those who have visited St. Vincent's nicks, be- 
low Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea nf Tempe, than 
by .vying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, 
that of the former place.' The Peneus indeed, as it flows through the 
valley, ii not greatly wider than Ihe Avon; and the cbannel be- 
tween Ihe chdsls equally contracted in its .: intensions ; but these 
clitfs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project 
their vast masses of rock with still more exiraoidmary abruptuen 
over the hollow beneath." Holland'* Travel* in Albania, S/c. 



NOTE 7. 

Years, that have changed ihy rirer'j classic name. 
The modem name of the Peneus is bal> mpria. 

NOTE 8. 

Where the rich arbute't coral kernel glmc. 

"Towards the lower part of Tempe, these clitfs are peaked in a 
ery singular manner, and form projec'ing angles on Ihe vast per- 
pendicular faces of the rock which they present towards the chasm ; 
where the surface renders it possible, the summits and ledgel 
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, wterever there is a small interval between the water and the 
clifl's, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the 
plane, thi oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have 
attained a remarkable size, and in various plactsex'end their shadow 

far over the channel of the stream." "'I he rocks on each side 

the vale uf Tempe are evidently the same ; hat may be called, I 
believe, a coarse bluish gray marble, with veins and portions <>f the 
rock, in which the marble is of liner quality." Holland's Travel! 
in Albania, Iff. 

NOTE 9. 

When Greece her council! held, her Pythian victor* crowned. 
The Amphictyonic council was convened in spring and autumn 
Delphi or Thermopylae, and presided at the Pythian games whifb 
were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. 

NOTE 10. 

Blown the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead. 
" This spot (the field of Mantineai on which so many brave men 
were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laureli.' 
i He'* Travel* in the Morca. 



Where the dark upas lamis the gale around. 
For the accounts of the upas or poison-tree of Java, now generally 
believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see the notes to Dar- 
win's Botanic Garden. 

NOTE 12. 

ttl sculptured liana, richly wrought arcades. 
" The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called tit 
court of the Lions; il is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an 
architecture which bears not the least resemblance lo any of the 
known orders, and might be called Ihe Arabian order. But its principa 
ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, 
six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which :s said U 
have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Sctlomon'l temple. * 
tourguannc't Travel! m Spain. 

NOTE 13. 

Bright at that Pleiad sphered in Mecca'* fane. 

"Sept des plus fameux panui les ancient poetes Arabiques, SOD' 

designes par les ecrivains orieutaux sous le nom de Pleuide AraLiqut, 

et leurs ouvrages etaient suspendus autour de la Caaba ou Mosqur 

de la Mecque." Samondi. iitterature du Midi. 

NOTE 14. 

And thou, O last and nollat Conxtantme ! 
" The distress and fall of the last Constantino are more glorious thai 
the long prosperity of the Byzantine Caesars." GiWxm' Decltn' 
and Fall, tfc. vol. xii. p. 226. 

NOTE 15 

The doling night of that imperial race ! 

See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constan- 
tinople by Mahomet IL Qitibon, vol. xii. p. 225. 

NOTE 16. 

And the Seven Tinner* are icaled, and all it won and lost. 
"This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) ii mentioned at 
early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which con- 
tributed 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." Puuipuville't Travels in the Morta, 

NOTE 17. 

Preterved inviolate their awful fane 

See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural defence of 
Delphi. MitforoT* Greece, vol. i. p. 396, 7. 

NOTE 18. 

Who from the dead at Marathon arose. 

"In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demi-god, 
induced lo it as well by other reasons, as because, when they were 
fighting the Medes at Marathon, a considerable part of the army 
thought they law the apparition of Theseus completely armed, and 
bearing down before them upon the Barbarians. " Langhomt't 
Plutarch, Life of Theteut. 

NOTE 19. 

Or they whole form*, to Alaric'i awestruck eye. 
"From Thermopyle to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) 
pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal an- 
tagonist : but one of the advocates of expiring paganism has confi- 
dently asserted, that the walls of Athens were guarded by thegoddest 
Minerva, with ber formidable segis, and by the angry phantom of 
Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the pretence rf the 
hostile deities of Greece." Gibbon'* Decline and Fall, tec. vol. v. 
p. 183. . 

NOTE 20. 

Ye tlept, oh heroes '. chief one* of the earth. 
" Even all the chief one* of the earth." haiah, 14th chapter. 

NOTE 21. 

Perufted the conquering weapons of your war. 
" How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished !* 
Samuel, 2d book, 1st chap. 

NOTE 22. 

(fer Suit's frowning rocki the pauied awhile. 
For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare 
with Ali Pasha, see Holland's Travels in Albania. 




NOTE 24. 

To lend their fall a mournful majeity. 

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



84 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



NOTE 25. 

How died the I/rave, obedient to thy lava. 

The inscription composed by Simonidet for the Spartan monu- 

ment in the pass of Thermopylae has been thus translated " Stran- 

ger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have obeyed their laws, and 

(bat we lie here." 

NOTE 26. 

There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave. 
"In the Eurotai 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 Ibe springs and rivu- 
lets are covered with lilies, tuberoses, hyacinths, and narcissus ori- 
ental is." Pouqueeille'i Travels in the Murea. 

NOTE 27. 
The supplianft hand ill holy branches bore, 



NOTE 28. 

fit fruitful groaet arise, revered and hallowed still. 
The olive, according to Fouqueville, is still regarded with venera- 
tion by the people of the Morea. 

NOTE 29. 

Quenched it the torch of Ceraall around. 
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 waslighted l.y a torch kindled mthe 
flames ot Etna. Potter's Antiifuities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392. 

NOTE 30. 

Fount of Oblivion I in thy giuhing leave. 

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 b 

exactly ascertained See Holland's Travels. 

NOTE 31. 

fair Elis, o'er thy consecrated vau*, 

Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being con- 
sidered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies march- 
ing through it delivered up their weapons, and received them again 
when thev had passed its boundary. 

NOTE 33. 

And mile the longest in ill lingering ray. 

" We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the province of 

Greece in which population first became settled, and where the ear 

lint progress was made toward civilization." Mitford's Greece, vo! 

i. p. 35. 

NOTE 33. 

Raised by the magic of Margana's wand. 

Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, which it 
thought by the lower orders 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, 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 lioliihed 
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, an j above 
it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike ; these again changed 
into tewers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then win 
dows. and at last ended in pines, cypresses and other trees." Surin- 
tmnu's Travels in the Twa Sicilies. 

NOTE 34. 

Holy tilt amaranth strewed upon their grove. 

All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks 

to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorning tombs; as ama- 

ranth, with which theThessalians decorated the tomb of Achilles. 

Putter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. li. p. 232. 

NOTE 35. 

Hark I Periclu records their honoured names. 

Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samoa, 

celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen wbc 

fell in that war. and pronounced, himself, the funeral oration usual 

on such occasions. This gained him great applause ; and when h 

and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like champion jttst 
returned victorious from the lists, ant;Aomt'j Plutarch, lift o/ 
Ptncla 



NOTE 36. 

Minr.roa's veil is rent her image gone. 

The peplus, which is supposed to have beea suspended as an awn. 

g over the statue of Minerva, in the Parthenon, was a principal or 

iment of the Fana'henaic festival ; it was embroidered with variou 

iloura. representing the battle of the Gods and Titans, and the n 

ploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, In* 

peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to Uu 

vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and 

principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Aero 

polis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and conse* 

crated to Minerva. See Chandler's Travels, Stewart's Athens, *e. 

NOTE 37. 

Though with rich gold and massy sculpture graced. 
The gilding amidst the ruins of Penepolis is still, according to 
Winckelmann, in high preservation. 

NOTE 38. | 

Then m each wreck impcrishably gloat. 
" In the most broken fragment the same great principle of life ca, 
be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure," is one of the ob- 
servations of Mr. Haydon on the Elgin Marbles. 

NOTE 39. 

Art unobtrusive then ennobles form. 

Erery thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite 
knowledge of art, but wiihout the least ostentation or parade of it, 
which is concealed by consummate and masterly skill." Cmnoaa's 
Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 

NOTE 40. 

There e'en the steed with bold expression worm. 
Dr. West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's head in 
l/>rd 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 
ins'anl when they were converted into marble." tVal'l Second 
Letter to Lord Elgin. 

NOTE 41. 

And art hath toon a world in modus pure as thine. 
Mr. Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly improved 
within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singulai 
because works of such prime importance as the Elgin marbles could 
not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of th 
public taste, and the talents of the artist^ See the Evidence given 
in reply to interrogatories from the Committee on the Elgin 
Marbles. 

NOTE 42. 

They once were gods and t.erots and beheld, 

The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Law 

rence, Mr. Westmacott, and other distingnished artists, to be of a 

higher class than the Apo'lo Belvidere; "because there is in them 

ion of the effect of action upon the human frame, than there is > 
the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statue*." See th 
Evidence, ire. 

NOTE 43. 

What British Angela may rise to fame. 

" Let us suppose a young man at this time in London ; endowed 
with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, 
at he did, by the aid of one mutilated specimen of Grecian excel- 
lence in sculpture ; to what an eminence might not such a geniu* 
carry art, by (he opportunity of studying those sculptures iu the ag- 
gregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens ?" Wt*Vt 
Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 

NOTE 44. 

Ocnivs and taste dijfust a partial ray. 

In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, 
fee. with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England 
to the progress of genius and the arta, Set Heart' t Epochs of t!u 
jilti, page 84, 5. 



HEMANS POETICAL WORKS. 



85 



DARTMOOR 



A PRIZE POEM. 



Come bright Improvement, on the car of Tims, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime! 
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild eiplore, 
Trace every wave and cultuK every shore. 

Campbell 



May ne'er 
fail of English hearts, 



That true i 

That can perceive, not lets than he 

Our ancestors did feelingly percem 

_^ the char; 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love 



AMIOST 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 tranipler of mankind 
Had slill'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 I thou that, 'midst thy mountain! 

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 wilt! and bare, 
But man hs left his lingering traces there? 
K'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 
In gloom and silence, fearfully profound, 
As of a wotld i] n waked to soul or sound ; 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning rone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, 
And naught of life be near ; his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the tiead ! 
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands 
Some mouldering shrinestill 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. 
Rut thou, lone region 1 whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, 
Who shall unfol'l thine annals ? Who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, 
In those far aces, 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 might'st have rear'd the valiant and the free, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. 

Vet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild 
Still rise the cairns of yore, all rudely piled. (1) 
But hallow'd, by that instinct, which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries nre flown, 
Umv'd many a crest, andshatter'd many a throne. 



Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, 
With that 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 he thus: the vestiges of strife. 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life 
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell (2) 
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. (3) 

But ot"her scenes, from their untroubled sphere. 
The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, (4) 
Far on the moor, a thine 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 misletoe ; 
Here, at dead midnight, through the haunted shade. 
On Druid-harps the quivering moon-beam play'd, 
And spells were breathed, thatfill'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, (5^ 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams, 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rung 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 ehb'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 still- 
ness 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 (loom. 
His spirit and his dust the altar and the tomb 

But ages roll'd away: and England stood, 
With her proud banner streaming t :;r the flood 



86 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



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. 

'T was then the captives of Britannia's war, (6) 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar, 
In bondage pined : the spall-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, 
Bathea 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 stalely fane, 
Drank in the 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 I 

But still, howc'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-glooin, 
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 lurrying 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 train 
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 I 

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd mir.d 
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 
Seareh'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 death-bed ? 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 repe)l'd 
The agony of prayer the bursting tears 
The dark remembrances of gtiilty~years, 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might? 
Fie, 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 lo 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 man kind. 
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 brigbt. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime t 

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 giows. 
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 I 

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 record of existence mark 
rh i scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark. 
And of some nameless combat; Hope's bright eye 
Beams o'er thee in the liuht of prophecy! 
Yet shall 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 spir* 
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, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS 



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 Kngland'8 voice floats up from all her 

vales. 

Vet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shall 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 trod, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky (7) 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy. 
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 

sprung, 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on its tongue 

And such shall bet/iy 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 I 

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 far isle the mighty impulse feels. 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will, 
Ati'l srpptrod 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 meicy 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 I 
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 star-light 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 the immortal spark for Heaven bren 

nursed, 

There from the rock the springs of life have burst 
duenchlessand 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. 



NOTES. 



NOTE 1. 

SfiH rise tht cairnt of yore, all rudely filed. 
In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with 
stones, which, in many instances, appear to have boen collected into 
piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the 
natural Tom. The Slone-barrows of Dartmoor resemble the Cainu 
of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall See 
Cooke'i Topographical Survey of Devonthirc. 

NOTE 2. 

And the rude arrow'i barb remain to tell. 
Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor, 

NOTE 3. 
The chief tain'i power they had no bard, and died. 

Mul" : Sed^mnes illachryn.abiles 
Urgentur, ignotique longa 

Nocte, carent quia vale sacro. 

Horace. 
"They had no Poet, nd they died." Popfi Tramlatim. 

NOTE 4. 

There itandi an altar of tmsculptured stone. 
On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one of which 
is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a pon 
deroiu table-stone, and form a kind of large, irregular tripod. 

NOTE 5. 

Bade the red caim-fira blaze from every heigW. 
In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns 
and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All the 
household tires 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. 

NOTE 6. 

'Twos then the captivei of Britanma't war. 
The French prisoner!, taken in the wars with Napoleon, wert 
confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 

NOTE 7. 

/( livei in those toft aaxnit, to the tky. 

In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school 
house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the childre* 
of convicts 



THE 

MEETING OF WALLACE AND BRUCE 

ON THE 
BANKS OF THE CARRON. 



A PRIZE POEM. 

The Scottish historians describe the hero, after the bat 
tie of Falkirk, by his military talents and presence of 
mind, preserving the troops under his own command, 
and retreating leisurely and in good order, along the 
banks of the little river Carron, which protected him 
from the enemy. They add, that Robert Bruce* ap- 
peared on the opposite side of the river, and soon di 
languishing the majestic figure of Wallace, he calliMJ 
out to him, and desired a conference. They represent 
the Scottish hero as seizing this opportunity to awaken 
the feelings of patriotism in the youthful mind of 
Bruce; as appealing to him in behalf of his country, 
and describing her oppressed state, as the consequence 
of being deserted by those whom nature and fortune 
pointed out, as best fitted by birth and character to 
maintain the national independence. The enthusiasm 
of the speaker is said to have made a deep impression 
on Bruce, who from that time repented of his engage- 
ments with Edward, and secretly determined to seize 
the first opportunity of aiding the cause of his na- 
tive country. 



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, 

* Not Robert Bruce, afterwards king of Scotland, but hit fetbo. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



And fell but nut till Canon's tide 

With Herman blood was darkly dyed. 

The morn rose bright, and heard the cry 

Sent by exulting hosts on Injih. 

And saw the white-cross banner float 

(While rang each clansman's gathering note) 

O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 

Of Scotland's daring mountaineers. 

As, nil elate with hop,;, (hex stood 

To h.iy their freedom \\ ith their blood. 

The s, inset shone, to guide the flying, 
And brain a farewell to the dying! 
The summer moon, on Falkir'k's field, 
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd : 
Deep clumber, not to pass away, 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bills ardent hearts a^ain 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 v\ith heroes' dust, of old, 
And, guarded by the free and brave, 
Yielded th^ 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 see their bleeding country weep: 
The shouts, of England'! triumph telling, 
Reach not their daik and silent dwelling; 
And those, surviving to bequeath 
Their cons 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 firld, 
O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 
Glitters not there aione, to shed 
Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead, 
But, where smooth Carron's rippling wave 
Flows near that death-bed 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 light hath lill'd thine eye 
With inspiration's majesty. 
Caught from the immortal frame divine 
Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine 
Thy voice a Prophet's tone hath won. 
The grandeur Freedom lends her sou; 
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, 
4*eels his reluctant mind controll'd 
By thine, of more heroic mould ; 
Though, struggling all in vain to war 
With that high mind'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 thy 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 dyii'5 moan, and dirge's wail, 
Thy ravaged country bids thee hail I 



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 
Rroodine o'er Scotland's mountain-crest , 
II. -r bhielil is cleft, her banner torn, 
O'er martyr'd chiefs her daughters mourn ; 
And riot a breeze, but wafts the soimd 
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 quern-Mess 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 I 
Is not her sword unmatch'd in might? 
Her course, a torrent in the fishtl 
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 thon, in lofty dreams elate, 
Enthusiast! strive no more with Fate! 
'T is vain the land is lost and won 
Sheathed be the sword, its task is done. 
Where are the chiefs who stood with thee, 
First in the battles r-f trip 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 hieh hope, and scorn of death, 
Till hursts immortal from tho 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 hitter sky 
Calls forth resisting energy, 
And the wild fastnesses are onrs, 
The rocks with their eternal towers! 
The sou! 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? 
IVo secret voice thy bosom thrill, 
For thine own Scotland pleading still? 
Oh ! wake thee yet ! indignant claim 
A nobler fate, a purer fame, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



89 



And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 

And take thine offer d crown from Heaven I 

Wake ! in that high majestic lot, 

Mav the dark past ba all forgot, 

A IK'! Scotland shall forgive the field, 

U'ii.>re with h.T 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 I/tin be cherish'd to the last; 

Will load 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 thoii hear in stern disdain ? 
Are Freedom's warning accents vain ? 
No. royal lirnce! within thy breast, 
Wakes each high thought, too long suppress')) 
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. 
'T is 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, bv late repentance pour'd, 
May lave the blood-stains from my swor<? 

Far other tears, (I Wallace ! rise 
From thy heart's fountain to thine eyes. 
Bright, holy, and imchrck'd iticy spring, 
While thy voice falters, " Hail, my King I 
Be every wr ing by memory traced. 
In this full tide of joy, effaced ! 
Hail ! and rejoice ! thy race shall claim 
An 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 blast. 
Those visions o'er my thouchts have [ 
Where mountain-vapours darkly roll. 
That spirit bath 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 mat Scotland shall be free. 

"He conies! exult, thou Sire of Kings! 
From thee the Chief, the Avenger springs I 
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 whisner'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 notl 



Art thou forgot 1 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 

T/tiiie, Wallace! while the heart hath still 

One pulse a generous thought can thrill, 

While Youth's warm tears are yet the meed 

Of martvr'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 dolay'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 explore! 
The wilds of thy majestic shores, 
Yet vainly seeks one native stone. 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 

Land of bright deeds and minstrel lore 
Withhold the 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 watch- word of thy hills: 
Not to assert with needless claim, 
The bright/or ever of its fame ; 
But in the apes yet untold, 
When mi I-.- shall be the days of old. 
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 
In him, for thee who lived and died. 



Efte 2Last 



Thou strives! nobly, 

When hard of ster-jer tuff perhaps had sunk ; 

And o'er thy fall, if t be to decreed, 

Good men will mourn, and brave men will abed teara. 



Fame I look not for, 

But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow-men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man. 
Thus station'd as I am, I will do all 
That man may do. 

Uia BaMift Conitantiru Palmolofut 



THE fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
Shout, for the Citv of ihe Constantines, 
The rising City of the billow-side. 
The City of the Cross ! great Ocean's bride, 
Crown'd from her birth she sprung! Long ages 

pass'd. 

And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet Barbaric riches cast, 
1'our'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 



90 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



II. 

Long ages past they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broider'd her mantle, arid her castled walls 
Frown'd in their strength; yet there were signs 

which told 

The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturb'd her dreams ; and call'd her slaves to 

keep 
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 

o'er the deep. 

III. 

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
"Pis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by Luxury woo'd ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows, 
And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd 
With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. 

IV. 

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze. 
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant pines! Across the seas 
A murmur comesjike that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haahted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crowrfd Eurotas; when, of old, 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave which would not be con- 

troll'd, 
But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom 

roll'd. 

V. 

And it is thus again ! Swift oars are dashing 

The parted waters, and a light is cast 

On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden 

flashing 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening 

fast. 

There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep. 
Wakening strange echoes as the shores are past, 
Where low 'midst Hum's dust her conquerors 

sleep, 

O'ershadowing with high-names each rude sepul- 
chral heap. 

VI. 

War from the West ! the snows on Thracian 

hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath; yet o'er 

the lands 

Which HUMMUS girds, the chainless mountain rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East! 'midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ishmael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the Sea ; (1) 
On ! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylas ' 

VII. 

Here yet again, ye mighty! where are they, 
Who, with theirgreenOlympicgarlandscrown'd, 
Leap'd up in proudly beautiful array, 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion 1 far and joyous round, 
From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows, 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they 

rose! 

Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's re- 
pose ? 

VIII. 
They slumber with their swords! the olive 

shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale I 



In vain the spirit of the past pervades 

The soft winds breathing through each Grecian 

vale. 
Yet must tlwu wake, though all unarm'd and 

pale, 

Devoted City ! Lo ! the Moslem's spear. 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
Awake and summon those, who yet, perchance, 

may hear ! 

IX. 

Behush'd, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high. 
And call on chiefs whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry. 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line, 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, 
And seize the arms which flash'd round Salcm's 

shrine, 
And wield for you the swords once waved for 

Palestine ! 

X. 

All still, all voiceless ; and the billow's roar 
Alone replies! Alike their soul is gone, 
Who shared the funeral feast on OEta's shore, 
And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swell'd thecrusader'shymn ! Then gird thou on 
Thine armour, Eastern (Jueen ! and meet the 

hour. 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is 

done, 

With a strong heart ; so may thy helmet tower 
Unshiver'd through the storm, for generous hope 

is power ! 

XI. 

But linger not. array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas are peopled with thy foes. 
Anns through thy cypress-groves are gleaming 

bright, 

And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near. 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear. 
Which the deep grave alone is charter'd not to 

hear. 

XII. 

Away ! bring wine, bring odours to the shade, (i) 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high! 
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, since we must die! 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-wreathed bower, or pillar'd 

hall; 

Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call. 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 

fall. 

XIII. 

The night, the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven. 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light. 
Athwart herworldd of tranquil splendourdriven, 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and 

tower 

Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 

lower. 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow'd hour 

XIV. 

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these 
A voice rs mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To Faith and Courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started! O'er the seas, 
From the Seven Towers, (3) their banner waves 

its sign. 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



91 



Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was 

thine; 
TViy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 

XV. 

Was Rome thy parent 1 Didst thou catch from 

her 

The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye ? 
That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! 
Heir of the Cffisars! did that lineage high. 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass'd 
With its long march of sceptred imagery, (4) 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
Thou of an eagle-race the noblest and the last I 

XVI. 

Vain dreams! upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each 

thought 

Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories 

fraught, 

And far within, a deeper meaning, caught 
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting place on buoyant wing is sought, 
(Though through its veil, seen darkly from the 

dust,) 
n realms where Time no more hath power upon 

the just. 

XVII. x 

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, 
And in the sun's bright face, and 'midst the array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, 
The Roman cast his glittering mail away, (5) 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who 

started, 

Call'd on the unseen, terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then fear- 
less-hearted, 

Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave de- 
parted. 

XVIII. 

But then, around him as the javelins rush'd, 
From earth to heaven swell'd up the loud ac- 
claim ; 

And, ere his heart's last free libation gush'd, 
With a bright smile the warrior caught his name, 
Far floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed, 
A life in fiery feeling! Valour's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed, 
Was to be'Rome's high star ! He died and had 
his meed. 

XIX. 

But praise and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, 
Who, in the stillness and the solitude 
Uncheer'd by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal food 
Of hearts press'd earthwards by a weight of 

cares. 

Of restless energies, and only view'd 
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 
Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 
And vow'd themselves, with strength till then 

unknown, 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 

XX. 

Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm'd man- 
kind 

With its rich pomp of festival and song. 
Garland and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence 

arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 



XXI. 

Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists ! the camp, 

the plain. 

The terraced palaces, the dome-cap! fane, 
With its bright cross tix'd high in crowning 

grace ; 

Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main. 
And, circling all with arms, that turban'd race. 
The sun, the desert, stamp'd in each dark, haughty 

face. 

XXII. 

Shout, ye seven hills 1 Lo! Christian pennon 

streaming 

Red o'er the waters! (6) Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile! they crowd the swelling 

sail. 

On, with the foam, the sun-beam, and the pale, 
Borne, as a victor's car! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling vril 
Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before ! 
And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and 

shore I 

XXIII. 

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia'x 

coast, 

All throng'd ! one theatre for kingly warl 
A monarch girt with his Barbaric host. 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scytnetar ! 
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar. 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement. 
Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar 
The promised aid ; but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! the Moslem line is rent' 

XXIV. 

On, on through rushing flame, and arrowy 

shower, 

The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way, 
And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour, 
Furl'd their white sails, and anchor'd in the bay 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire 

gay, 
Then the Greek wines flow'd mantling in the 

light 

Of festal halls ; and there was joy ! the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright, 
The sunset of the soul ere lost to mortal sight 1 

XXV. 

For, yam that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the 

sweep 

Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerful as when Heaven unbinds the 

deep I 

Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and 

sleep 
Flies far : and in their mien, the walls who 

tread, 
Things by the brave untold, may fearfully be read I 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer'd wal 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll'd, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ! 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall. 
The giant-shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's; a low, mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain 
A voice of omens rose, with each wild martia' 
strain. 



92 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVII. 

For they might catch the Arab charger's neigh- 
ing, 

The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song, 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying, 
The watch-word mutter'd in ioine eastern 

tongue. 

Then flash'd the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness not repose : 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 

. strong ; 

For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their number'd hours fast pressing to the 
close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the mightiest ! Tlvre is one 
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 
Whose cheek grows paler witheach morning sun. 
And tells in silence how the night hath been, 
In kingly halls, a vigil : yet serene, 
The lay set deep within his thoughtful eye 
And there is that in his collected mien, 
To which the hearts of noble men reply, 
With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 

XXXIX. 

Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate, 
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their ownl 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be. 
Still following fast; as when the wind hath 

blown 

O'er Indian groves, (7) a wanderer wild and free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree ! 

XXX. 

And it in thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 
On evil days, thou Caisar ! yet the few 
That set their generous bosoms to the blast 
Which rocks thy throne the fearless and the 

true. 

Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 
The free devotion of the years gone by, 
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 

Enduring strength! states vanish ages fly- 
But leave one task unchanged to suffer and to 

die! 

XXXI. 

These are our nature's heritage. But thou. 
The crown'd with Empire! thou wert call'd to 

share 

A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 
Which long had pass'd away ; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that 

came 

As a strong billow in their weight of care ; 
And, with all this, to smile! for earth-born frame. 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 

to fame ! 

XXXII. 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, 
On the red scaf)4d ; and where'er, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel'd 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might. 
Yet are proud nature's! But her meteor-light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not 

where. 

In silence, and in secret, and in night, 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit 

ness'd prayer. 

XXXIIL 

Men have been firm in battle: they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains. 
And won the birthright of their hearths with 

blood, 
And died rejoicing, 'midst their ancient fanes. 



That so their children, undefined with chains, 
Might worship there in peace. But they that 

stand 

When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Link'd but to perish with a ruin' il land, 
Where Freedom dies with them call these a mar- 
tyr-band ! 

XXXIV. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance. 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, 
Reck'd not which, champion ; but prepared the 

strain, 

And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm dis 

dain. 
The vanquish'd proudly met the doom he met in 

vain. 

XXXV. 

The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 

bleed. 

With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by Misery ; one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed. 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 

shown 
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

and throne. 

XXXVI. 

The signs are full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears; no meteor-banners glare. 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair, 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thinn'd ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien. 
And in the ruin'd heaps where walls and towers 
have been 1 

XXXVII. 

It is a night of beauty ; such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and 

glade 

To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts: a night, to rove alone, 
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are 

sway'd. 

And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone 
Of melody, that seems to breathe from worlds un- 
known. 

XXXVIII. 

A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards : a night, to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of 

old ; 

A night for mourners, o'er the hallow'd mould, 
To strew sweet flowers; for revellers to fill 
And wreath the cup ; for sorrows to be told, 
Which love hath cherish'd long; vain thoughts! 

be still! 
It is a night of fate, stamp'd with Almighty 

Will! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rend 

ing 

The ancient summits in its dread career! 
And with vast billows wrathfully contending. 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every spheis 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



93 



But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with 
('ear. 

Passing to lay the sovereign cities low 

Alike in His omnipotence is near, 

When the soft winds o'er spring's green path 

way blow, 

And when His thunders cleave the monarch- 
mountain's brow. 

XL. 

The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hush'd Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream 
Sleeps, with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, (8) in the moonlight-gleam 
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Throng'd it with gods, and bent the adoring 

knee! 

But that is past and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts; but earth, air, sea, 
And time, which presses on, to finish his decree 

XLI. 

Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 

night: 
Ye have look'd down on battles! Fear, and 

Flight, 

And arm'd Revenge, all hurrying past below! 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared, than e'er, with tranquil 

brow, 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow 1 

XLII. 

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 

And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry 

Of savage mirth ! Wild horn, and war-steeds 

tramp. 

Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry. 
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on, 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and 

high, 

And countless, as the flames, in ages gone, 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 

Lebanon! 

XLIII. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, 

perchance 

Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep, 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful ; but the lance, 
The bow. the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread. 
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the 

dead. 

XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush ? A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil 'midst that dusky race! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny, 
E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 
Kindles beneath their aspect, (9) and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen. 

XLV. 

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus I and they that veep 
For worlds to <>m|u<>i o'er the bound* usaigu'd 



To human search, in daring pride would sweep. 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon musl 
sleep. 

XLVI. 

But ye 1 tnat beam'd on Fate's tremendous night 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly view'd the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet- 
blast , 
Rung through the Capitol; bright spheres! mil 

on ! 
Still bright, though empires fall ; and bid man 

cast 

His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the 
past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
'Midst the wreck'd cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair, 
T/iet:ce comes its voice, that shakes the midnight 

air, 

And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day. 

And thrills the soul ; yet bids us not despair. 

But make one rock our shelter and our stay. 

Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay t 

XLVIII. 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hush'd waters tremulously fall, 
Pour'd from th Ciesars' palace : now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft, graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And fo-stal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 

XL1X. 

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round. 
Tells the Imsr.M seaman, gliding past the 

shore, 

How monarch!i revel there ! Its feasts are o'er 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? 
I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade. 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 

were made! 



In silence, and in arms ! With helm with 

sword 

These are no marriage-garments! Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely 

brow 

With an imperial diadem ! (10) but thou, 
O fated prince ! art call'd. and these with thee. 
To darker scenes; and thou hast learn'd to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, 
And count it joy enough to perish being free 1 

LI 

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread 
As men that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead. 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow. 
The warriors pass : their measured steps arc 

slow, 

And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go. 
In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seem!) the light itself which on their armouJ 
falls ! 



94 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



LII. 

And they have reach'd a gorgeous chamber, 

bright 

With all we dream of splendour ; yet a gloom 
Seems gather'd o'er it to the boding sight, 
A shadow that anticipates the tomb! 
Still from its fretted roof tht amps illume 
A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 
But it is empty ! Hath the stroke of doom 
Fallen there already ? Where is Fie, the One, 
Bom that high seat to fill, supremely and alone ? 

LIII. 

Oh! there are times whose pressure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions ! when the storm 

beats loud, 
When the strong towers are tottering to their 

base, 

And the streets rock, who mingle in the crowd ? 
Peasant and.chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng I Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chastening 

bow'd, 

And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 

power I 

LIV 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak 
In the deep human heart more gloriously, 
Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the 

weak, 
They that seem'd form'd, as flower-stems, but 

to break 
With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose 

name 

Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, 
And thrill tha pulse! Ay, strength no pangs 

could tame 
Hath look'd from woman's eye upon the sword 

and flame! 

LV. 

And this is of such hours ! That throne is void, 
And its lord comes, uncrown'd. Behold him 

stand, 

With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy'd 
The Greek's heroic beauty, 'midst his band, 
The gather'd virtue of a sinking land, 
Alas ! how scanty ! Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ? each noble hand 
Is prest by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope 

hath died! 

LVI. 

A moment's hush and then he speaks, he speaks ! 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory as he seeks, 
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that lire the eye, 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall 1 

LVI I. 

His words are full of faith! And thoughts, 

more high 
That itome e'er knew, now fill his glance with 

light ; 

Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty 

might ! 

And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not 

shame 

The bravest in such moments! 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, 
That generous burst of soul, with its electric 

flame ! 



LVIII. 

They weep those champions of the cross they 

weep. 
Yet vow themselves to death ! Ay, 'midst that 

train 

Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Thei" lofty sacrifice ! The pang is vain, 
And yet its gush of sorrow tihall not stain 
A warrior's sword. Those men are strangers 

here (11) 

The homes, they never may behold again, 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear. 
On laughing snores, to which their barks no more 

shall steer ! 

LIX. 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers? (12) 
Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's 

dyes? 

It is their own. They see iheir father's towers, 
'Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise: 
They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes, 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sail's return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain 
-Oh! what a crowded world one moment may 

contain 1 

LX. 

Such moments come to thousands ! few may die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the 

brave. 

The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes ; o'er land and wavt 
Are scatter'd fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall, 
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope 
to all! 

LXI. 

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide. 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slurnberers dwell, 
Though they were those once blooming at oul 

side 
In youth's gay home! Away! what sound's 

deep swell 

Comes on the wind? It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night I 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell, 
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 

LXII. 

Again, and yet again ! A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear 
Full on remembrance each eventful hour, 
Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's; and when young brides are 

led 

From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves 

red, 
And when the silent house receives its guest 

the dead. (13) 

LXIII. 

But to those tones what thrilling soul was give 
On that last night of empire! As a spell 
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chill'd.heart of multitudes they fefl. 
Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewe'll, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's de 
cay. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



95 



LXIV. 

Again, and yet again ! from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they 
Who never more to rest in mortal home 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band in close and arin'd array, 
As men that from the sword must part no more, 
Take through the midnight streets their silent 

way. 

Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are 

o'er. 

LXV. 

ft is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed, 
In the beleagur'd city. Stillness lies 
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread. 
But not the less with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street, 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why 
they meet. 

LXVI. 

Their homes are luxury's yet : why pour they 

thence 

With a dim terror in each restless eye? 
Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by, 
And rock'd their palaces, as if on high 
The whirlwind pass'd ? From couch and joyous 

board 

Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die? 
No! what are these? for them a cup is 

ponr'd (14) 
More dark with wrath ; Man comes the spoiler 

and the sword. 

LXV II. 

Still as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 

On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues deeply red, like lava's, which disclose 
What count li'ssshiipt's arc worn by-mortal WOPS! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands claep'd in 

prayer. 
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all out 

ward shows 

Betokening inward agonies, were there: 
Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave 
despair ! 

LXVIII. 

But high above that scene in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal ; lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore! Gods, heroes, bards, in marble 

wrought. 

Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion ! Yet 't was man that caught. 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 
thought ! 

LXIX. 

Stood ye not thug amidst the streets of Rome? 
That Rome which witness'din her sceptred days, 
So much of noble death? When shrine and 

dome, 

'Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, 
As the long triumph pass'd with all its blaze 
Of r.'gnl spoil, were ye not proudly borne 
Of sovereign forms, conci-ntering all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? did ye" not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and 
to mourn .' 



LXX. 

Hath it been thus ? Or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty? Uaply there. 
In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair, 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, 'midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet'i 

flow: (15) 

Behold again! high hearts make nobler offer- 
ings now! 

LXXI. 

The stately fane is reach'd and at its gate 
The warriors pause ; on life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state 
Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried 
By suffering, speaks; each ruder voice hath 

died. 

While his implores forgiveness!" If there he 
One 'midst your throngs, my people 1 whom in 

pride, 

Or passion, I have wrong'd ; such pardon, free 
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man to 

me." 

LXXII. 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies! He hath not been of those 
Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose. 
For they have heard the voice cry, "sleep nc 

more /" 

Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er. 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's 
throne before I 

LXXHI. 

He hath been loved but who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race ? in other mouki 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials, yet behold, 
And call him not forsaken, thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold 
Within its precincts! isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' impe- 
rial dead. 

LXXIV. 

Tis a proud vision that most regal pile 
Of ancientdays! the lamps arestreaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillar'd isle. 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Developes on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the vein'd marbles, which array their height, 
And from yon dome, (16) the lode-star of all eyes, 
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies. 

LXXV. 

But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's 

own hues 

In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie ; 
Though tints, of sun-burnt glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic: pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where eastern Csesars lie, 
Beneath their trophies; pause not here, foi 

know, 

A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show, 
In nature or in art, above, around, below. 

LXXVI. 
Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy 

gaze) 

The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone ; 
Heed not, though gems and gold around itblnze. 
Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling form* 

alone, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Thus bow'd, look glorious here. The light is 

thrown 

Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufferer! but his task shall soon be done 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd. 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re 
stored 1 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 
Once and but once to meet on earth again 1 
Each in the strength of a collected heart, 
To dare what man may dare and know 'tis 

vain ! 

The rite is o'er, and thou majestic fane 1 
The glory is departed from thy brow ! 
Be clothed with dust! the Christian's farewell 

strain 

Hath died within thy walls ; thy Cross must how; 
Thy kingly tombs be spoil'd; thy golden shrines 

laid lowl 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely and the star. 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with Twilight's rays were 

born. 

Awhile the city sleeps; her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire : 
Nor is the balmy air of day-spring torn 
With battle sounds; (17) the winds in sighs ex- 
pire, 

And Qiiit; t broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps ! ay ! on the combat's eve. 
And by the scaffold's brink, and 'midst the swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature' won reprieve 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber'd 

well, 

Arnd e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell, 
/hain'd between Life and Death i Such rest be 

thine, 

For conflict waits thee still ! Yet who can tell 
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may 

shine 
all on thy spirit's dream I Sleep, weary Con- 

stantine I 

LXXX. 

Doth the blast rise? the clouded East is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, 
The soft and smother'd step, of those that fear 
Surprise from atnbush'd foes. Hark ! yet more 

near 

It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound , 
A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear, 
A rolling as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 

bound ! 

LXXXI. 

Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore, 

ascending 

In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day! 
Who nowmay sleepamidst the thunders rending. 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array ? 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey. 
With its wild voice to which the seas reply ! 
And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 

sky! 

LXXXII. 

TTiey fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling 

throne ; 

Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own 1 
Shall those high energies be vainly shown ? 



No' from their towers th' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Reit-Sea waves, when God hud 

blown 
With his strong winds! (18) the dark-brow'd 

ranks are riven 
Shout, warriors of the cross! for victory is of 

Heaven ! 

LXXXIII. 

Stand firm! Again the crescent host is rushing 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood ii 

gushing 

Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! there yet is hope th' ascent is 

steep, 

And from on high no shaft descends in vain ; 
But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain. 
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount 

again 1 

LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the dread mingling in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shnwer 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, 
The deep, dull tambour's beat! man's voice 

alone 

Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands prayer, and shriek, and 

moan, 

All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory ! 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city ! through their 

dun 

O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze, 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ; (19) and lightning 

ravs 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the 

haze, 

And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air! 
Ay ! tkis is in the compass of our gaze, 
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there, 
Workings of Wrath and Death, and Anguish, and 

Despair! 

LXXXV1. 

Woe, shame and woe! A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
Oh God ! that nature's passing agonies 
Thus o'er the spark which dies not should pre- 
vail ! 

Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail. 
And stanch the blood drops, Genoa's fallen 

son ! (20) 

Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail I 
But there are tortures which thou canst not 

shun, 
The spirit is their prey ; thy pangs are but begun I 

LXXXVII. 

Oht happy in their homes, the noble dead I 

The seal is set on their majestic fame ; 

Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 

shed, 

Fate has no power to dim their stainless name! 
They may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years ; from many a lofty stein 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow 

tame, 

And stars drop, fading, from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs there is no change 

for them I 

LXXXVHI. 
Where art thou, Constantine ? Where Death ia 

reaping 

His sevenfold harvest! Where the stormy light, 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping. 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday 

night 1 



IIEMANS' POETICAL 



Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height, 

As tn tin? earthquake, anil the engines ply 
Likt! red Vrsuvio; and where human might 
Confronts nil this, and still brave hearts beat 

high, 
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou, Constantine ? Where Christian 

blood 

Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain I 
Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment : where the gallant 

slain 

Around the banner of the cross lie strew'd, 
Thick as the vine-leaves on tneaiitiiinn.il plain; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued. 
And through the breach press on the o'er whelming 

multitude. 




XC1. 

Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithfuj and the 

brave ! 

Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shatter'd helms and shields, which could not 

save; 

And crests and banners, never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven 1 fie is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave 
And tin- steeds trample, and the spearmen close 
Vet wake them not! so deep their long and last 

re pose 1 

XCH. 

Woe to Hie vanquish'd ! thus it hath been still. 
Since Time's first march ! Hark, hark, a peo- 
ple's cry ! 

Ay ! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 
Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! The lot is cast. 
Slaves, 'twas your choice, thus, rather thus, to 

die. 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 

fast. 

And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the 
last! 

XCIII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! Men have made, 
E'en 'midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand. 
And on the floors, where once their children 

play'd. 
And by the hearths, round which their house 

hold band 

At evening met; ay! struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ! but ye I kneel, tremblers ! 

kneel and weep! 

XCIV. 

Tis eve the storm hath died the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is 

done. 

And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's lace is run I 
Pad, 'midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
ITpon the captive city. Hnrk! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim Barbaric war-fields won) 

M 



Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell, 
The Soldan comes within the Cssars' halls to 
dwell! 

XCV. 

Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
Hecomes, the Moslem treads those ancient halls 
But all is stillness there, as Death had long 
Been lor. I alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals 
The conqueror's heart. Ay, thus with Triumph'i 

hour, 

Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A III HiL'lit of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er Grande ir's path, a sense of some far mightier 

Power! 

XCVI. 

" The owl upon Afrasiah's t^mis natfi surf 
Her watch-song, and nrom.,', IN imperial thtope 
The spider weaves his web!" (21) Still dacklt 

hung 

That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, 
O'er his flnsh'd spirit. Years on years have 

flown 

To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coil'd snake may bask on sculptured 

stone, 

And nations clear the forest, to prepare 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 

there 1 

xcvn. 

But thon ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crown'd leader in such hours should die. 
Upon thy pyre of shiver'd spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, 
And banners for thy shroud ! No tear, no sigh, 
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for th >u art now 
Beyond vicissitude! Lo ! rear'd on high. 
The Crescent blazes,' while the cross must how; 
But where no change can reach, there, Constan- 
tino, art thou I 

XCVIII. 

After life's fitful fever, thou sleep's! well !" 
We may not mourn thee ! Sceptred chiefs, from 

whom 

The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling to a sterner doom 
Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon'! 

gloom, 

With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power de- 

cay'd. 

XCIX. 

Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of Death but not like thee 1 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal'd their 

blood. 

But thou didst fall unfelter'd, arm'd, and free, 
Aud kingly to the last ! And if it be, 
That, from the viewless world, whose marvds 

none 

Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see , 

The things of earth ; still may's t thou hail the 

sun, 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's 

fight is won 1 

G. 

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is 

glancing 

Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades ! 
'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; 
A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades. 
Round dark Citharon, and by Delphi's steep; 
'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 

deep! 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



CL 

Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old, 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain. 
And by the streams, once crimson as they roll'd 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the tmmpet; and the tombs reply 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, 
Far as Plataea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crown'd so proudly there the bowl of liber- 
ty ! (22) 

CII. 

Bright land with glory mantled o'er by song! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams. 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along, 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be 

themes 

To verse for ever ; and of ruin'd shrines 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines 1 
When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 

their vines? 

CHI. 

Thou weit not made for bonds, nor shame, not 

fear! 

Do the hoar oaks and dark-irreen laurels wave 
O'er Mantintea's earth ? doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave 7 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins? And shall man. a slave, 
Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine? 
If e'er a soil was mark'd for Freedom's step 't is 
thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash from that soil the stains, with battle- 
showers ! 

Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays. 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, 
In the Comueni's halls (23) the Tartar sways : 
But not for long! the spirit of those days, 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian 
isle. 

CV. 

If then 'tis given thee to arise in might. 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain. 

Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign. 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust t 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, 
She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable but 
just. 



NOTES 



NOTE 1. 

IV Mt hhmatl'i bow, Ift 

The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege of Constantinople, 
was threaded with tariatics of all lecti and nation, who were not 
enrolled unonnt the rert r troop*. The Sultan himself marched 
poi the city from Adrianople ; but hit army muit have been prin- 
npally collected in the Aiiatic province*, which he had previously 
visited. 

NOTE 2. 

Bring urrru, bring odoun, fc. 
Hoc nna, et unnenta. et nimium brevet 
Flora arnccnz (erre jube roue. 

Hor. lib. II. od. 3 



NOTE 3. 

From tht Seven Towtri, Ift. 

The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Brian! o| 
history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an edi 
fice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople, 
and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of tht 
Propontis, in the latter periods of the empire. For a detention c 
this building, see Pouqueeiilt't Trcmlt. 

NOTE 4. 

With itl long march of laptrtd imagery. 
An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in profession, at 
the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors. 

NOTE 5. 

Tht Rfnman out hii glittering mail away. 
The following was the ceremony of consecration with which De- 
cius devoted himself in battle. He was ordered by Valerius, tht 
poutifex maim, as, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe bt 
wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil; 
commanded bin to put forh his hand under his robe to his chin, 
and standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words : 
"O Janus, Jupiter, Mars. Romulus, Bellona. and ye Lares and No- 
vensiles ! All ye heroes who dwell in heaven, and all ye gods whc 
rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods of hell ! I honour 
you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the 
Romans, ana to transfer all fear and terror from them to their ene- 
mies ; and I do, for the safety of the Roman people, and their 
legions, devote myself, and with miself the army and auxiliaries of 
the enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth." De- 
cius then, girding his robe around him, mounted his horse, and rode 
full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battalions. The Latins 
were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle; but at length 
recovering themselves, they discharged a shower of darts, under 
which the consul fell. 

NOTE 6. 

Lo ! Chrittian ftnncmt streammf 

Rid o'er the 10 ntcr i ! ft. 

See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five Christ.an 
ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the besieged, not 
many days before the fall of Constantinople. Decline and Pull of 
tht Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215. 

NOTE 7. 

At trtoi tht wind hath Mourn 

Crer Indian grovet, Src. 

The summit] of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, particularly about 
the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which 
grows in thick clumps, and ra nf nrh uncommon aridity, that in tnt 
sultry season of the year the friction occasioned by a strong dry 
wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which frequently setting 
th woods in a blase, exhibit to the spectator stationed i a valley 
surrounded by rocks, a magnificent, though jnperfect circle of nre. 
ffota to Kindenley't Sptcimmt of Hindoo Literature. 

NOTE 8 

Tht ntourv crown 
Of far Olympus', Irl. 

Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the 
Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace awi Bithy- 
nia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Muunt Olympus, 
covered with eternal snows. Decline and Fall, fc. vol. iii. p. 8. 

NOTE 9. 

Mohammed 1 ! fact 

Kindla beneath their atptct, Itc. 

Mahomet II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His 
calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the 
29th of May as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city 

NOTE 10. 

Thy Georgian Lridt, $<:. 

Constantine Pileologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess; 
and the very spring which witnessed the fail of Constantinople had 
been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that 

or- 

NOTE 1L 

ThoK men art ttrangen hen. 

Many of the adherents of Constantine, iu his last noble stand for 
the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreign 
en and chiefly Italians. 

NOTE 12. 

fnno'lt tfiriu the land, +c. 

This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a 
beautiful song of Goeth^s : 

Kennst du das land, wo die xirronen bluhn 
Mit dunkeln lanb die gold orangen gluhn ? fee. 

NOTE 13. 

The Idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified ia Schil. 
lert poem " Du Lied der Glocke." 

NOTE 14. 

Bath the fierce phantom, iff. 

It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced 
by UM heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard ia the streets at 



REMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



midnight ; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who 
summons the devoted person by name. 

NOTE 15. 

Ye tmiled on banquets of dupair, (ft. 

:h banquets, given and shared by persons 
' 'story " 

.ble. 



resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history.' That 
of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most un 



plo.-ei 



Fall, 



NOTE 16. 
Ton dome, the lode-itar of all eya. 



, , 

the construction of St. Sophia, see The 
ol. vii. p. 120. 



NOTE 17. 

Nor a the balmy air of day-taring torn 
With battlt-ioundi, l/c. 

The assault of the city took place at day-break, and the Turks 
were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been 
commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This 
i ircumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of 
< omttntine falxologus : 

"Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor trump, 

Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 

Our near approach t Ann: silent and soft, 

As the pard's velve foot on Libya's sands, 

Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey." 

Camtantine t'alaologia, Act iv. 

" The march and labour of thousands" must, however, as Gibbon 
observes, "have inevitably produced a strange confusion of dis- 
cordant clamours ; which reached the ears of the watchmen on the 
towers.** 

NOTE 18. 

Tin dark-browed ranks are riven. 

"After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and 
^reserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions 
if the Janizaries first tamed the fortune of the dajr. 



NOTE 19. 

From the Greek fire shoots up, f*. 

" A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople ii 
the reunion of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the 
battering-ram were directed aeainst the same wall ; nor had the dis- 
covery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and 'inextin- 
guishable fire.'' Decline and Fall, fc., vol. xii. p. 213. 

NOTE 20. 

And stanch the llood-droil, Genoa 1 ! fallen ion ! 
"The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the 
bullet, or arrow which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniana (a 
Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, appalled 
the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest 
rampart of the city." Decline and Fall, S,-c., vol. xii. p. 229. 

NOTE 21. 

The owl upon .IfrnsiaL's towers hath tung 
Her watch-long, fyc. 

Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the By- 
tantine emperors, was strongly impressed withr the silence and deso- 
lation which reigned within its precincts. " A melancholy reflec- 
tion on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on hii 
mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry : The 
spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath 
sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab ' " Decline and 
Fall, 4c., vol. xii. p. 240. 

NOTE 22. 

The bowl of liberty. 

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Flatxa was annuall; 
commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Bowl of 
liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation. 

NOTE 23. 

In th Comneni'i hatti, $e. 

The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the Ami- 
des who tilled the Byxantine throne in the declining years ol Ins 
astern empire. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA 

I 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 



DRAMATIS PERSONNEL 

ALTAR GONZALEZ Governor of Valencia. 

ALPHONZO ) 

> His S-J71S. 

CARLOS y 

HERNANDEZ A Priest. 

I A Moorish Chief. 

ABDULLAH < 

f Army besieging Valencia. 

GAROIAS, A Spanish Knight. 

ELM ix A Wife to Gonzalez. 

XIMBNA Her Daughter. 

, An Attendant. 

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, ice. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



THE history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism, which forms 
the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which 
was defended in 1294, for Sancho, King of Castile, daring the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by 
Guzman, snrnamed the Good.* The second is related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until his gar- 
rison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Bon 
Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.f 

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it ap- 
peared to the author of the following pages, that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of 
nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe high 
passions and high actions;" by connecting a religions feeling with the patriotism and high-minded 
loyalty which had thus been proved " faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis 
persona with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this 
reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon "Valencia dd Old" as the 
scene to give them 

"A local habitation and a name." 



8e QolnUni'i ' Vidai de Espno!e eelebrt*,' p. . 
t e tke Preface to Southey ' CbronloU of k OH' 



THE 



SIEGE OF VALENCIA 



Scene Room in a Palace of Valencia. 
XIMENA ringing to a lute. 

BALLAD. 

THOO hast not been with a festal throng, 

At the pouring of the wine; 
Men hear not from the Hall of Song, 
A mien so dark as thine ! 
There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
Thou hast brought from some disastrous field 
That brow of wrath and gloom!" 

" And is there blood upon my shield? 

Maiden ' it well may bel 
We have sent the streams from our battle-field, 
All darken'd to the sea ! 
We have given the founts a stain, 
'Midst their woods of ancient pine; 
And the ground is wet but not with rain, 
Deep-dyedbut not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet but not with rain 

We have been in war array. 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And thi: stripling meet his fate. 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait. 

" In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft ; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 
There's many a fair young face, 
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more !" 

"Alas) for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest 
And a white plume waving free? 
With his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state ? 
Doth he come from where the swords flash'd high, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait?" 

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait 

I saw and mark'd him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate. 
When the pride of manhood fell 1 
But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns, 
Till it rests amidst the slain 1" 



Thou canst not say that he liei low, 
The lovely and the brave ; 
Oh! none could look on his joyous brow. 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been with valour's fate, 
But he is on his homeward way. 
From the Roncesvalles' Strait." 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 
Though it bruise his greensward bedl 
I have seen the stripling die. 
And the strong man meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by, 
In the Roncesvalles' Strait 1" 

EI.MINA enters. 
Elmin*. Your songs are not like those of other 

days. 

Mine own Ximena 1 Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breath'd in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts? 

Ximena. My mother, this 

Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds ; 
And these are not the halls, wheiein my voice 
First pour'd those gladdening strains. 

Elmina. Alas! thy heart 

(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills. 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent -streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begi't, 
Thou wouldst have track'd ere now, with step as 

light, 
Their wild wood-paths. 

Ximena. I would not but have shared 

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice, 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm (ioU 

hush 

All floating whispery sound, all bird-notes wild 
O' th' summer forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. And 'tis well 1 
Should not a hero's child be train'd to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 
In the fix'd face of Death without dismay ? 
Elmina. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and 

so young 

Should thus be call'd to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot, but thou, my child, bhouldst 

move 

As a light breeze of heaven, through summer 
bowers, 

(103) 



104 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



And riot o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n 
On dark and evil days! 

Xiniena. Ay, days that wake 

All to their tasks! Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring: and womanhood 
Is summon' (1 unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior souls. But we will take 
Our toils upon us nobly! Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts ; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elmina. Hast thou some secret woe, 

That thus thou speak'st ? 

Xiniena. What sorrow should be mine 

Unknown to thee? 

Klmina. Alas! the baleful air 

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n, 
And wrought an early withering! Thou has 

cross'd 

The paths of Death, and minister'd to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath eaugli 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades unto desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle 

child ! 
I look on thee in fear I 

Ximciifi. Thou hast no cause 

To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step. 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams, 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chill'd their fiery blood; it is no lime 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier houri, 
We trod the woodland mazes, when young leaves 
Were whispering in the gale. My Father comes 
Oh ! speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

GONZALEZ enters. 

Elmina. My 'noble lord ! 

Welcome from this day's toil ! It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mail'd bosom from the corselet's weight, 
To rest at fall of eve? 

Gonzalez. There may be rest 

For the tired peasant when the vesper-bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport: but unto Aim 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain 

height, 
When Heaven lets loose the storing that chasten 

realms 
Who speaks of rest ? 

Ximena. My father, shall I fill 

The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou loved ? 

Omzalez. If there be strains of power 

To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth; give voice to 

those 1 

I have need of such, Ximena ! we must hear 
No melting music now. 

Ximena. I know all high 

Heroic ditties of the elder time, 
Sung by the mountain-Christians,(l) in the ho.ds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet hear 
The print, of Freedom's step; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos* teach the rocks 
And the pine forests deeply to resound 
Fhe praise of later champions. Wouldstthou hear 
The war-sone of thine ancestor, the Cid? 

Gonzalez. Ay, speak of him, for in that name is 
power 

"Serrano*," mountaineers. 



Such a* might rescue kingdoms! Speak of him! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
I' th' nn iiiils of their house on such a name, 
How should they take dishonour by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest ? 

Elmina. Oh, why this? 

How my heart sinks! 

Gonzalez. It must not fail thee yet, 

Daughter of heroes! thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst 

number 

In thy long line of glorious ancestry 
Men, the bright offering of whose hlood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar whence 
High thoughts shall rise forever. Bore they not, 
'Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel 
O'erawed, shrank back beforethetn ? Ay, the earth 
Doth call them martyrs, but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay naught but dust And earth doth call them. 

martyrs ! 
Why, Heaven but rlaim'd their blood, their lives, 

and not 
The things which grow as tendrils round their 

hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elmina. Mean'st thou ? know'st thou aught ? 
I cannot utter it My sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them ? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them? 

Gonzalez. A mother^ heart divi net h but too well! 

Klmina. Speak, I adjure thee! I can bear it all. 
Where are my children ? 

Gonzalez. In the Moorish camp 

Whose lines have girt the city. 

Ximena. But they live? 

All is not lost my mother! 

Elmina. Say. they live, 

Gonzalez. Elmina, still they live. 

Klmina. But captives ! They 

Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seenrd not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom! And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor! Oh! how was this! 

Gonzalez. Alas! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elmina. 'Tis enough. 

And when shall they be ransomed ? 

Gonzalez. There is ask'd 

A ransom far too high. 

Elmina. What ! have we wealth 

Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters? Take thou all for them 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! Why, thou art one 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as tlie plumage to a warrior's helm, 
Worn or thrown ofTas lightly. And for me, 
Thou know'st not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart, 
Amidst its deep affections undisturb'd, 
May dwell in silence. 

Ximena. Father ! doubt thou not 

But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this, 
May win them back. Distrust us not, my fatber 
We can bear all things. 

Gonzalez. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Ximena. We were not born for this. 

Gonzalez. No, thou sayest well ! 

Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns ? If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! But he, for whom 
Freedom and life may but be worn with shame, 
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens. 
And proudly diel 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



105 



F.lmina. Gonzalez, wlio must dial 

Gonzalez (hurriedly). They on whose lives a fear- 
ful price is set, 

But to be paid by treason! Is 't enough? 
Or must I yet seek words? 

Elmina. That look suith more I 

Thou canst not mean 

Gonzalez. I do : why dwells there not 

Power in a glance to speak it ? They must die I 
They must their names be told Our sons must die 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Ximena. Oh Hookup I 

My mother, sink not thus ! Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elmina (in a lo'" voice.) Whose knell was in the 
breeze ! 

No, no, not t\eirs ! 

Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope? 
And then; is hope ! I will not be subdued 
I will not hear a whisper of despair! 
For Nature is al'-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. Thou loo, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gonzalez (solemnly.) Hope but in him 

Who hade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quiver'd in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent fort)) his awful voice 
Through the still clouds, and on the breathless air. 
Commanding to withhold ! Earth has no hope: 
It rests with him. 

F.lmina. Thou canst not tell tne this! 

Thou father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gonzalez. If there have been 

Men in whose bosoms Nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whispered by faith and honour, lift thy hands, 
And, to that Heaven, which arms the brave with 

strength. 

Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

F.lmina. Then their doom is sealed I 

Thou wilt not save thy children ? 

Gonzalez. Hast thou cause 

Wife of my youth, to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word traitor? They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, 
Died not for this ! 

Rlmina. Oh, cold and hard of heart I 

Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty Might ! Men! men ! too much is yours 
Of vantage ; ye, that with a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither! So it is. 
Dominion must be won ! Nay, leave me not 
My heart i bursting, and I must be heard I 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength 7 I must be heard ! 
Give me my sons ! 

Gonzalez. That Iliey may live to hide 

With covering hands th' indignant flushof shame 
On their young brows, when men shall speak of 

him 

They called their father ! -Was the oath, whereby, 
On th' altar o my faith, I bound myself, 
With an unswerving spirit to maintain 
This free and Christian city for my God 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand? 
That passionate tears should wash it from the 

earth, 

Or e'en the life-dropg of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake? Then never more 
Let man's deep vows be trusted ! 'though enforced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances, 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, 



On their good swords! Think st tliou I feel no 

pangs ? 

He that hath given me sons, doth know the heart 
Whose treasures he recalls. Of this no more. 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate cross 
Still, from our ancient temples, must look up 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 

foot 

I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors meu who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample! 

Ktmiwa. Scorn me not ! 

In mine extreme of misery ! Thou art strong 
Thy heart is riot as mine. My brain grows wild 
I know not what I ask ! And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate since it must fall, 
That cross must fall at last ! There is no power, 
No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for rtie shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark. 
Than the arrow of the desert. Ev'n the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth, 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and 

signs 

Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease, 
When leagued with armed foes! Where now the 

aid, 

Where the long-promised lances of Castile? 
We are forsaken, in our utmost need, 
By heaven and eartli forsaken I 

Gonzalez. If this be, 

(And yet I will not deem it) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness 
Have chosen their part and bound themselves to 

rienth. 

Through high conviction that their suffering land, 
liy the free blood of martyrdom alone, 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Klmina. Oh ! I have stood 

Beside thee through the beating storms of life, 
With the true heart of unrepining love, 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily 
In the parch'd vineyard, or the harvest-field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour, 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that woe is mightier ! Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband! Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home, a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gonzalez. Urge me not, 

Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast been 

found 

Worthy a brave man's love, oh ! urge me not 
To guilt, which, through the mist of blinding 

tears, 

In its own hues thou seest not ! Death may scares 
Bring aught like this! 

Elmina. All, all thy gentle race, 

The beautiful beings that around thee grew. 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom tne in all ? 
She, too, thy daughter doth her smile unmark'd 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day ? 
Shadows are gathering round her seest thou not! 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty, and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send, 
With every glance, deep bodings through the I. 
Telling of early fate. 

Gonzalez. I see a change 

Far nobler on her brow ! She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast dow 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute, 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. r-Her eye hath lust 



106 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Tne oeam \vnicn laughed upon tli' awakening 

heart, 

E'en a-- morn breaks o'er earth. But fir within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade I 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven '.She hath 

put on 

Courage, and faith, and generous constancy. 
Ev'n as a breastplate. Ay, men look on her, 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fevered lips; they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

HI min a. And seest thou not 

[n that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A f. -arf.il inspiration ? They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high, and, it may be, prophetic thought. 
Investing youth with grandeur! From the grave 
It rises <MI whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me, 
Xi'nena. kneel beside inc. and implore 
Th.il which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied; 
His children's lives ! 

Xiiitena,. Alas ! this may not be, 

Mother ! I cannot. [Exit XIMBNA. 

Gonzalez. My heroic child ! 

A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, O Godl 
From creatures in whose agonizing hearts 
Nature is strong as death. 

Elmina. Is't thus in thine? 

Away ! what time is given thee to resolve 
On ? what I cannot utter! Speak! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 

Gonzalez. Until ask not! 

The time is brief. 

Elmina. Thou said'st I heard not right 

Gonzalez. The time is brief. 

Elmina. What ! must we burst all ties 

Wherewith the thrilling; chords of lift; are twined; 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man, in his cold heartlessness, hath dared 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments ? Why, the sentenced 

wretch. 

He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Ponied forth in slumber, is allowed more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! It is not thus I 
We must have time to school us. 

Gonzalez, We have but 

To bow the head in silence, when Heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. 

Elmina. Love! Love! there are soft smiles 

and gentle words, 

And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in and 'tis mockery all ! 
A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! There is none 
In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn 
Watching his growth. Ay, o the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 
But as the heir of his great name, the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 
This is man's love ! What marvel ? you ne'er 

made 

Your breast the pillow of his infancy. 
While to the fullness of your heart's glad heaving* 
Ms t";iir cheek rose and Ml; and hie bright hair 
Waved softly to your breast! You ne'er kept 

wafh 

B^sMe him till the last pale star had set. 
And tnorn. all dazzling, as in triumph broke 
On your dim weary eye; not i/aurg the face 



Which early fnriet! through tonn care tor nun. 
Hung o'er bis sleep, and duly as Heaven's iiglit. 
Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er 

smoothed 

His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest, 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learned soft utterance ; pressed your lips to his 
When fever parched it ; hushed his wayward cries. 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love! 
No I these are woman's tasks ! In these her youth. 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart. 
Steal from her all unmarked ! My boys ! my boys \ 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this? 
Why were ye given me ? 

Gonzalez. Is there strength in man 

Thus to endure ? That thou couldst read, thro' all 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe doth rend ! 

Elmina. Thy heart \-thy heart ! Away ! it feels 

not now! 

But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto th>- infant's weakness; nor shall Heaven 
Hpart- yon that bitter chastening! May you live 
To b alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most hi-Hvv to sustain ! Fr me, my voice 
Of pravi-r and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds; my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones, and we shall sleep, 
Though kinpf li-ad armies o'er us ; we shall sleep. 
Wrapt in? earth's covering mantle! you the while 
Shall sit within your vast, forsaken halls. 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never mnre 
To wave above your race. Ay. then call up 
Shadows dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But all all glorious conquerors, chieftains, kinas 
To people that cold void! And when the 

strength 

From your rieht arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening; if at last you pine 
For trie gla- 1 voices, and the bounding steps, 
Once through vour home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arm.- and an the joyous light 
Of eyes that laugh'd with youth, and made your 

board 

A place of sunshine; When those days are come, 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world, the smiling, faithless world. 
Which hath swept past you long, and bid it qitenck 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame '. immortal fame . 
Fame to the sick of heart! a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
I' th' burning waste, for water I 

Gonzalez. This from thee , 

Now the last drop of bitterness is pour'd. 
Elmina I forgive thee! \Kiit ELMINA. 

Aid me. Heaven ! 

From whom alone is power! Oh! thou hast set 
Duties, so stern of aspect, in my path. 
They almost, to my startled gaze, assume 
The hue of things less hallow'd ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials! Doth not He 
Who made us, know the limits of our strength? 
My wife! my sons! Away! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus! 

[Exit GONZALEZ. 

Scene T/ie Jiisle of a Gothic Church. 
HERNANDEZ, GARCIAS, and others. 

Hernandez. The rites are closed. Now, valiant 

men, depart, 

Each to his place I may not say, of rest ; 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and ir care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But bless'd be they who toil 
For after-days! All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors, thro' the lingering hours 
Of the night-watch I 

Oarcias. Ay, father ! we have neev 

Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have 1 been 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



107 



From youth a son of war. The stars have look'd 
A thousand times upon my couch of health, 
Spread 'midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves look'd e'en as though tbeir 

source 

Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a nightly crest 
Roll'd with them to the deep. And in the year* 
Of my long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce Arab, 1 have watch'd beneath 
The still pale shadow of some lonely palm, 
At midnight, in the desert; while the wind 
Swell'd with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Press'd on my weary heart. 

Hernandez (thoughtfully.} Thou little know'lt 
Of what is solitude! I tell thee, those 
For whom in earth's remotest nook howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas there heats one human heart, 
There lireathes one being unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladdening sound, 
Heard o'er the din of life ! are not alone I 
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 
For there is that on earth with which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul ! Call him alone. 
Who stands shut out from this ! And let not thoie 
Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with 

love, 

Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot ! A lonely hour 
Is on its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Oarcias. I have look'd on Death 

In field, and storm, arid flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weigh'd down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries, 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth. 
Omens in Heaven ! The summer-skies put forth 
No cleat bright stars above us, but at times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshal their ciouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor steeds, the array 
Of spears and banners, tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
!>ntli sweep the mountains. 

Hernandez. Ay, last night, I too 

Kept vigil, cazing on the angry heavens; 
And ( b 'held the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when as they closed, 
A re<l anil sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were 

flung 

Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth. 
And chariots seem'd to whirl, and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy; then swift darkness 

nwh'd 

Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. I look'd 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face! I look'd again 
And from the brooding mass of clouds leap'd 

forth 

One meteor sword, which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes 

give 

Unto a rocking citadel ! I beheld, 
And yet my spirit sunk not. 

Oarcias. Neither deem 

That mine hath blench'd. But these are sights 

and sounds 

To awe the firmest. Know'st thou what we hear 
At midni'.'ht from the walls ? Were't hut the deep 
Barbaric horn or Moorish tambour's peal. 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses. 
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the 

air 

Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 



Sigh'd on its hollow breezes! To my soul, 
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Hernandez (with solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid-waves of combat, as they hear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows; 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! but there are thingi 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch. 
And courage temper'd with a holier fire! 
Well may'st thou say, that these are tearful times 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! There is strength 
Anil a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy. 
When red swords meet in lightning ! but our task 
Is more, and nobler ! We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
And to defend an altar! If we fall, 
So that our blo.,d make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith! Think but on this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suffering, yet hoping all things Fare ye well. 

Oarcias. Father, farewell. f Exeunt, GARCIAI 
and his followers. 

Hernandez. These men have earthly tiet 

And bondage on their natures ! To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom Heaven 
Hath called to be th'awakener of a land, 
Should have his soul's affections all ahsorb'd 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment, as a mountain-born 
And miehty stream, with all its vassal rills 
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. 

Hark ! what quick step 

Comes hurrying through the gloom at this dead 
hour? 

ELMINA enters 

Elmina. Are not all hours as one to misery ?- 

Why 

Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose ? 

Hernandez. I know thy griefs; 

But there are trials for the noble heart 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 
All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with vain sweetness to th' unheeding eai 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
'Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

K/mina. Think thou not 

[ sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form. 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering , 
Father! 1 ask thine aid. 

Hernandez. There is no aid 

For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud. 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elmina. There is no aid ! Art thou a man of 

God? 

Art thou a man of sorrow, ^or the world 
Doth call thee such) and hast thou not been taught 
By God and sorrow mighty as they are, 
To own the claims of misery ? 

Hernandez. Is there power 

With me to save thy sons ? Implore of Heaven ' 

Elmina. Doth not Heaven work its purposes by 

man ? 

I tell thee thou canst save them ! Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor? Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oraclea 

Hernandez. And therefore ? Speak 

The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 



108 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Hath naught to ask, unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage. Dost thou shrink? 

Elmina. Have pity on me, father ! I must speak 
That, from the thought of which, but yesterday, 
I had recoil'd in scorn ! But this is past. 
Oh ! we grow humble in our agonies, 
And to the dust their birth-placebow the heads 
That wore the crown of glory ! I am weak 
My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Hernandez. These are no times for weakness. 

On our hills, 

The ancient cedars, in their gather'd might, 
Are battling with the tempest; and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! What wouldst thou with thy 
lord? 

Elmina. Look not upon me thus ! I have no 

power 

To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul ! What! am I sunk to this? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! How my 

sotis 

Will scorn the mother that would brin^ disgrace 
On their majestic line! My sons! my sons! 
Now is all else forgotten ! I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 
Sickening upon my bosom, till at last. 
When earth's young flowers were opening to the 

sun. 

Death sunk on his meek eyelid, and I deem'd 
All sorrow light to mine! But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds ! Oh! I Jiave power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer, 
And my last lingering hope that thou shouldst win 
The father to relent, to save his sons! 

Hernandez. By yielding up the city ? 

Elmina. Rather say, 

By meeting that which gathers close upon us 
Perchance one day the sooner ! Is't not so? 
Must we not yield at last ? How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword ? 

Hernandez. How long? While he. 

Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, 
Than in the circling heavens, with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! How long? 
And who art thou, that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, would'st set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stay'd, and flow no further? But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assign'd 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 

Elmina. Oh ! there are times, 

When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Hernandez. Who dies in vain 

Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? Feeble heart ! 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Pound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land, 
Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven 
And perish'd by her temples, sink awhile, 
Borne down in conflict ! But immortal seed 
Deep, hv heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On nil h'T ancient hills; and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Rritisr forth a glorious harvest ! Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 

Elminii. Then it must be ! And ye will make 

those lives, 

Those young bright lives, an offering, to retard 
Our doom one day ! 



Hernandez. The mantle of that day 

May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elmina. What led me here ? 

Why did I turn to thee in my despair? 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from tkee, thou lone and childless man? 
Go to thy silent home! there no young voice 
Shall bill thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! What knows thy 

heart? 
Hernandez. Woman ! how dar'st thou taunt me 

with my woes? 

Thy children too shall perish, and I say 
It shall be well ! Why tak'st thou thought for 

them ? 

Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health, 
tlnpriz'd to melt away, i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself ! Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for this ? Shall they not live, 
(Tf the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten ? Years of thought, 
T.onff faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this world's 

law? 
Shall they not flush thy cheeks with shame, whose 

blood 

Marks, e'en like branding iron ? to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness ? 
Doth not all hope end thus? or e'en at best, 
Will they not leave thee? far from thee seek 

room 

For th' overflowings of their fiery souls. 
On life's wide ocean? Give the bounding steed. 
Or the wing'd bark to youth, that his free course 
May be o'er hills and seas; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright worid 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee? 

Elmina. Not so ! it is not so ! 

Thou dost but torture me ! My sons are kind, 
And firavp. and gentle. 

Hernandez. Others too have worn 

The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet : 
I will be calm, and thou shall learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elmina. It may not be 

Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons? 
Hernandez. My son lay stretch'd upon his bat- 
tle-bier. 
And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elmina. What tale is this? 

Hernandez. Read you no records in this mien, 

of things 

Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water? Lofty birth. 
War, peril, power ? Affliction's hand is strong. 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish! I was once a chief, 
A warrior ! nor, as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father I 

Elmina. Then thy heart can feel I 

Thou wilt have pity I 
Hernandez. Should I pity thee? 

Thy sons will perish gloriously their blood 

Elmina. Their blood! my children's blood !- 

Thou speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! My fair boys! 
Man ! hast tliou been a father ? 

Hernandez. Let them die 1 

Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd. 
Within it. to the last ! Nor shall thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols, whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetters on our souls! Thou think'st 1 

much 

To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



109 



Those whom we love, in our fond passionate 

blindness. 

With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts, and they are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ' 
Ay, rear them, fear the loved ! Had I but wep' 
O'er my son's grave, as o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young- verdure, /might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elmina. (disdainfully.) But he fell in war ! 
And hath riot glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ? 

Hernandez Glory ! Peace, 

And listen ! By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I rear'd him to take joy 
I' th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king His quick blood 
E'en to his boyish cheek would mantle up, 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds 
But this availeth not ! Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest, and his plume 
Waved like a torch, above the battle-storm. 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk. 
And banners were struck down Around my steps 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
Tn one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seem'd to stand between my soul and heaven 
Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Etmina. 'Tis ever thus ! 

And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love ! He died ? 

Hernandez. Not so ! 

Death! Death! Why, earth should be a para- 
dise, 

To make that name so fearful ! Had he died, 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 

had not learn'd the might of agony, 
To bring proud natures low! No! he fell off 
Why do I tell thee this ? What right hast i/m 
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house? 
Yet listen! He forsook me! He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me! trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires! Ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain, 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God! Now, talk of death! 

Elmina. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Hernandez. There's more to hear 

braced the corselet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking ; 

Elmina. And ye met 

No more 1 

Hernandez. Be still! We did! we met once 

more. 

God had his own high purpose to fulfil, 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had look'd upon such things ? We met oneemore. 
That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
Seared upon brain and bosom ! there had been 
Combat on Ebro'g banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round, 
A night of sultry,darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death I strove 
Long with a lurban'd champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance and prevail'd. 
He Ml my heart exulted and I stood 
In g oomy 'triumph o'er him Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree! 
He strove to speak but I had done the work 
Of wrath too well yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound 
Came o'er my shuddering sense The moon look'd 
forth, 

And I beheld speak not ! 'twas he my son ! 

My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance, 

And knew me for he sought with feeble hand 



To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon I will not have thy look 
Fixed on me thus! away! 

Elmina. Thou hast seen thi, 

Thou hast done this and yet thou liv'st ? 

Hernandez. I live! 

And ktiow'st thou wherefore ? On my soul there 

fell 

A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
^ame to me through the g oom, and sent its tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke, 
Ay, as the mountain cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knew mjself i 

Seal'd by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 

And set apart, and fearfully niark'd out 
Unto a mighty task ! To rouse the soul 
Of Spain, as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, 
Gathering her sons to battle '.And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds, 
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afric ; till the land 
Have fill'd her cup of vengeance! Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven ! 
But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day come! 

Elmina. I ask thee this no more, 

For I am hopeless now But yet one boon- 
Hear me, by all thy woes! Thy voice hath power 
Through the wide city here I cannot rest : 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 
Hernandez. And wherefore? 

Elmina. Thou, 

That wert a father, and art now alone! 
Canst than ask 'wherefore?' Ask the wretch 

whose sands 

Have not an hour to run. whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform. 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death, 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parched lip 
Implores a cup of water ? Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer? I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no morel And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish! But hath Heaven 
Decreed that they must perish ? Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt ? 

Hernandez. There ! with the Moor. 

Let him fill up the measure of his guilt! 
'Tis madness all 1 How would'st thou pass the 

array 
Of armed foes ? 

Elmina. Oh! free doth sorrow pass, 

Free and unquestion'd, through a suffering 

world ! (2T 
Hernandez. This must not be. Enough of woe 

is laid 

E'en now, upon thy lord's heroic soul, 
For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthen'd heart Away ! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for 

strength 

Up to Heaven's gate Farewell ! [Exit HERNANDEZ. 
Elmina. Are all men thus ? 

Why, wer't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than live to slr:t their hearts, in haughty scorn, 
Against the sufferer's pleadings ? But no, no! 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son. 
Yet wears his life atill proudly, ami a soul 
Untamed upon his brow ? (After a pause) 

There's one, whose arm* 
Have borne my children in their infancy, 
And on whose knees they sported, and whose hard 
Hath led them oft a vassal of their sire's : 
And I will seek him: he may lend me aid, 
When all beside pass on. V 



110 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



DIRGE HEARD WITHOUT. 



Thou to thy rest art gone, 
High heart ! and what are we, 
While o'er our heads the storm sweeps oc, 
That we should mourn for thee ? 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear. 
And well if not the chain I 

Be theirs to weep the dead 
As they sit beneath their vines. 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines ! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain, 
And pour our blood where thine hath flow'd. 
Too blest if not in vain ! 

We give thee holy rite. 
Slow knell, and chanted strain ! 
For those that fall to-morrow night 
May be left no funeral trait. 

Again, when trumpets wake, 
We must brace our armour on ; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break 
Thou to thy rest art gone 1 

Happier in this than all 
That, now thy race is run, 
Upon thy name no stain may fall. 
Thy work hath well been done 



Fear not that I embrace my doom Oh God ! 
That 'twere my doom alone! with les of fix d 
And solemn fortitude. Lead on. prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life, 
But what are these ? Who hath not dearer Hvei 
Twined with his own ? 1 shall be lonely soon 
Childless! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

\Exeunt GONZALEZ and HERNANDEZ. 



Scene Jl Street in the City. 
HERNANDEZ, GONZALEZ. 

Hernandez. Would they not hear ? 

Gonzalez. They heard, as one that stands 

fly the cold grave which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer-bv 
Bid him be comforted ! Their hearts have died 
Within them : We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills. 
And psal through Heaven's great arch, but silently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A. quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, 
Which lit us on our toils! Reproach me not; 
My soul is darken'd with a heavy cloud-- 
Yet fear not I shall yield I 

Hernandez. Breathe not the word, 

Save in proud scorn : Each bitter day, o'erpass'd 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red cross. And be of trusting heart! 
A few brief hours, and those that turn'd away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice. 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be array'd for battle. We must watch 
For the sw'ift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance, 
When they were weary. They had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins; or they 

had caught 

A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 
Strange omens from its blaze. 

Oonzalez. Alas I the cause 

Lies deeper in their misery ! I have seen. 
In my night's course through this beleaguer'd city, 
Things, whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains. There were 

gome, 

That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answer'd with a fierce and bitter laugh, 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay 
Why should I tell thee, father! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto tlie very dust ? And yet for this. 



Scene Jl tent in the Moorish Camp. 
ABDULLAH, ALPHONSO, CARLOS. 

Abdullah. These are bold words : but hast thou 

look'd on death, 

Fair stripling ! On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierc'd 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made 
His nest thy spoil, 't is much : And fear'st thou not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alphonso. I have been 

Rear'd among fearless men, and 'miilst the rocks 
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. 
How should I fear thee, Moor? 

Abdullah. So, thou hast seen 

Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 
Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves! But know'st thou 

aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes 

fire. 

And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so late? Speak not of death. 
Till thou hast look'd on such. 

A/phonfa. T was not born 

A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook. 
And peasant-men, amidst the lowly vales; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights! I am of princely race. 
And, if my father would have heard my suit, 
I tell thee, infidel ! that long ere now, 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abdullah. Boy! know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful! Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir.* But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
'Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters dost thou mark me, boy? 
To take their last look of th' all gladdening sun. 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth, 
Unto the death of shame ! Hast thou seen this ? 
Alphonso (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is wit* 

us fear thou not ! 

We have had heroes for our sires This man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abdullah. There are means 

To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls. 
Sue to thy sire for life ; or wouldst thou die. 
With this, thy brother? 

Alphonso. Moslem) on the hills, 

Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dress'd the vines. 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home. 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizona (3) clear'd its way through turban'd hosts 
And captured Afric's kines, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor. (4) 1 will not shame 
The blood we draw from him 1 

(A Moorish Soldier enters.) 
Soldier. Valencia's lord 

Sends messengers, my chief. 
Abdullah. Conduct them hith 

" Tecbir," the wir-cry of the Moon md Arab*. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Ill 



[The Soldier goes out, and re-enters with ELMINA, 
disguised, and an Attendant.} 

Carlos (springing- forward to the Attendant.) Oh I 

take me hence, Diego ! take me hence 
With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning, when I wake. Here dark-brow'd 

men 

Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, 
And well I know thou lov'st me. my Diego! 

Abdullah. Peace, boy . What tidings, Christian, 

from thy lord ? 

Is he grown humbler ? doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth? 

Alphonso (rushing- forward impatiently.) Say not, 

he doth ! Yet wherefore art thou here ? 
If it be so I could weep with burning tears 
For very shame ! If this can be, return 1 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword, 
And that beside him in the mountain-chase, 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts, 
My place shall be no more! But no ! I wrong, 
I wrong my father 1 Moor I believe it not! 
He is a Champion of the Cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ; and I too, I can die 
As a warrior's high-born child ! 

Elmina. Alas) alas! 

And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy? 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst 

cast 

Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alphonso. That voice doth sound 

Abdullah. Stranger, who art thou ? this is 
mockery speak ! 

Elmina (throwing off a mantle and a helmet, and 
embracing her sons.) My boys ! whom I have 

rear'd through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart. 
And seen once more the faces, in w hose light 
My soul hath lived for years! 

Carlos. Sweet mother ! now 

Thou shall not leave us more. 

Abdullah. Enough of this ! 

Woman ! what seek'st thou here ? How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts ? 

Elmina. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 

but in breasts 

That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down ? Thou little 

know'st 

Of nature's marvels! Chief! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior 

men, 

Ay, they that master death by field or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved! I have no 

thought, 

No sense of fear! Thou'rt mighty; but a soul 
Wound up like mine, is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling, pour'd through all its depths, 
Than monarchs with their hosts! Am I not come 
To die with these, my children ? 

Abdullah. Doth thy faith 

Bid thee do this, fond Christian ? Hast thou not 
The means to save them ? 

Elmina. I have prayers and tears, 

And agonies! and he my God the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth And its hour 
To bow the crested head hath made these things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm call'd forth 
From the bruis'd reeds of earth ! For thee, per- 

chance, 

Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart, and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low, 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throws herself at his feet 
Conqueror! I can kneel! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves. 



If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus debased! 
Do this, but spare my sons! 

Alphonso (attempting to raise her.) Thou shouldsl 

not kneel 

Unto this infidel! Rise, rise, my mother! 
This sight doth shame our house. 

Abdullah. Thou daring ->oy I 

They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unto another language. 

Elmina. Peace, my son ; 

Have pity on my heart Oh, pardon, Chie* 
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts .f 

Heaven 
May reach your soul? He that loves aught on 

earth, 

Dares far too much, if he be merciless! 
Is it for those, whose frail mortality 
Must one day strive alone with God and death, 
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 
Of nature in her anguish ? Warrior ! man ! 
To you too, ay, and haply with your hosts. 
By thousands and ten thousands marshall'd round, 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not. Where shall your 

high heart 

Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath laid prostrate, bleeding at your feet, 
And you have pitied not? 

Abdullah. These are vain words. 

Elmina. Have you no children ? fear you not 

to bring 

The lightning on their heads? In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, 
To greet your homeward step ? You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love 
For is not woman's, in all climes, the same! 
That you should scorn my prayer! Oh Heavent 

his eye 
Doth wenr no mercy ! 

Abdullah. Then it mocks you not. 

I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms, upon them! Shall I now be stay'd? 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing, 
In this, my course, to quench your children's lives. 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that, obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elmina. Are there such hearts 

Among thy works, oh God ? 

Abdullah. Kneel not to me. 

Kneel to your lord; on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 

Elmina (rising indignantly.) Speak riot of noble 

men ! he bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alphonso (with exultation.) I knew 'twas thus 
He could not fail 1 

Elmina. There is no mercy, none. 

On this cold earth! To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love. We will go henca 
My children, we are summon'd. Lay your head* 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, 
Will yet have pity, and before his face 
We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once. 

Abdullah. 'Tis thine own will. 

These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elmina. Thou wilt not sparo 

And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew. 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose eat 
From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word Father once a name of love 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abdullah. Hath the blast 

Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dean of night, 
When the land's watchers fear'd no hostile step, 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy wi rid, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOTIKS. 



In cities, whose heroic lord* have been 
Steadfast as thine ? 

Eimina. Tlu-re's in aning hi thine eye, 

More than thy words. 

Abdullah (jfO&iiug tn Ihr city.) Look to yon 

towers and walls! 

Think you no hearts within their limits pine. 
Weary of hopeless warfare and prepared 
To burst the feeble link* w liich hind tit, m still 
Unto endurance ? 

Eimina Thou hast said too well. 

But what of this ? 

Abdul.ali. Then then- are those, to whom 

The Prophet's armies not as f.>es would pass 
Your gates, but as deliverers. Might they not, 
T n some still hour, when weariness takes rest, 
Be won to welcome us? Your children's *teps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's halls. 

Alphonso (indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moorl 

Eimina. Let me not thus he tried 
Beyond all strength, oh Heaven! 

Abdullah. Now. 'tis for thee, 

Thou Christian mother, on thy sons to pass 
The sentence life or death the price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

llphonso. Mother, thou tremblest ! 

Abdullah. Hath thy heart resolved ? 

Eimina (covering her face with her hands.) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush, in stormy darkness, through my soul, 
Bhrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abdullah. Come forth. We'll commune else- 
where. 

Carlos (to his mother.) Wilt thou go ? 
Oh. let me follow thee ! 

Eimina. Mine own fair child ! 

Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on 

mine 

The light of their young smile, an'd thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, 
And I have felt the twining of thine atms 
How shall I leave tbee? 

Abdullah. Leave him, as 'twere bu 

For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alphanso. Thou hast no look 

For me., my mother ? 

Eimina. Oh, that I should live 

To say, I dare not look on thee 'Farewell, 
My first-born, fare thee well. 

Alphonso Yet, yet beware 1 

It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep. 

Abdullah. Away! we trifle here. The night 

wanes fast. 
Come forth. 

Eimina. One more embrace My sons, farewell. 
\Eieunt ABDULLAH with ELMINA and her Attendant. 

Alphonso. Hear me yet once, my mother I 

Art thou gone ? 
But one word more. 

[He rushes out, followed by CARLOS 



Scene The Garden of a Palace in Valencia. 
XIMENA, THERESA. 

Theresa. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the 

limes, 

And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, 
Than waits you in the city. 

Ximena. There are those 

In their last need, and on their bed of death. 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence. 

Theresa. You have been wont to love the music 

made 

By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death? 

Ximena. To me the voice 

Of summer, whispering through young flowers 
and leaves, 



Now sneaks too deep a language ; and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, 
The breathing soul is sadness. I have felt 
That summons throuch my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth arc changed, and all her sound! 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There it 

cause 

That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes 
Where death is busy. tamiiiL' warrior-hearts, 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood, 
And fettering the strong arm. For now no sigh 
In the dull air. nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf. 
But of his angel's silent coining bears 
Some token to my soul. But naught of this 
Unto my mother. These are awful hours ! 
And on their heavy steps, afflictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Theresa. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 

Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light. 
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet; 
Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coo*- 

ness, 

O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if b,it a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will Bing 
The melody you love. 

THERESA sings. 

Whv is the Ppanish maiden's grave 
So far from her own bright land ? 

The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 
Were sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there! 

But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades, 
And none but strangers pass the tomb 

Which the Palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 

Marks well that place of rest; 
But who hath graved, on its mossy stones, 

A sword, a helm, a crest ? 

These are the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear! 
Some blossom pl'ick'd. some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier I 

Scorn not her tomb deny not her 

The honours of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre, 

Banner and plume might wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried, 

Her fearless heart above, 
And stood with brave men. side by side, 

In the strength and faith of love I 

That strength prevail'd that faith was bless'rf 

True was the javelin thrown, 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast. 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where ?>eroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so welt, 

And a grave in Palestine. 

Then let the Rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast,to the glowing air, 
And the Palm of Judah lift its head, 

Green and immortal there 1 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 

With its trophy mark the scene, 
Telling the pilgrim of the waste, 

Where Love and Death have been. 



HEMANS' POETICAL AA'ORKS. 



113 



.-, -ntfn... "rose notes were wont to make my 

wa t. V'Ht quick, 

A H' > voj. t c* victory : but to-day 
ft,<. h,vi/l of lhf> song is chaugerl, and seems 
All 'iHiirrful Oh ! that ere my early grave 
Shuts cut the sun-beam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Cadt.lian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner! In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers! But for me 
Come on o-ir tasks await us. Tuny who know 
Tlinir hours ure riumber'd out, have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 
Which iioth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers 
And whisper of soft winds. 

KI.MINA enters hurriedly. 

Klmina. This air will calm my spirit, ere yet 1 

meet 

Hi.-: eye, which must be met. Thou here, Ximena! 
{She starts back, on seeing XIMENA. 

Ximena. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying step 
And troubled glance I read 

Klmina (wildly.) Thou read'st it not I 

Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
Tin! things lay glaring, which within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's? Thou read'st it not! 
I say, lliou canst not! There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 

A ml kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open 1 

Ximena. Mother ! what is this? 

Alas ! your eye if wandering, and your cheek 
Flutb'U, as with fever! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Klmina. Rest! who should rest ? not he 

That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
\Yarer than life! No! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him who calls 
Such things Inn own, take rest ! Dark spirits keep 

>VH tnh 

Atnl they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their 

souls 

Made marks for human scorn ! Will they bear on 
With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery ? Who shall tell us this ? 
Will he so bear it ? 

Ximena. Mother! let us kneel, 

And blend our hearts in prayer! What else is left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on 

them ? 

Leave us, Theresa. Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [ Krit THERESA. 

My mothe ! peace 

I heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me? 
Klmina. Away! 'tis but for souls unstain'd to 

wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. The 

stream 

Of mv dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, 
({(fleets but clouds and lightnings! Didst thou 

speak 

Of peace? 'T is fled from earth 1 hut there is joy . 
Wild, troubled joy! And who shall know, my 

child! 

It is not happiness ? Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close ! Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Plow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain air! But hush! the 

trees, 

The flowers, the waters, must hear nanght of this ! 
They are fill of voices, and will whisper things 
We'll epeak of it no more. 

Ximena. Oh ! pitying Heaven I 

This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Klmina (starting.) Hark 1 a step ! 

Tis 'tis thy father's come away not now 
He must not see us now ' 
Ximena. Why should this be 1 

8 



GONZALEZ enters anil itelains KI.MINA. 

Gonzale:. Klmina. dost thou shun me ? Hav 

we not 

E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows, 
Held on through life together ? And is this, 
When eve is gathering round us. with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upnn the darkening wild? 

Klmina (coldly.) There needs not this. 

Why shouldst thou think I shnnn'd thee ? 

Gon-.alez. Should the love 

That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love. 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

S! liles 

To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

F.lmina. Speak'st thou thus ! 

1 have knelt before thee with that very plea. 
When it avail'd me not! But there are things 
Whose very breathings on the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 
Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith. 
And vain devotedness! Ay, they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gonzalez. This is hut 

The wildness and the bitterness of grief. 
Ere yet th' unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power. 
Which makes all conflicts vain. 

Hark ! was there not 

A sound of distant 'trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena? 

Ximena. Oh. my father ! 

I know that horn too well. 'Tis but the wind, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savase war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gonzalez. Alas! this woe must be 

I do but shake my spirit from its height ' 
.SD startling it with hope ! But the dread no i 
Sliall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Vet for a little while and Heaven will ask 
No more the passionate workings of my heart; 
And thine Klmina! 

F.lmina. 'Tis I am prepared. 

I hare prepared for all. 

Gonzalez. Oh, well I knew 

Thou wouldst not fail me! Not in vain my soul, 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elmina (wildly.) Away! thou know'st me not I 
Man dares too far : his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart! 

Gonzalez. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee! Hast thou not hen found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimm'd o'er every trial ? And, as our fates. 
So must our names be, undivided ! Thine, 
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
[Is place of stainless honour. By his side 

Elmina. May this be borne ! How much of 

agony 

Hath the heart room for? Speak to me in wrath 
I can endure it ! But no gentle words! 
No words of love ! no praise ! Thy sword might 

slay. 
And be more merciful ! 

Gonzalez. Wherefore art thou thus? 

Elmina, my beloved! 

Klmina. No more of love 1 

Have I not said there's that within my heart. 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound? 

Gonzalez. Nay, lift thine eyes 

That 1 may read their meaning' 

Klmina. Never more 

With a free soul What have I said ? 'twas 

naught! 

Take thou no heed! The words of wretchedness 
Artmit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech 
Of troubled dreams ? 



114 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Gonzalez. I have seen thee in the hour 

Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the brealh 
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change, 
Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and 

fear ; 

Youth and decline; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back per- 

tnrb'd 
With shame or dread, from mine) 

Elmina. Thy glance doth search 

A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gonzalez. Hast thou there 

Aught to conceal ? 

Ktmiua. Who hath not ? 

Gonzalez. Till this hour 

T/iuu never hadst! Yet hear me! by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers 

Elmina. This to me ! 

Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds- 
Of fectal music, round a dying man ! 
Will his heart echo them ? But if thy words 
W, re *|H-lls. to call up with each li.fty tone, 
'I'll grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish! 

Gouiaiez. Then, by her, 

W T ho there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er u hose name 
No blight must fall, and xvln.se pale check must 

ne'er 

Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonour Speak 1 
Unfold this mystery ! By thy sons 

Elmina. My sons I 

And canst thou name them ? 

Gonzalez. Proudly ! Better far 

They died with all the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honour of their house upon them, 
Than that with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 

To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barr'd from the lists of crested chivalry, 
And pi nine in the silence of a woe, 
Which from the heart shuts daylight : o'er the 

shame 
Ol those who gave them birth! but thou couldsl 

ne'er 
Forget their lofty claims! 

Klmina (wildly.) 'Twas but for them! 

'Twas for them only ! Who shall dare arraign 
Ma lues* of'r.riuie 7 And he who made us, knows 
Th 're are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which hear down reason ! 

Gonzalez. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust, as oVr our nature threw 
A glory, scarce nllow'd ; what hast thou done? 
Ximena, go thou hence! 

Elmina. No, no ! my child I 

There's pity in thy look! All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! Oh ! leave me not! 

Gonzalez. That I should live, to see tbee thus 

abased! 
Yet speak ! What hast thou done ? 

Elmina. Look to the gate ! 

Thou'rt worn with toil But take no rest to-night! 
The western gate ! Its watchers have been won 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold! 
They will admit the Moor ! 

Gonzalez. They have been won ! 

Brave men and tried so long ! Whose work was 
this? 

Elmina. Think'st thou all hearts like thine? 

Can mothers stand 
To see their children perish ? 

Gonzalez. Then the guilt 

Was thine! 

Rlmina. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt ? 

tell thee. Heaven, which made all holy things, 
>Ia-1e naught more holy than the boundless love 
Vhich fills a mother's heart! I say, 'tis woe 
;i loueh with s'ich an aching tenderness, 
Vi live a-ight earthly ! and in vain ! in vain! 
We ar pr >ss'd down too sorely ! 

OtiH'.a'r. (i'> a >mc r/ftponrlintr roirr.) Now my life 
f tr irk to worthless aslvs' In in v sou I 
8 ispicion hath tu'en root. The nobleness 



Henceforth is blotted from all human brows. 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is pour'il upon me, 
To read the guilty secrets in each eye 
That once look'd bright with truth! 

Why then I have gain's 

What men call wisdom ! A new sense, to which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity, 
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, 
Search'd. and found steadfast, even to martyrdom. 
Are food for mockery ! Why should I not cast 
From my thinn'd locks the wearing helm at once, 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down for ever? Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness, 
Noxv the bright hues drop off its loveliest things. 
Worth striving for again ? 

Ximena. Father ! look up ! 

Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gonzalez. Thy face is fair ; 

Ami hull) been unto me, in other days, 
As morning to the journeyer of the deep; 
B it now 'tis too like hers ! 

Klmina (falling at tiisffr'.) Woe, shame and woe 
An- mi me in their might ! forgive, forgive ! 

Gonznlrz (starting tip.) JDoth the Moor deem 

that / have part, or share, 
Or counsel in this vileness ? Stay me not! 
Let go thy hold 'tis poxverless on me now 
I linger here, while treason is at work! 

[Exit GONZALEZ. 

Elmina. Ximena. dost thou scorn me ? 

Ximena. I have found 

In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But /Ss whom naught can blind; to dare do aught 
But pity thee, dear mother I 

Elmina. Blessings light 

On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! My soul is faint 
Worn with long strife! Is there aught else to <io. 
Or suffer, ere we die 1 Oh God ! my sons ! 
I have betray'd them ! All their innocent blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Ximena. How shall 1 comfort thee ? 
Oh I hark! what sounds come deepening on tne 

wind, 
So full of solemn hope! 

(j* procession of JVuns passing across the Scene, bear- 
ing relics, and chanting.) 

Chant. A sword is on the land ! 
He that hears down young tree and glorious flower, 
Doath is gone forth, he walks the wind in power! 

Where is the warrior's hand ? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave, 
Hear us, we perish ! Father, hear, and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 

The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee, 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong ; 
Now, that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish !" Father ! hear, and save '. 

The days of song are fled ! 

The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by, 
But they that linger, soon unmourn'd must die ; 

The dead weep not the dead ' 
Wilt thou forsake us 'midst the stormy wave? 
We sink, we perish ! Father, hear, and save ! 

Helmet and lance ar" dust ! 
Is not the strong man xxither'd from our eye? 
The arm struck down that held our banners high ? 

Thine is our spirit's trust! 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ' 
Do we not perish? Father, hear, and save ! 

HERNANDEZ enters. 
Elmina. Why comest thou, man of vengeance? 

What have I 

To do with thee? Am I lot bow'd enough ? 
Thou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Hernandez Thy lord 

Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart! 
He bids thee seek him not, but la} thy woes 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



115 



Before Heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elmin'a Till this day's talk 

Be closed ! there is strange triumph in thine eyes. 
Is it that I have fallen from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame ? But I can fee) 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance ! My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may'st re- 
proach 

Hernandez. I coine not to reproach thee. Heaven 

doth work 

Ky many agencies; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may 

serve 

Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or t.h' eternal fires, 
Pent in earth's caves! Thou hast hut speeded that 
Which, in ih infatuate blindness of thy heart, 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er nil holy ties, 
But to avert one day ! 

Elmina. My senses fail 

Thou saidst speak yet again ! I could not catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Hernandez. E'en now thy lord 

Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 

Which, this day, must be pour'd in sacrifice, 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire. 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale! 

Ximena. Peace, father! peace I 

Behold, she sinks! the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh! lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. [They lead her aicay 

Scene 9 Street in Valencia. Several Groups of 

Citizens and Soldiers, many of them tying- on the 

steps of a Church, Arms scattered on the ground 

around them. 

An old Citiifu. The air is sultry, as with thun 

tier-clouds. 

I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but niy heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erbiirthen'd. I have now 
No sons to lend me. Which of you, kind friends. 
Will bring the old man water from the fount. 
To moisten his parch'd lip? [A Citizen goes out. 

Second Citizen. This wasting siege, ' 

Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you I 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons! 

Third Citizen. Why, better thus, 

Than to he haunted with their famish'd cries, 
E'en in your very dreams! 

Old Citizen. Heaven's will be done! 

These are dark times! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. 

Third Citizen (with bitterness.} Why, we have but 

this thought 

Left for our gloomy comfort ! And 'tis well I 
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut. 
Where the worn peasant sickens ! They that beat 
The humble dead unhononr'd to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' street no lordly bridal train. 
With its exulting music; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die. in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes. 
To the banquet sweeping by. Why. this is just! 
Tnese are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould ! 

Fourth Citizen. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint lago's bell ? How sullenly 
Prom the great tower it peal'd ! 

Fifth Citizen. Ay, and 'tis said 



No mortal hand was near when so it seern'd 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Citizen. Too well I know 

The sound of coming fate! 'Tis ever thus 
When death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house. (5) Oh! there are 

things 

In this strange world of which we have all to learn 
When its dark bounds are pass'd. Yon bell, un- 

touch'd 

(Save by hands we see not) still doth speak 
When of that line some stately head is mark'd 
With a wild hollow peal, at dead of night. 
Rocking Valencia's towers. I have heard it oft, 
Nor known its warning false. 

Fourth Citizen. And will our chief 

Buy, at the price of his fair children's blood, 
A few more days of pining wretchedness 
For this forsaken city ? 

Old Citizen. Doubt it not ! 

But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ? And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame. 
Should pass away ! For she, his daughter too, 
Movf s upon earth as some bright thing whose tirm 
To sojourn there is short. 

Fifth Citizen. Then woe for us 

When she is gone! Her voice the very sound 
Of her soft step was comfort as she moved 
Through the still house of mourning! Who like 

her 
Shall give us hope again ? 

Old Citizen. Be still ! she comes. 

And with a mien how changed ! A hurrying step 
And a flush'd cheek! What mav this bode? Be 
still' 

XIMENA enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner. 

Ximena. Men of Valencia! in an hour like this. 
What do ye here ? 

J) Citizen. We die! 

Ximena. Brave men die note 

Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
Ky the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death ! It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times. 
To fold the mantle round us ami ;<> sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently, 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! Hear ye 
not? 

A Citizen. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us ? 

Ximena. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! Shall this be ? 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush'd, 
[' th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle-word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd music ? Must this work be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be thrill'd no longer? 

Citizens. 'Tis even so! 

Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us. 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Ximena. Are ye so -poor 

Of soul, my countrymen! that ye can draw 
Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 

The red blood mantling through the joyous veins 
And gives the fleet step wings? Why, how have 

age 

And sensitive womanhood ere now endured. 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause, 

Blessing that agony ? Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthly, of this earth, 
This dull mortality ? Nay, then look on me! 
Death's touch hath mark'd me, and I stand among 

you, 

As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon he left to fill! I say the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall 

scarce 
Pass from vour path before me! But even now. 



116 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



I have that within roe, kindling through the dust, 
Which from all time halh made high deeds its 

voice 

And token to the nations ! Look on me! 
Why hath Heaven pour'd forth courage, a. a flame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must beslill'd 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness. 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair. 
And your soul's torpor ? Yet, arise and arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Citizen. Why, what are we. 

To cope with hosts? Thus faint, and worn, and 

few, 

O'ernumber'd and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty ? 

Ximena. And for whom 

Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 
From their high places, made the fearfulness, 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power. 
To the pale startled earth most manifest, 
But fur the weak? Was't for the helm'd and 

crown'd 

That suns were stay'd at noonday? Stormy seas 
As a rill parted ? Mail'd archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death? 
I tell you. if these marvels have been done, 
Twas for the wearied and the oppress'd of men, 
They needed such! And generous faith hath 

power 

By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder time ! Be of good heart ! 
If/io is forsaken ? He that gives the thought 
A place within his breast! 'Tis not for you. 
Know ye this banner? 

Citizens (murmuring to eaeh other.) Is she not 

inspired ? 
Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice? 

Ximena. Know ye this banner? 

Citizen*. 'Tis the Cid's. 

Ximena. The Cid's I 

Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to? Why, the very "wind, 
A* it swells out the noble standard's fold. 
Hath a triumphant sound ! The Cid's! it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land. 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe! 

Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren ? 

Oh ! that youth 

Through this worn frame were kindling once 
again ! 

Ximena. Ye linger still ! Upon this very air. 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain, (6) 
Pour'd forth his conquering spirit! 'Twas the 

breeze 
From your own mountains which came down to 

wave 

This banner of his battles, as it droop'd 
Above the champion's death-bed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, (7) 
But the deep tambour arid shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty pass'd ! They wrapt him 

not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's 

form 

In war array, and on his barbed steed, 
As for a triumph, rear'd him ; marching forth 
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguer'd then as now. All silently 
The stately funeral moved : but who was he 
That follow'd, charging on the tall white horse, 
And with the solemn standard, 'road and pale. 
Waving in sheets of snow-light ? Anu the cross, 
Th bloody cross, far- blazing from his shield. 
And the fierce meteor-sword ? They fled, they fled 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path ! The scimetar 
Was shiver'd as a reed .For in that hour 
Th- warrior saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 
Was arm'd betimes ! And o'er that riery field 
The Cid's high banner stream'd till joyously, 
For still its lord was there ! 

Citizens (rising tumultuous!*/.) Even unto death 
Again it shall be follow'd ! 

Ximena. Will he see 



The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 
Which his high house for ages o'er the land 
Hnth shone through cloud and storm, thus 

quench'd at once? 

Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their uttermost peril ? Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst 
Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke 
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain 
In her great danger ? At the night's mid-watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel clad men, 
By thousands marching through! For he had 

risen ! 

The Campeador was on his march again, , 

And in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen ! He had lef. the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth 
And call'd his buried warriors from their sleep, 
fathering them round him to deliver Sp.-iin ; 
For Afric was upon her! Morning broke 
Day rush'd through clouds of battle; but at eve 
Oiir God had trinmph'd, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field, 
That rock'd her ancient mountains. 

The Citizens. Arm! to arms 

On to our chief! We have streneth within us ye* 
To die with our blood roused ! Now. be the word 
For the Cid's house ! \ They begirt to arm themselves 

Ximena. Ye know his battle-song. 

The old rude strain wherewith his bands went 

forth 
To strike down Paynim swords ! (She tingt.) 



THE CID'S BATTI.K BONO. 

The Monr is on his way! 
With the tambour-peal and' the techir-shont, 
And the horn o'er tlie blue seas ringing out, 

Hi; hath marshall'd his dark array! 

Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
Thai h--r sons on all tl> -ir hills may hear, 
Anil sii;tr|>,-n the point of the red xvolf-spear. 

And the sword for tlie brave man's hand! 

, The Citizens join in the song, while they continut 
arming themselves.) 

Banners are in lite field! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board. 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour'd. 

And take up Ins father's shield 1 

The Moor is on his way! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground, 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods 
round! 

There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down. 
And the marriage-rone and the flowery crown, 

And arm in the banquet-hall! 

And stay the funeral-train) 
Rid tin* chanted mass be hush'd awhile, 
And the bier laid down in tin; holy aisle. 

And the mourners girt for Spain I 

(They take up the banner and follow XIMENA Mel 
T'ifir voices art heard gradually dying owaj at i 
distance.) 

Ere night, must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced, and serried spears I 

To-ioorrow for the dead 1 

The Cid is in array ! 

His steed is barb'd, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky. 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day I 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



117 



Scene The Walls of the City. The Plain beneath, 
vitk the Moorish Camp and Army. 

GONZALEZ, GARCIAS, HERNANDEZ. 
(A tcild sound of Moorish JUusic heard from below.) 

Hernandez. What notes are these, in their deep 

mournfulness 
So strangely wild 1 

Garcias. "Tie the shrill melody 

Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound; but, till this hour, 
It seem'd not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. Lo! from yon tent 
They lead the noble boys! 

Hernandez. The young, and pure, 

And beautiful victims' 'T is on things like these 
We cast our hearts i'fi wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope! Yet this is well. 
Thus brightly crown'd with life's most gorgeous 

flowers. 

And all unblemish'd, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto Heaven! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Gonzalez (starting.) Are my sons there ? 

I knew they could not perish ; for yon Heaven 
Would ne'er behold it! Where is he that said 
I was no more a father? They look changed 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house ! 
Or is't mine eye sees dimly ? But their steps 
Seem heavy, as with pain I hear the clank- 
On God! their limbs are fetter'd! 

Abdullah, (earning forward beneath the icallt.) 

Christian, look 

Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword. 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gonzalez. Why should this man 

S.i mock us with the semblance of our kind? 
Moor! Moor! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th" all-judging One, 
Who visits fur such tlii TICS! Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature? 'Twill be taught thee yet, 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul, 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine, 
When thou shall cry for mercy from the dust, 
And he denied! 

Abdullah. Nay, is it not thyself 

That hast no mercy and no love within thee? 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house; 
8pr:ak ! must they live or die ? 

Gonzalez (in violent emotion.) Is it Heaven's will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day. 
With infinite agony! How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head! They tiloom'd 

around me. 

And my heart grew too fearless in its joy. 
Glorying in their bright promise! If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness? 

(Hernandez, without speaking, holds up a Cross 
before Mm.) 

Abdullah. Speak ! 

Gonzalez (snatckinff the Cross, and lifting it up.) 
Let the earth be shaken through its depths. 
But this must triumph! 

Mdullt.lt (caldly.) Be it as thou wilt. 
Unsheathe the scimet'arl [To his Guards. 

Garcias (to Gonzalez ) Away, my chief! 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle-proof as yours, 
Uuiuadderrd may sustain. 

Gonzalez. Be still ! I have now 

No place on earth but this! 

Alphonso (from beneath.) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Gordon. The princely boy ! How gallantly his 

brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death! 

Jllphonso. Father! 

Gonzalez. My son 1 my Ron I mine eldest-horn! 

Alphonso. Stay but upon the ramparts ! Tear 

thou not- 
There is eood courage in me : oh ! my fnthei 1 
I will not shame thee! only let me fall 



Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength. 

Gonzalez. Would, would to God, 

That I might die for thee, my noble boy 1 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alpltonso. Could I have lived, 

I might have been a warrior! Now, farewell I 
But look upon me still ! I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well 1 
Mine eyelid shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me! 

Garcias (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 
We must be gone ! thou canst not bear it ! 

Gonzalez. Peace! 

Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 

bear? 

Lend me thine arm my brain whirls fearfully 
How thick the shades close round ! my boy ' my 

boy! 
Where art thou in this gloom ? 

Garcias. Let us go hence. 

This is a dreadful moment! 

Gonzalez. Hush ! what saidst thou ? 

Now let me look on him ! Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist that wraps us ? 

Gareias. \ behold 

Oh! for a thousand Spaniards to rush down 

Gonzalez. Thou seest My heart stands still to 

hear thee speak ! 

There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 't were the dead of night ! 

Garcias. The hosts have closed 

Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears, 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not; 
But now 

Gonzalez. He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
Arid all is darkness round me ! Now ? 

Garcias. A sword, 

A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst. 
Through the dark serried mass ! Its cold blue 

glare 
ts wavering to and fro 'tis vanish'd hark ! 

Gonzalez. I heard it, yes ! I heard the dull dead 

sound 

That heavily broke the silence! Didst thou speak? 
I lost thy words come nearer ! 

Garcias. 'T was 't is past ! 

The sword fell then t 

Hernandez (with exultation.) Flow forth, thou 

noble blood ! 

Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Uncheck'd and brightly forth! Thou kingly 

stream ! 

Blood of our heroes I blood of martyrdom I 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hast pour'd 
Thy Aery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free offering I Bathe the land, 
But there thou shall not sink I Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous, 
With battle-hues of thee ! And thy deep voice 
Rising above them to the judgment-seat 
Shall call a burst of gather'd vengeance down. 
To sweep th' oppressor from us 1 For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er! 

Gonzalez (endeavouring to rouse himself .) 'Tis all 

a dream I 

There is not one no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head! Why look you 
thus I 

Abdullah (pointing to Carlos.) Christian e'en 
yel ihou hast a son ! 

Gonzalez. E'en yet ! 

Carlos. My father! take me from these fearful 

men 1 
Wilt thou nol save me, father? 

Gonzalez (attempting to unsheathe his sword.) It 

the strength 
From mine arm shivcr'd ? Garcias, follow me ! 

Garcias. Whither, my chief? 

Gonzalez. Why, we can die as well 

On yonder plain, ay, a sppar's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require. 
Sooner than e'er this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[ Voices heard at a distant*. 



118 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS 



Hush 1 what strain 



Hernandez. 
floats on the wind? 

Oarcias. "Tis the fid's battle-song t 

What marvel naih been wrought ? 

f Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour peal and the tecbir-shnut. 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 
He hath inarsliall'd his dark array! 

XIMENA enters, foil/need by the CITIZENS, with the 
Banner. 

Ximena. Is it too late ? My father, these an; 

men 

Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner! Is their zeal too late. 
-Ob \ there's a fearful history on thy brow ' 
Wi>at ha* i thou seen ? 

Oarcias. It is not all too late 

Ximena. My brothers ! 

Hernandez. All is well. 

(TbGARciAS.) Hush! would'st thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From lh' altar-embers mounts in sudden bright- 
ness ? 

I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue! 

Ximena. Bless me, oh, my father ! 

And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers. 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm, 
Lit up by flashing swords ! 

Gonzalez (falling on her neck.) Hath aught been 

spared ? 

Am I not all bereft? Thou'rt left me still ! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still! 
Farewell ! thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 
Be with thee, my Ximena. 

Ximena. Fare thee well I 

If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field, 
Tin- voice is hush'd that still hath welcomed thee. 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Hernandez. Pnace ! no more ! 

This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears. Be of strong heart I 
Give me the banner I Swell the song again 1 

THE CITIZENS. 

Ere night, must swords be red t 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced and serried spears! 

To-morrow for the dead ! [Exeunt omnet. 



Scene Before the Altar of a Churrh. 
EI.MIN A rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elmina. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang 

thy ways, 

Oh, thou mysterious Heaven ! Tt cannot be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath, 
To burst upon me through the lifting up 
Of a proud heart, elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreathed a cup of trembling ; and the love. 
The boundless love, my spirit was form'd to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hiu;s too deep for joy ! I never look'd 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth. 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seem'd glowing with their quiet blessedness, 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes; even like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams, 
\ restless and disturbing consciousness 
That the bright things must fade ! How have 1 

shrunk 

From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortality. 
Till my heart fainted 'midst their smiles! their 

smiles! 
Where are those glad looks now ? Could they 

no down 
With all their joyous light, that seem'd not earth's 



To the cold grave? My children! RighteoiM 

Heaven T 

There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye, 
That this should be the hour! 

XIMENA enters. 

Ximena. They are gone forth 

Unto the rescue strong in heart and hope, 
Faithful, though few ! My mother, let thy prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons ! For me, my part is done ! 
The flame, which dimly might have lingered yet 
A little while, hath gather'd all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once! and it is well ! 
The shadows are around me; to thy heart 
Fold me. that I may die. 

Elmina. My child ! What dream 

Is on thy soul? E'en now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Ximena. Death's ! 

Elmina. Away ! 

Thine eye hath starry clearness, and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue 
Than ting'd its earliest flower ! 

Ximena. It well may be! 

There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Elmina. Nay, speak not thus t 

There's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Wer't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 

As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! Oh no ! this is not death! 

Ximena. Why should not He, whose touch dis 

olves our chain. 

Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer? He hath many forms, 
They should not all be fearful ! If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with 

thirst. 

Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody. 
Solemn, yet lovely ? Mother ! I depart ! 
Be it thy comfort, in the after-days. 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Elmina. Distract me not 

With such wild fears! Can I bear on with life 
When thou art gone ? Thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile, 

Pass'd from my path? Alas ! even now thine eye 
Is changed thy cheek is fading ! 

Ximena. Ay, the clouds 

Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight, 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 
Comes in that quiet darkness ! It may soothe 
Thy woes, my mother, if I tell thee now, 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My henrt so ill hath rested. 

Elmina. Thine ! 

Ximena. Rejoice 

For her, that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart. 
To wither, sorrowing for that gift of Heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light, 
That dimm'd the rest for ever ! 

Elmina. How is this ? 

My child, what mean'st thou ? 

Ximena. Mother ! I have loved 

And been belovwl ! the sunbeam of an hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye. 
As they lay shining in their secret founts, 
Went out, and left them colourless. 'Tis past 
And what remains on earth* tha raiu!>o\v mist 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



119 



Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is clear'd to look on all things as they are ! 
But this is far too mournful ! Life's dark gift 
Hath fallen too early and too cold upon me ! 
Therefore I would go hence ! 

Elmina. And thou hast loved 

Unknown 

Ximcna. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veil'd 
My thoughts from thee ! But thou hadst woes 

enough, 

And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength ! For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 

I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
And he my chosen was there among the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! I look'd again 
The strife grew dark beneath me but his plume 
Waved free above the lances. Yet again 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze! 
And then at last I hurried to the gate, 
And met him there! I met him ! on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shiver'd sword, 
And dark hair steep'd in blood! They bore him 

past- 
Mother! I saw his face! Oh! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth, 
The pride of woman's eye I 

Elmina. Sweet daughter, peace! 

Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame 

Ximcna. There will be peace ere long. I shut 

my heart 

E'en as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief, 
That I might spare it thee! But now the hour 
Is come when that which would have pierced thy 

soul 

Shall be its healing balm. Oh! weep thou not. 
Save with a gentle sorrow! 

Klmina. Must it be? 

Art thou indeed to leave me 1 

Ximcna (exulting I y.) Be thou glad I 

I say, rejoice above thy favour'd child I 
Jny for the soldier, wh ;n his field is fought; 
Joy for the peasant, when his vintage-task 
Is closed at eve! But most of all for her, 
Who, when her life changed its glittering robea 
For the dull jrarb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on. 
Cast down its weight and slept! 

Elmina. Alas! thine eye 

Is wand^rin? yet how brightly ! IP this death. 
Or some high wondrous vision ? Speak, my child 
How is it witli thee now ? 

Ximena (wildly.) I see it still! 

'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high, 
My father's banner! HearVt thou not n sound ? 
The trumpet of Castile ? Praise, praise to Hea- 
ven! 
Now may the weary rest! Be still! Who calls 

The night so fearful ? [She dies. 

Elmina. No ! she is not dead ! 

Ximena ! speak to me! Oh! yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound, 
Ere the deep silence fall! What ! is all hush'd ? 
No, no! it cannot be! How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if Heaven 
Left not such beings with us? But is this 
Her wonted look? too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty ! Speak, Ximena! 
Sneak !-my heart dies within me! She is gone. 
With all her blessed smiles ! My child ! my child ! 
Where art thou ? Where is that which answer'd 

me. 
From thy soft-shining eyes! Hush! doth she 

move? 

One light lock seem'd to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbh'd beneath ; 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirr'd it! She is gone! 

[SA throws herself on the body. Gonzalez enters 
alone, and wounded. 



Elmina (rising as he approaches.) I must not nou 

be scorn'd ! No, not a look, 
A whisper of reproach ! Behold my woe ! 
Thou canst not scorn me now! 

Gon-.alez. Hast thou heard all? 

Elmina. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her 

head, 

And pass'd away to rest. Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her! (8) 

Gonzalez (bending over Ximena's body.) Thou 

art gone 

A little while before me, oh, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised 

land 

Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff" away, 
And spread his couch beside them ? 

Elmina. Must it be 

Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Mad its bright place among us ? Is this all, 
Lf"ft for the years to come? We will not stay ! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gonzalez (still gazing upon Ximena.) And thou'rt 

laid 

To slumber in the shadow, blessed child I 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb! Oh, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic son I 
Back unto him that gave it! And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness! 

Elmina. Hadst thou seen 

The look with which she pass'd ! 

Gonzalez (still bending over her.) Why, 'tis 

almost 

Like joy to view thy heautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, hack 
Into my weary heart ! No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands 
That quench'd young life by violence! We have 

seen 

Ton tnnrh of horror, in one crowded hour. 
To weep for aught, so gently gather'd hence 1 
Oh 1 man leaves other traces ! 

Elmina (starting suddenly.) It returns 
On my bewilder'd soul 1 Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue ? And thou'rt here alone I 
Where are my sons ? 
Gonzalez (solemnly) We were too late 1 
Elmina. Too late I 

Hast thou naught else to tell me ? 

Gonzalez. I brought back 

From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death-wound. 
Elmina. Thine I 

Gonzalez. Another hour 

Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence. 

And with me 

Elmina. No I Man could not lift his hands 
Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gonzalez. I ha.ee no song. 

Elmina. What hast thou said ? 
Gonzalez. That now there lives not one 

To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elmina (throwing herself on the ground, and 
speaking in a low hurried voice.) In one brief hour, 

all gone! and such a death ! 
I see their blood gush forth! their giaceful 

heads 

Take the dark vision from me, oh my God ! 
And such a death for them ! I was not there I 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy. 
Not in that mortal anguish ! Ah, all gone ! 
Why should I struggle more ? What f* thii 

Power 

Against whose might, on all sides pressing us. 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lava 
Our own frail spirit prostrate ? 

(After a long pause.) Now I kno 

Thy hand, my God 1 and they are soonest crush'd 
That most withstand it ! I resist no more. 
(She rises.) A light, a light springs up frc/n grief 
and death, 



320 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOTCKS. 



WhiiT \vith its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why VA- have thus been tried ! 

Garwfez. Then I may still 

Fix my last look on thee, in holy love. 
Farting, but yet with hope. 

Elmina (falling at his feet.} Canst thou forgive? 
Oh, 1 have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mint* own, 
And borne the pang in silence ! I have cast 
Thy lifV* fair honour, in my wild despair. 
As an unva ned gem upon the waves. 
Whence thou hast snatch'd it back, to bear from 

earth, 

All stainless, on thy breast Well hast thou done 
But I canst thou forgive? 

Gonzalez. Within (his hour 

J have stooil upon that verge whence mortals fall, 
And learn'd how 'tis with one whose sight grows 

dim, 

And whose foot trembles on the gulf's dark side, 
Death purifies all feeling We will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elmina. Death ! And thou too 

Art on thy way ! Oh. joy for thee, hih heart I 
Glory and joy for thoe ! The day is closed. 
And well ami nohiy hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long tattle-toils, though many swordi 
Have enter'd thine own soul ! But on my head 
Recoil the fierce invokings of despair. 
And I am left far distanced in the race. 
The lonely one of earth IAy, this is just 
I am not worthy thiit upon my breast 
In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Tliv spirit unto God. 

Gonzalez. Thou art ! thou art ! 

Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness. 
E'en in the presence of eternal things. 
Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimra'd, 
Assert their lofty claims; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! We are here 
J-tefore that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth, and meet it is 
For such a witness in the sight of Heaven, 
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm 
Tomes dim between us, to regard tir exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness, Who are they. 
Thai in one path have journey 'd, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close ? 

(-? Citizen enters hastily.) 

Citizen. The Moors ! the Moors ! 

Gonzalez. How ! is the city storm'd ? 

Oh ! righteous Heaven ! for this I look'd not yet ! 
Huth all been done in vain ? Why, then 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to rest I 

Citizen. The sun shall set, 

And not a Christian voice be left for prayer. 
To-night, within Valencia! Round our walla 
The paynini host is gathering for th' assault. 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gonzalez. Then my place 

Is here no longer. I had hoped to die 
Ev'n by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires but tbis was not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour. 
And it hath still high duties. Now my wife 
Thou mother of my children of the dead 
Whom I name unto thee, in steadfast hope 
Farewell! 

Elmina. No, net farewell! My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side, 
Amidst the hurtling lances, I will stand. 
As one on whom a brave man's love hatb been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gonzalez. I thank tbee. Heaven, 

That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given to temper hours like tbis. 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

(7% ELMINA.) We will not part 

But with the spirit's parting! 

Elmina. One farewell 

To her. that, mantled with fair lovelinew. 
Doth slumber at our feet! My blessed child ' 
Oh ! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong, 



AMI! holy courage did pervade thy woe, 
As light the troubled waters ! Be at peace ! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! And thy life 
K'en then was struck, and withering at the core 
Farewell ! Thy parting look hath on me fall'n 
K'eii as a gleam of heaven, ami I am now 
.More like what thou hast been! My soul ii 

hiish'd, 

For a still tense of purer worlds has sunk 
An I settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine shone forth. Thou ha*t nut 

lived 
In vain my child, farewell! 

Gonzalez. Surely for thee 

D -ath had no sting, Ximi.-iia ! We are blest. 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass. 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once mor 
t kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower . 
hi token of th' undying love and hope. 
Whose laxd is far away. 



Scene. The -Kails of the City. 
HERNANDKZ. Jl fete Citizens gathered round him 

Htmaiiilez. Why, men have cast the treasures, 

which their live? 

Mad b-en worn down in gathering, on the pyre. 
Av. at their household hearths have lil the brand 
Ev'n from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their 

homei", 

In ashes, to the winds! They have done this, 
Waking a blasted void, where once the sun 
l,oi k'd upon lovely dwellings ; and from earth 
Razi'i" 11 record that nn such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept. 
And frail Humanity knelt before her Grid; 
-They have done this, in their free nobleness. 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Ti'eir holy places ! Praise, high praise be theirs. 
Who have left man such lessons ! And these 

tilings. 

Made your own hills their witnesses! The sky, 
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing SAW 
The altar, and the birth place, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faitb, 
Th is proudly h maur'd. Be ye. not outdone 
ry tlie departed! Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snateb 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but ttiong I 
A few bright torches an, I brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flush'd hope, and we may die. 
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me. 
And thou, Valencia! triumph in thy fate. 
Th.; ruin, not the yoke, aiiu make thy tuwers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Cifiien. We'll follow thee! 

Alas! P>r our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we rear'd our children ! But away! 
Tile Moor shall plant no crescent o'er our fanes! 

Voice (from a toxer on the valla.) Succours ! 
Castile I Casiile! 

Citizens (rushing to the spot.) It is even so ! 
.Vow blessing be to Heaven, for we are saved! 
Castile, Caslile ! 

Voice (from th* tower.) Line after line of spear*, 
Lance after lance, upon the horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirl the plains! in faith, a noble host! 

Another Voice. The Mour hath turu'd him from 

our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain! 

Citizens (shouting.) Castile! Castile 1 

(GONZALEZ enters, supported by ELMINA end 
Citizen.) 

Gonzalez. What shouts of joy are these ? 
Hernandez. , Hail, chieftain I bail! 

Thus ev'n in death 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! Behold our God hath 

heard, 
And arm'd himself with vengeance! Lo! they 

come ! 
The lances of Castile ! 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORK?. 



121 



Gonzalez. I knew, I knew 

Thou wouldst not utterly, my God, forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! My blood and tears 
Have .iot sunk vainly to tli* attesting earth ! 
Praise to thee, thanks and praise, that 1 have lived 
To see this hourl 

FJmina. And I too bless thy name. 

Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 
Oh God ! thou God of chastening ! 

Voice, .from the tower.) They move on 1 

1 see the royal banner in the air. 
With its mnblazon'd towers! 

Gonzalez. Go, bring ye forth 

Tnc iiamii'r of i lie < 'id. and plant it here, 
To sir, am above me for an answering sign 
That tin; pood cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still ! What see ye now 1 

Hernandez. 1 sea a kingdom's might upon its 

path, 

Moving in teirible magnificence, 
Unto revenge and victory ! With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep. 
Ami with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in th autumn wind. 
And with fierce light, which is not of the sun. 
But flung from sheets of siecl it comes, it comes, 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Gonzalez. 1 hear it now, 

The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths. 

Hernandez. Ay, earth knows well the omen of 

that sound, 

And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's, 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gonzalez. Hark ! how the wind 

Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain 1 
Now the heart feds its power! A little while 
Grant me to live, my G<xl ! What pause is this? 

Hernandez. A deep and dreadful one I the ser- 
ried files 

Level their spear? for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

VOICES HEARD WITHOUT, rllvNTINO. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now I 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath I 

Soul, to its place on high 1 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Elmina (to GONZALEZ). It is the death-hymn 

o'er thy daughter's bier 1 
But I am calm, and e'en like gentle winds. 
That music, through the stillness of my heart, 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gonzalez. Oh! well those solemn tones 

Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul 1 

[jj sound of trumpets and sliouting from the plain.] 
Hernandez. Now, now they close ! Hark I what 

a dull dead sound 

Is in the Moorish war-shout I I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given 
Lo ! they have placed their shields before their 

hearts, 

And lower'd their lances with the streamers on. 
And on their steeds bent forward! God for 

Spain I 

The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! 
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this ! 'T is not the gallant crests, 
Nor banners with their glorious blazonry; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself! 

Gonzalez. Oh, raise me up. 

That I may look upon the noble scene ! 
It will not be ! That this dull mist would pass 



A moment from my sight ! Whence rose that 

shout, 
As in fierce triumph? 

Hernandez (clasping his hands.) Must I look on 

this 1 
The banner sinks 'tis taken ! 

Gonzalez. Whose ? 

Hernandez. Castile's I 

Gonzalez. Oh, God of battles ! 

Elmina. Calm thy I oble heart I 

Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Hernandez. Cheer thi e yet ! 

Our knights havesptirr'd to rescue. There is now 
A whirl, a niinsling of all terriule things, 
Yet more appuliing than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! I see tall plumei 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide. 
Sway'd hy the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar-boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with bloocf, 
Many a false corselet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! Now, shout for Santiago, shout! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barbed steeds go down 
With thr"ir helm'd riders ! Who, but One, can tell 
How spirits part amidst (hat fearful rush 
And trampling on of furious multitudes? 

Gonzalez. Thou'rt silent ! See'st thou more? 
My so 1 1 grows dark. 

Hernandez. And dark and troubled, as an angry 

sea, 

Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I ga/.e ! 
I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd. 
And lances soem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke ! But round the spot, 
Where, like a storm-fell'd maul, our standard 

sank. 
The h art of battle burns. 

Gonzalez. Where is that spot ? 

Hernandez. It is beneath the lonely tuft of 

palms. 

That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gonzalez. There, didst thou say ? 

Then God is with us, and we >nu*t prevail I 
For on that spot they died ! My children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence I 

Elminn. They perish'd there 1 

And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Ev'n on that place of death ! Oh, M'sriiful 1 
Hush the dark thought, within me' 

Hernandez (with sudden exultation.) Who is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm, 
And the. gold broider'd mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight; 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate 

gleams 
With star-like radiance? 

Gonzalez, (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross 1 

Hernandez. On his mail'd bosom shines a broad 

white cross, 

And his long plumage through the darkening air 
Streams like a snow-wreath. 

Gnnzalez. That should be 

Hernandez. The king I 

Was it not told us how he sent, of late, 
To theCid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross. 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight? (9) 

Gonzalez (springing up joyfully.) My king ! my 

king! 

Now all good saints for Spain I My noble king! 
And thou art there I That I might look once more 
Upon thy face ! But yet I thank thee. Heaven 1 
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city! 

f He sink* back into ELMINA'S arms. 

Hernandez. He hath clear'd 

A pathway 'midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through yon close living mass, 
E'en as the gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! 'Tis redeeui'd 
The castled banner ! It is flung once more 



122 



HEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



In Joy and glory, to the sweeping winds! 

There seems a wavering through the paynim 

hosts 
Castile doth press them sore Now, now rejoice! 

Gonzalez. What hast thou seen ? 

Hernandez. Abdullah falls! He falls! 

Tne man of blood ! the spoiler ! he hath sunk 
In our king's path! Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez. 

They give way, 

Tne ' ascent's van is broken ! On the hills 
And the dark pine-woods may the infidel 
Call vainly in his agony of fear, 
To cover him from vengeance ! Lo ! they fly I 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scatter'd e'en as leaves upon the wind! 
Woe to the sons of Afric ! Let the plains, 
And the vine-mountains, and Hesperian seas, 
Take their dead unto them ! that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gonzalez (attempting to raise himsetf.) Set me 

free! 

Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle-field ! 

Hernandez. Oh, blest in death! 

Chosen of Heaven, farewell! Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace! 

Gonzalez. Now charge once more ! 

God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air! Shout forth 'Castile!' 
The day is ours! I go! hut fear ye not I 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He diet. 

Elmina. Look on me yet ! 

Speak one farewell, my husband ! must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more ? Thine eye is fix'd 
Now is my life uprooted, and 'tig well. 

(j? Sound of triumphant music is heard, and mang 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.) 

A Citizen. Hush your triumphal sounds, al- 
though ye come 

E'en as deliverers! But the noble dead. 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 

hearts 
Deep silent reverence. 

Elmina (rising proudly.) No, swell forth, Castile! 
Thy trumpet-music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! How, know ye not 
That all array'd for triumph, crown'd and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
Ev'n now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ! He will not hear 
Hath earth a sound more sad? 

Hernandez. Lift ye the dead, 

And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb, wherein 



His warrior-sires are gather'd [ They raise the body 

Elmina. Ay, 'tis thus 

Thou shouldst be honour'd ! And I follow thee 
With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 
To the last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love 
Shall thence draw strength for all things, till th 

God. 

Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chasten'd soul. 
Call it once more to thine ! 

(To the Castilians.) 

Awake. I say 

Tambour and trumpet, wake ! and let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal 
So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt omnes 

NOTES. 



NOTE I. 

Mountain Christians, those natives of Spain, who, under their 
prince, Pelayo, took refuge among the mountains of the northern 
provinces, whe/r they maintained (heir religion and liberty, while 
the rot of their country was overrun by the Moon. 

NOTE 2. 

Oh free doth torrow pat$, ire. 
Frey geht dai Ungiuck durch die gauze Erde. 

Schiller 1 ! Death of WaUtratcin, Act if. K. . 

NOTE 3. 

Tiiona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid' favourite (word, 
taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

NOTE 4. 

Bow he won Valencia from the Moor, ft. 
Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged, and taken by the 
armies of different nations, remained in the pnneuion of the Moors 
for an hundred and seventy years after the Cid's death It was re- 
gained from them by King Don Jayme. of Angon, surnamed the 
Conqueror ; after whose success I have ventured to suppose it go- 
verned by a descendant of the Campeador. 

NOTE 5. 

It was a Spanish tradition, that the great bell of the Cathednl of 
Saragoasa always tolled spontaneously before a king of Spain died. 



" El qoe en buen oora nasco ;" he that was born in happy hour 
An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient chronicles. 

NOTE 7. 

For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish legends, we So- 
monca and Chronicle* of the Cid. 

NOTE 8. 

"La voila. telle qua la mort nous 1'a faite '."Botnut, Oraitoni 
Funibm 

NOTE 9. 

This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alphonso, the last of 
that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross which that war- 
rior was accustomed to wear upon his breast when he went to bat- 
tle, and had it made into one for himself; "because of the faith 
which be had, that through it he should obtain the victory." 
&wl*y't ChronicU of On Cid. 



THE 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACT& 



VESPERS OF PALERMO 



DRAMATIS PERSONA 



Couw DI PROCIDA. 
RAIP i PROCIDA, his Son. 
ERIW J, Viceroy. 
DB Cocci. 

MOKTALBA. 

Mi 



ALBERTI. 

A NSELMO. a Ifimk. 

VITTORIA. 

COKSTAKCK, Sister to SrOxrt. 



S<M, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasant*, fct., Ac. 



8cB* Palermo. 



VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



ACT THE FIRST. 
SCENE I. A Valley, with Vineyards and Cottages. 

Groups of Peasants PROCIDA, disguised as a Pil- 
gum, among them. 

First Peasant. Ay, this was wont to be a festa' 

time 

In days pone 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 btillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

Second Peasant. Yes I 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. 

Third Peasant. 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. 

Peasant'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? 

First Peasant. When there are light and reck 

less hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alasl my boy, 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight ol work -day care: they meet to speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud 

Procida (from the back ground.) Ay, it is well 
So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrong; but better far 
In silence to avenge them! 

Jin old Peasant. What deep voice 

Came with that startling tone? 

First Peasant. 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 

III with such vestments. How he folds round 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 Peasant. Nay, rather, mark him not ; th<; 

times 

Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 
A cautions lesson. 'Wh;il should bring him here ? 

A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 

Old Peasant. Peace! we me 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. 

Procida (coming foncard indignantly.) The word 

is death! And what hath life for thee. 
That thou shouldst clina 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 Peasants. Away, away 1 

Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 

Procida. Why, what is danger ? Are there deep- 
er 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 
Luck'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 Ynulk (coming forward.) No, no ! sajr on, say 

on I 

There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here. 
That kindle at thy words. 

Peasant. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us 

Procida. There is hope 

For all who suffer with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What 1 think jr 

Heaven 

Overlooks th' oppressor, if he bear awhile 
His crested head on high ? I tell you, no I 
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 tint* 
(123) 



J26 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Comes rushing on in Btorms: 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. 

Peasant. Had we but arms and leaders, we are 

men 
Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting 

these. 
What wouldst thou have us do ? 

Procida. Be vigilant 

And when the signal wakea the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Pare ye well. 

[Exit PROCIDA. 

First Peasant. This man should be a prophet : 

how he seem'd 

To read our hearts with his dark searching glance 
And aspect of command 1 And yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

Second Peasant. 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. 

Peasant. And is this he ? 

Then Heaven protect him ! for around his steps 
Will many snares be set. 

First Peasant. 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. f Exeunt Peatantt. 

SCENE II. The Terrace of a Castle. 
ERIBERT, VITTORIA. 

Fittoria. Have I not told thee, that I bear a 

heart 

Blizhted and cold ? Th' affections of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave; their fount is closed, 
Arid all the soft and playfjl tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have oear'd it ; all is fled from mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Krihert. O lady ! doth the flower 

That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry 

storms 

Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring ; 
4nd shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice ? 

Vittoria. Love! make foce'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 t Know'stthou 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, 
T T pon his murder ! Desolate as I am, 
Yr-t in the mien of thine affianced bride. 
Oh. my lost Conradin I there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eribcrt. Haughty dame I 

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. 



Ptttoria. Provencal, 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. 

Eribert. 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 bis mandates? 

Vittoria. 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 H ith lightning and it may be his. 
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 

Eribert. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart 

to bear 

The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady I Love may change hath 

changed 

To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still finds whal most it seeks for. Fare thee well. 
Look to it yet! To-morrow I return. 

[Exit ERIBERT. 

yittoria. 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. 'I'/tou shouldsl 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 
DJSI steal upon me ? 

Procida. 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. 

fittoria. 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! 

Procida. 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. 

yittoria. Why dost thou gaze 

With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my alter'd mien ? 

Procida. That I may read 

If to the widow'd love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now intrust my fate. 

yittoria. Thou, Procida I 

That thou shou'dst wrong me thus ! Prolong thj 

gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Procida. '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. 



HEMANS POETICAL WORKS. 



12Y 



And in thy wasted form. Ay, 't is a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the charade's 
Of noble suffering ; on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit hoKls its native state 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Vet tfM voice 
Of Fame hulh tuld afar, that thou shoulds wed 
This tyrant Eribert. 

yittoria. And told it not 

A tale of insolent love repel I'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 
An.i 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. 

Procida. Thou shall not need 

To tread its shadowy ma7.es. 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 shouldat live, to see 
The mighty expiation ; for thy heart 
(Forgive me that 1 wrong'd its faith) hath nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 
Deep nn thy marble brow. 

yittoria. Then thou canst tell, 

By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there 
Time, or the Might, 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 Cair heritage, 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers I 

Procida. HearV. 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'ur thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals (yet lie secret still) 
And let thy brealh give nurture to the spurk 
Thou'lt (ind already kindled. I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 

yittoria. When shall we meet again ? Are we 

not those 
Whom most h? loved on earth, and think'st thou 

not 

That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near 
While thus we hold communion ? 

Procida. 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 shall soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 

SCENE III. The. Sea-Shore. 
RAIMOND Dt PROCIDA, CONSTANCE. 

Constance. T*iere is a shadow far within your 

eye 
Which hath of late been deepening. Y m were 

wont 

Upon the clearness of your open brow 
To wear a hrishter sjiirit, shtdding round 
Joy like our southern sun. li is not wel.. 
If some dark thought he gathering o'er your soul, 
To hi'le i> from affection Why is this, 
My Raimnn-l, why is this? 

Rnimo'td Oh ! from the dreams 

Of vouth weet Constant*, hath not manhood still 
A wild ;IMI| stormy wakening ? They depart, 
Li^'ht aftr-f li"ht. o'ir j'loriou? visions fade. 
Til-.; vaguely liou'itil'il ! (ill e;irth, nnveil'd. 



Lies pale around ; and lif.i's realities 

Press on the soul, from its iinfathom'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 <it breath ! 

Constance. 1 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. 

Rttimond. Waste not thou thy prayers, 

Oh, 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. 

Constance. Alas ! I see 

That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. 
Raimond. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my 

words, 

Prom feelings hourly stung, have caught, per- 
chance, 

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 

Constance. What ? What wouldst thou say 1 

O speak ! 
Thou wouldst not leave me! 

Raimond. I have cast a cloud. 

The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes, 
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I pone, 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once mora 
In the cltiar sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we met before we loved ! 
Constance. 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 rhequWd hues of hope and fear, 
Ev'n for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind* 
Have I deserved this ? 

Raimond. Oh ! thou hast deserved 

A love less fatal to thy jieace than mine. 
Think not 't is mockery : But 1 cannot rest 
To he the scorn'd and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded laud. 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. 1 would go forth 
To seek rny noble father ; he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Constance. Mast we p.rt* 

And is it come to this ? Oh ! I have still 
Deern'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 wavei 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raimond. 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. 

Constance. A few short years ! 

Less time may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth! To break the tie* 
Which early love had form'J; 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. 



128 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Raimond. Where'er I roam, 

Thou shall be with my soul I Thy soft low voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness. Oh I 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 weepthou not! 
We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love, 
Ere I depart. 

Constance. 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? 

Raimond. Doubt me not, 

Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit CONSTANCE. 
Raimond (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 nf bondage ? Oh 1 with you, 
Ye everlasting images of powrr. 
And of infinity ! thou blue-rolling deep. 
And you, ye stars! whose beams are characters 
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced ; 
tVith 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 
('his awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

[ PROCIDA enters unobserved. 

It is the hour 

tie named, and yet he comes not. 
Proeidn (coming forward.) He is here. 

Raimond. Now, thou mysterious stranger, thou, 

whose glance 

Doth fix tself on memory, and pursue 
Thought, like a spirit, haunting its lone hours; 
rteveal thyself; what art thou? 

Profida. 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. 

Raimond. Seek'st thou for peace ? 

This is no land of peace : unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's 

thoughts 

{Jack to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
vVith a dull hollow semblance of repose, 
May so he called. 

Procida. There are such calms full oft 

('receding earthquakes. But I have not been 
So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured 
I'n shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, 
That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of htish'd suhmissiveness as best 
May suit the troubled aspect of the times. 
Raimond. Why, then, thou art welcome, stran- 
ger, to the land 

vVhere most disguise is needful. He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow 
tfeneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn 
Prom 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 conquerors. This it is, 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Pror.ida. It matters not 

Co him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
To a. extremes, and there is that in life 



To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Ev'n when its li.fty claims are nil reduced 
To the pour common privilege of breathing. 
Why dost thou turn away ? 

Raimond. What wouldst thoii with rneT 

I deem'd thoe, 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 hich capacities 
For aught on earth. Km thou art like the rest. 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Procida. \ 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 raze 
Of mortal eye? If vengeance wait the foe, 
Or fate th' oppressor, 't is in depths conceal'd 
Beneafh 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. 

Raimond. 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 mill 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 sefk rny country on some distant shore, 
Where such things are unknown! 

Procida (exulting ly.) Why, this is joy: 

After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
And the poor subtleties of meaner mimlS, 
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crush'd. Hig!i-hearted youth 
Thy father, should his footsteps ere again 
Visit these shores 

Raimond. My father! what of hici? 

Speak ! was he known to thee? 

Procida. In distant lands 

With him I've traversed many a wild, ai.d loox'd 
On many a danger ; and the thought that tb >u 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy. 
Oft through the storm hath cheer'd him. 

Raimond. 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'CJI to earth's verge! 

Procida. 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? 

Raimond. From my mind 

His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd 
Since he went forth to pxile: 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 hatli long become 
Part of my being. 

Procida Raimond ! doth no voice 

Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now? My son ! my son' 

Raimond. Father ! Oh God ! my father I Now 

I know 
Why my heart woke before thee 1 

Procida. Oh! this hour 

i Makes hope reality; for thou art all 
I My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raimond. 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. 

Procida. Because I would not link thy fate with 

mine, 

Till I could hail the day spring of that hope 
Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth 
T/tou hast told me of a subdued and scorn 'd, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



129 



And trampled land, wnose very soul is bow'd 
And fnshion'd to he' huius -but / tell the* 
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 nncicnt kings, 
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage off! 

Raimond. And where is this? 

Prncida. 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. 

Raimond. Can it be thus indeed ? Thou pour'st 

new life 

Through all my burning veins! I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and death-like sleep 
To the full glorious day. 

Procida. Thou shall hear more ! 

Thou frhnlt hear things which would which mill 

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 
! yet must darkly move. Now, follow me; 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raimond. My noble father ! 

Thy words have given me all for which I pined 
An aim. a hope, a purpose! And the blood 
Dnth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sun-stroke freed. 

' Procida. Ay, this is well I 

Buch natures' burst men> chains! Now, follow 
me. [Kicunt 

ACT THE SECOND. 

SCENE I. Apartment in a Palace. 

ERIBERT, CONSTANCE. 

Constance. 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. 

Eribert. 'Tis too late. 

You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody but they must die. 

Constance. 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, 't were 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 
Onlay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall hid stern Justice wake. 

Eribert. 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, ma 'k 

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 snid, and they must die. 

Constance. Have you no fear 7 

Eribert. Of what ? that heaven should fall ? 

Constance. NT! But that earth 
Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen 



Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngi, 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within rue. 

Kribcrt. Am I then 

To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look? 

Constance. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the 

soul, 

Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
liut theirs, to liberty ! Have not these men 
Brave sons, or noble brothers? 

Eribert.. Yes! whose name 

It rests with me to make a word of fear, 
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men. 

Constance. But not forgotten! All! 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. 'T was 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 ! 

Eribert. 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 hack 
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, fare- 
well! [Exit ERIBERT. 

Constance. Oh, 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. Jl ruined Tower, surrounded by Wood* 
PROCIDA, VITTORIA. 

Procida. Thy vassals are prepared then ? 

Ptttoria. Yes, they wait 

Thy summons to their task. 

Procida. Keep the flame brieht. 

Rut 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 ? 

Vittoria. What should I shrink from ? 

Procida. 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. 

Vittoria. 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 ot those 
That have to die no morel Nay, doubt it notl 
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 tremnlous, and peoples earth 
And air with infinite, viewless multitudei, 
I will be with thee, Procida. 

frocida. Thy presence 

Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 



130 



REMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



That which may strengthen our majestic cause 
With yet a deeper power. Kuow'st thou the spot ? 

fiUoria. Full well. There is no scene so wild 

and lone 

In these dim woods, but I have visited 
I s tangled shades. 

Procida. At midnight, then, we meet. 

[Exit PROCIDA. 

nttoria. 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. Jl Chapel, with a Monument, on which 
in laid a Sword. Moonlight. 

PROCIDA, RAIMOND, MONTALBA. 
Montalba. And know you not my story? 
Procida. 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. 

Montalba. Hark ! while you spoke, 

There was a voice like murmur in the breeze. 
Which ev'n like death came o'er me; 'twas a 

nieht 

Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves. 
And swift wild shadows floatin? 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 1 There were tears and smiles, 
But all of joy ! And there were bounding steps, 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love 
Dnth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck. 
When his plumed lielm is doffd. Hence, feeble 

tl)iiu<fhts! 
I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were 

mine ! 

Rainond. And were they realized ? 
Montalba. 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 
fiave 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. 
Raimond. And was all well ? 
Montalba. 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 th' assassin's arm ! 

Raimond. Oh, righteous Heaven t 

Who had done this? 
Montalba. Who! 

Procida. Canst thou question, who"! 

Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds. 
In the coM-blooded revelry of crime. 
Hut those whose yoke is on us ? 

Rnimniid. Man of woe! 

Whit words hath pity foi itespair like thine? 
Mo'itn'ba. I'ity! fond youth ! My soul disdains 
I,., grief 



Which doth mil) snin its ucrp M cii <-ics, 
'I'o ask a vain companionship <,f t. ars, 
And so to bu relieved! 

Procida. For woes like these. 

There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Montalba. None ! 

Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round i 
We are in the 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. 

Raimond. My spirit burns! 
Ami iin full heart almost to bursting swells. 
Oh ! f,,r the day of battle ! 

Proriita. Raimond, they 

Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must 

die; 
--Hut not in battle. 

Raimond. How, my father ? 

Procida. No ! 

Look on that sep-ilchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. But th' appointed hour 
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band. 
Noble Montalba? 

Montalba. 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 yean 
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 ! 
1 would be tranquil or appear so ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my hear 
There struck a pang but it will soon have pass'd 

Procida. Remember! in thecavein by thecrost 
Now, follow me, my son. 

[Exeunt PROCIDA and RUMONT> 

Montalba (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. Metliinks 't were now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft, as I am! But awny, 
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. 

Procida. And is it th'is, beneath the solemn skies 
Of midnieht, and in solitary' caves. 
Where the wild forest creatures make their .air, 
Is't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 
The councils of their country ? 

Raimond. Why, such scenes 

In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight, and the partial glaie 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillar'd halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary visits. Are we not 
O'ershadow'd by that Etna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies, hath struck dismay 
Throuch tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek 
home 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



131 



In other climes ? Hark ! from its depths e'en now j 
What hollow moans are sent! 

Enter MONTALBA, GUIDO, and other SICILIANB. 

Procida. 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 ! 

Procida. The torch-light, 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 corselet, 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, 
Chililless Montalba 1 

Montalba (advancing.) He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father, in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Thou, too, come forth, 

Prom 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? 

First Sicilian. Even BO. I stood, 

Last night, before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head what reck'd it 7 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. 
Procida I knew a young Sicilian, one whose 

heart 

Should be all fire. On that most guilty day, 
When, with our mnrtyr'd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perish'd ; he, of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Mulled a thousand hearts tha dared not aid. 
Stood liy the scaffold with extended arms, 
Calling ii pnn his father, whose last look 
Tiirn'd full on him its parting agony. 
The father's blood gusli'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 ? 

Second Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! 
Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh. 

Procida. Our bana 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 ? 

Ou.ida. 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, lie is 
A glorious creature 1 ! But his doom is seal'd 
With their's of whom you spoke; and I have 

knelt 

Ay, scorn me notl 't was for his life I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he p it on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spnrn'd me. But the stain 
Of shame like this, takes blood to wash it oft; 
And thus it .-hall be caricell'd ! Call on me. 
When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 
Procida. 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 
JVilh most unconscious hands. No praise be her's 
''or what she blindly works! When slavery'scup 
J'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 

rs fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters and they shall be burst " 
[ have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but s 

power 

Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
.iiiswerving eneigy on one great aim, 
To make and rule its fortunes! I have been 
A wanderer in the fullness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Sathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 
'I'n aid our holy cause. And aid is near : 
But we must cive 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. 

Muntalba. Let them fall 

When dreaming least of peril ! When the heart, 
Masking in sunny pleasure, doth forget 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide th 

sword 

With a thick veil of myrtle, and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines 
Red in the festal torch-light ; meet we there, 
And hid them welcome to the feast of death. 
Procida. Thy voice is low and broken, and tb^ 

words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Montalba. Why, then, I thus repea\ 

Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst fortl 
In some free festal hour and woe to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Rahnond. Must innocence and guih 

Perish alike? 

Montalba. Who talks of inno "nee? 
When hath their hand been stay' for innocence! 
let them all perish ! Heaven will choose it? own 
Why should their children live ? The earthquak* 

whelms 

Itsundistinguish'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 1 
Is these 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 
Ami 1st 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 1 
Brethren, what means your silence ! 

Sicilians. Be it so I 

If one among us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ? 
Pledge we our faith to this! 
Raimond (rushing forward indignantly.) Out 

faith to Ms! 

Vo ! I but drcamtj 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 thecrown'd heights and to the sweeping wind*, 
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 heatinjr1 
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 wit 

ours 
Go down to after days ? Oh, friends ! a cause 



132 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Like that for which we rise, hath made bright 

names 

Of the el'Jer time as rallying words to men, 
Sounds full of mignt anil immortality ! 
And shall not ours be each ? 

J\Iont(i/!in. 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 ye, youth, 
Our souls are parch'd with agonizing thirst. 
Which must be quench'd though death were in the 

draught : 

We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other jiy unblighted. 

Procida. Oh ! 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 
Th'y cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And for our names whate'er the deeds, by which 
We I iirst 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? 

Mainland. 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. 

Mmtalba. I have no children. Of Montalba's 

blood 

Not one red drop doth circle through the veins 
Of aueht that breathes? Why, what have / 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 ; tut till liteu, 
Thau art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Ran/wild. 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! 

Montalba. Peace ! have we not borne 

Tli' 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 reyenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Rainond. 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. 

Procida. And is it thus indeed /(lost thnu 

forsake 
Our cause, my son! 

Raimond. Oh, 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. 

Procida. He's gone ! Why, let it be 1 

I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. Associates ! 't is decreed 
O ir foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Mfi'ulba. It should be 

In the full city, when some festival 
lintli atlier'd throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts 
Tn brief security. Hark! is there not 
A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze? 
We are betray'd. Who art thou 7 

VITTORIA enters. 

Procida. One alone 

Should he thus daring. Lady, lift the I'eil 
That shades thy noble brow 



(She raises her veil, the Sicilians draw back with 
respect.) 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 

Of our lost king! 

Procida. 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 scatfold. 

yittoria. Valiant men ! 

I come to ask your aid. You see me, one 
Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proui! 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 unnallow'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 ! 

yittoria. Vet 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 ? 

Guirio. We deem'd these nuptials, lady. 

Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou att noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs, 
This shall not be. 

Procida. 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 ! 

Vittoria. Procida ! 

Procida. 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 glitt'ring shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

yiitoria. Can my soul 

Dissemble thus? 

Procida. 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. 

'Montalba. Then we will mix 

With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feasl 
The harvest of Hie grave. 

yittoria. 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. 

Procida. Ami let thy banquet 

B soon announced, for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would purchase 
Reprieve with other Mood. 

yittoria. Be it then the day 

Preceding that appointed for their doom. 

Guido. My brother, Ibou shall live ! Oppression 

boasts 

No gift of prophecy ! It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Montalba. The Vesper-bel). 

Procida. 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 
Dovoted to the sword's tremendous asn, 
[ follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell ' 
riiat sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'I is eome 
Fhe time when power is in a voice, a breath, 
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night 
[s waning, with her stars, which, one by one. 



HEMANS POETICAL WORKS. 



133 



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 THE THIRD. 

SCENE I. Apartment in a Palace. 
ERIBKRT, VITTORIA. 

Fi'ttoria. Speak not of love it is a word with 

deep. 

Strange magic in its melancholy sound, 
To summon up the dead ; anil 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 cn smile yet.) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; if this be deem'd 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Kribert. My fortune's star 

Doth rule th' ascendant stiil! (jtyart.) If not of 

love, 

Then pardon, lady, that I speak of jay, 
And with exulting heart 

PVtforin. There i* 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 1 . There's One, who 

sits 

In His own bright tranquillity enthroned. 
High o or ali storms, and looking fur beyond 
Their thickest clouds; but we, from whose dull 

eyes 

A grain of dust hides the great sun, e'eti me 
Usuj-p his attributes, and talk, as seers. 
Of future joy and grief 1 

JCriltert. Thy words are strange. 

Wt will ( hope that peace at length shall settle 
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To tv majestic beauty. Fair Vittorial 
Oti ! if my cares 

yittoria.. I know a day shall come 

Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darken'd spirit 
Soon (had 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. 

Eribert. Command my power, 

And deem it thus most honour M. 

nttoria. 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. Cenerous 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 
TK peace which is forgetfulness; I mean 
The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be 
The summons to our bridal Hear you not 1 
To our fair bridal! 

Eribert. Lady, let your will 

Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless'd, 
Proving my bonaage thus. 

nitoria. 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 1 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I am at thv side once more, but ( ahaJl stand 
Tbero to the last. 



Eribert. Your smiles are troubled, lady; 

May they ere long be brighter! Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper-bell. 

Vittoria. 'Tis lover's phrase 

To say Time lags ; and therefore meet tor you: 
But with an equal pace the hour moves on, 
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, 
Pleasure or fate. 

Eribert. 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. 

Vittoria. '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. 

Eribert. Lady, a brief farewell. 

[Exeunt separately 



SCENE II. The Sea-Sltare 
PROCIBA, RAIMOND. 

Proeida. And dost thou still refuse to share the 

glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise ? 

Raimond. Oh, 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 't was won, tbe high exploits, whose tale 
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requires!. 

Proeida. 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. 

Raimond (turning aunty.) There is no path but 

oae 
For noble natures. 

Proeida. 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 with 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 stern necessity, but not a crime ! 

Raimond. Father! ray soul yet kindles at the 

thought 

Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn'd 
Ev'n from thy voice. The high remembrances 
Of other day* are stirring in the heart 
Where thov. 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 minel 

Oh, father! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of alt valiant hearts 
On our most righteous cause ? 

Proeida. What wouldst thou do 1 

Raimond. I would go forth, and rouse th' indig- 
nant 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 ? /would rouse 
That spirit, whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere, the stormy field of fight ! 

Proeida. Ay! and give time and warning to the 

foe 

To gather all l.is might : It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun, 
When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before 



134 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



To-morrow's sun hath reach'd i' th' noonday 

heaven 

His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls. 
As by one thunderstroke (you are pale, my son) 
Shall be for ever silenced. 

Raimond. What ! such sounds 

As falter on the lip of infancy, 
In its imperfect utterance? or are breathed 
By the fonrl mother, as she lulls her babe ? 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the tvvilihl 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 ? 

Procida. Since thou dost feel 

Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

Raimtmd. Speak ! Oh speak ! 

Procida. How would those rescued thousands 

bless thy name, 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raimond. 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! 

Procida (after a pause.) Thou hast a brow 

Clear as the day and yet I doubt ihee, Raimond ! 
Whether it be that I have learn'd distrust 
Prom 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 PROCID.V. 

Raimond. 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 elnrious world, 
We start, and fi"'l nv-- * ' v -t 1> it so! 
Is not my soul still powerful, in itselj 
To realize its dreams ? Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. But, away ! 
T/iou shall be saved, sweet Constance ! Love is 



Mightier than vengeance. 



[xt/ RAIMOND. 



SCENE III. Gardens of Pal*,* 
CONSTANCE, alone. 

Constance. There was a time when my livmgnta 

wander'd not 

Beyond these fairy scenes! when but lo 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, 
Tli" delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great sun ! 

(RAIMOND enters.) 
R.'iimond ! oh ! now thou 'rt come 
I read it in thy look, to say farewell 
For the last time the last ! 

Raimond. Mo, best beloved ! 

I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us but in death. 

Constance. I have dreamt of joy, 

But never aught like this. Speak yet again ! 
Say, we shall part no morel 

Raimond. 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 
Sf-crpt from all, and most of all, my Constance, 
From Eribert my father is return' 1 : 
I leave thee not. 

Constance. Thy father I blessed sound I 



Good angels be his guard ! Oh ! if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could no. hate 
Even a Provencal maid ! Thy father! now 
Thy soul will be'at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow ouc<: more ! But how is thi* 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ; 
And in thy look is that which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 

Raimond. A dream is on my soul. 
I see a skunberer, crown'd with flowers, and 

smiling 

As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange phantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
I cannot but be sad. 

Constance. Why, let me sing 

One of the sweet wild strains you love so well. 
And this will banish it. 

Raimond. It may not be. 

Oh ! gentle Constance, go not forth to-day : 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Constance. 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 ! 

Raimond. There tie 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 1 have mark'd 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes-. 
Which deern'd their flash unnoticed, arid a quick, 
S ispieious 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. 

Constance. 1 tremble ! Raimond 1 

What may these things portend? 

Raimond. 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 
Tho 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. 

Constance. And then didst thou, 

My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, pnst 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 ! 

Raimond. Heaven (Heaven is jus! . 

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 bower*. 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sol nd for vesper-prayer t 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



136 



Constance. And know'st. thnu not 

'Twill be the bridal hour? 

Raimond. 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? 

Constance. Oh! what mean thy words? If then 
My teps are free, I will. Be thou but cairn. 

Raimond. Be calm ! there is a cold and sullen 

calm, 

And, were my wild fears made realities, 
It might he mine ; but, in this dread suspense. 
This? conflict of all terrible plantasies, 
There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love 1 
I wili watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell 
Until that hour! 

Constance. My Raimond, fare thee well. 

[Ezeunt. 



SCENE IV. Room in the Citadel of Palermo. 
A LBERTI, DE Couci. 

De Couci. Said'st thou this night ? 
Alberti. This very night and lo ! 

E'en now the sun declines. 
De Couci. What I are they arm'd ? 

Alberti. All arm'd and strong in vengeance and 

despair. 
De Couci. Doubtful and strange the tale! Why 

was not this reveal'd before ? 
Albcrli. Mistrust me not, my lord I 

That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps, (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye Iiuth sought 
To read in mine,) a watch so vigilant, 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
A one I mingled with his bands, to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

De Couci. How may we now 

Avert the gathering storm ? The viceroy holds 
His bridal f.'ast. and all is revelry. 
'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Albtrti. 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 Couci. 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 shall not pass unguerdon'd, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching night 
Alherti. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 
[Exit Alberti 
De Covci. The grovelling slave ! And yet hi 

spoke too true ! 

For Eribert, in blind elated joy, 
Will scorn the warning voice. The day wane 

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. 
PROVENCAL NOBLES assembled. 

First. Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! Who 

hath seen 
?he viceroy's bride ? 

Second 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, 
Jer castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians, that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

Third Noble. 'Twas their boast 

,Vith what fond faith she worshipped still the name 
Of the boy, Conradin. How will the slaves 
Jrook this new triumph of their lords? 

Second Noble. In sooth, 

[t stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Provencals, 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! 

FirstNoblf.. Is this Vittoria fair ? 

Second 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. 

First Noble. Hush I they come. 

Enter ERIBERT, VITTORIA, CONSTANCE, and others. 

Eribert. Welcome, my noble friends ! there 

must not lower 

One clouded brow to-day in Sicily! 
Behold my bride ! 

Nobles. Receive our homage, lady 

Vittoria. I bid all welcome. May the feast w 

offer 
Prove worthy of such guests! 

F.ribert. Look on her, friends ! 
And say, if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem ? 

Vittoria. 'Tis well, my lord! 

When memory's pictures fade, 'tis kindly don 
To bri-'hten thsir dimtn'd hues! 

First Noble (apart.) Mark'd you her glance ? 

Second Noble (apart.) What eloquent icorn was 

there ? Yet he. th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eribert. Now to the feast! 

Constance, you look not joyous. I have said 
That all should smile to-day. 

Constance. ' Forgive me, brother 

The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eribert. Why, how is this ? 

Constance. 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 ! 

Eribert. But, being as you are, 

Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Vittoria. And know, fair maid ! 

That if in this unskill'd, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eribert To the feast I 

Now let the red wine foam! There should b 

When 'conquerors revel! Lords of this fair isle! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and 

The pres 6 ent e and the future! for they Loth 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride T 
Vittoria. Yes, Eribert ! thy prophecies of joy 

Eribert. 'Tis well. To-day 

I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow let the bright sun spread his course. 
To waft me happiness! my proudest foes 
Must die and then my slumber shall be laid 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



On rose-leaves, with no envious fold, to mar 
The luxury of its visions! Fair Viltoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

yittoria. It is strange, but oft, 

Midst festal soups 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 bless'd were the stroke which makes them 

things 

Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, 
There is at least no bondage! But should we 

torn such a scene as this, where all earth's joys 

ontend for mastery, and the very sense 

f 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 ? 

F.ribert. Banish such dark thoughts ! 

They ill beseem the hour. 

yittoria. 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? 

First JVolile (aside.) What mean her words ? 

Srrtmd JVbWe. There's some dark mystery here. 

Krikert. 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! 

./? Messenger enters, bearing a letter 
Messenger. Pardon, my good lord I 

But this demands 

Eribert. What means thy breathless haste? 
And that ill- boding mien ? Away ! such look* 
Befit not hours like these. 

nffssfiffr. The Lord De Couci 

Bade me bear this, and say, tis fraught with 

tidings 
Of life and death. 

yittoria (hurriedly.') Is this a time for aught 
But revelry ? My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! 

Eribert (to Ike Messenger.) Hence ! tell the Lord 

de Couci, we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit MESSENOBB 

Let there be 

Around me none but joyous looks to-day. 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 
(J) band of the conspirators enter, to Ike sound ef 
music, disguised as shepherds bacchanals, ifc.) 
Eribert. What forms are these? What means 

this antic triumph? 

yittoria. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassal* 
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 theirvineyards, 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 Bellringt. 



Eribert. It is the hour! Hark, hark ! my brid% 

our summon:- ! 
The altar is prepared and crown'd with dowers 

That wait 

yittoria. The victim! 

(A tumult heard wit/tout.) 

PROCXDA and MONTALBA enter, with others, Armed. 

Procida. Strike! the hour is come 

yittoria. Welcome, avengers, welcome! Now 
be strong ! 

( The Conspirators throw off their disguise , and rush, 
with their swords drawn, upon the Provencals. 
ERIBERT is wounded, and falls.) 

Procida. Now hath fate reach'd thee in thy mid 

career, 
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies! 

(The Provencals are driven off, and pursued by the 
Sicilians.) 

Conttance (supporting Eribert.) My brother ! oh 
my brother! 

Eribert. Have I stood 

A leader in the battle-fields of kings, 
To perish thus at last ? Ay. by these pangs. 
And this strauae chill, that heavily doth creep. 
Like a slon- poison, through my curdling veins, 

his should h- -death ! In sooth, a dull exchange 
For the gay bridal feast! 

Voices (without.) Remember Conradin 1 spare 
noTie. spare none. 

yittoria (throwing off her bridal wreath and orna- 
ments.) 

This is proud freedom! Now my soul may cast, 
In fffiiprons scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To e:irth for ever! And it is such joy, 
As if a captive from his dull, cold cell, 
MiL'ht soar at once, on chartor'd wing, to range 
The realms of starr'd infinity ! Away? 
Vain mockery of a bri.lal wreath! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come : and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant tcope. Now, Eribert! 
Believe in retrib.ition ! What, proud man ! 
Prince, ruler, conqueror! didst thou deem Heaven 

slept .' 

" Or that the iimwn. immortal ministers, 
" Ranging the world, to note e'en purposed crime 
"In burning characters, had laid aside 
"Their everlasting attributes for thee?" 
Oh! blind security! He. in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reaeh'd 
His pyramid-height of power ; that so his fall 
May, with more fearPil oracles, make pale 
Man's crown'd oppressors ! 

Constance. 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. 

yoiees (without.) Anjou. Anjou ! De Couei, to 
the rescue ! 

Eribert (half raising- Mmsetf.) My brave Pro- 

vencals ! do ye combat still ? 
And I, yoiir chief, am here ! Now, now I feel 
That death, indeed, is bitter! 

yittoria. Fare thee well! 

Thine eyes so oft, with their insulting smile. 
Have lookM on man's last pangs, thou shouldst, 

by this, 
Be perfect how to die ! [Exit. VITTORIA. 

RAIMONO enters. 

Raimond. Away, my Constance I 

Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bandl 
Are scatter'd far and wide. A little while 
And thou shall be in safety. Know'st thou nof 
That low sweet vale, where dwells th 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 snent its fury. Haste) 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



137 



Constance. I will not fly! 

While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
One spiirk 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. 

Eribert. The clouds are. darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me lo what ? But I have been 
Used to command ! Away ! I will not die 
But on tli.- field [fie dies. 

Constance (kneeling by him.) Oh Heaven' be 

merciful. 

As thou art just! fur he is now where naught 
But mercy can avail him. It is past! 

GOIDO enters, with Iris award drawn. 

Guide (to RAIMOND.) I've sought thee long 

Whv art thou lingering here? 
Haste follow me ! 8u.=j)icion with thy name 
Joins thnt word Traitor! 

h'aimoiid. Traitorl Guido ? 

Out do. Yes 

I':i-t thou not heard, that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
D>- Couci hath escaped ? And there are those 
Who murmur that from tliee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en 

yet, 

In the red current of Provencal Mood, 
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, 
And follow me! 

Raimond. And thou conldst doubt me, Guido I 
Tiscome to this! Away! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou know'st me not! 

Guido. Raimond di Procida! 

If thou art he wnom once I deem'd so noble 
Call me thy friend no more! [ Exit GUIDO. 

Raimend (after a pni/se.l Rise, dearest, risel 
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 plpre v. here nature's tear* 
In quiet sanctity may frceJy flow. 
Hark! the wild sounds that wait on fearful 

deeds 

Are swelling on the wind <ts the deep roar 
Of fast-advancing billows, and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble. Speed ! oh, speed! 



ACT THE FOURTH 

SCENE I. 1 Street in Palermo 

PROCIDA enters. 

Prtcida. 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 1 
s 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 boding* 
That treachery lurks amongst us. Raimond 1 

Raimond! 

Oh! Guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb I 
It cannot be ! 

MONT-ALBA, Gnioo, and other Sicilians, enter. 

Procida. Welcome 1 we meet in joy I 
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. 

Montalba. Vie have done well. There need 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 ihr sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is si HI hut half achieved, since, with his bands, 
De Couci hath escaped, and, doubtless, leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will L'.-i! lii-rall their strength. Determined hearts 
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required, 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. 
Where is thy sou ? 

Procida. I know not. Once last night 

He cri iss'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 1 would have 

pivss'fl him 

To my exulting bosom, he drew back. 
And with a sail, and yet a scornful smile. 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since that hour 
I have not seen him. Wherefore ilidsl thou ask 1 

Montalba. It diallers not. We have deep things 

to speak of. 

Know'st thou that we have traitors in our coun- 
cils? 

Procida. I know some voice in secret must have 

warn'd 

De Couci ; or his scatter'd hands 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? 

Montalba. 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 Provencal. Read and judge! 

Procida. Where is this messenger ? 

Moutnlba. Where should he be ? 

They slew him in their wrath. 

Procida. Unwisely done! 

Give me the scrolls. 

life 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 you 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 everl 

Montalba. In our passionate blindness. 

We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Procida. 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 ftx'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 1 But no I 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 titter 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 ? 

Montalba. 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. 

Procida. And who is he ? 

Montalba. Nay, ask thy son. 

Procida. My v 

What should he know of such a recrean' k tt> 
Speak, Guido I thou'rt his friend I 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Guide. I would not wear 

The brand of such a name t 

Procida. How ? what means this ? 

A flash of light breaks in upon my soul 1 
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. \J1 pause. 

Now, what have I to hear ? 
Your tidings? 

Ouido. Briefly, 'twas your son did thus: 

He hath disgraced your name. 

Procida. My son did thus I 

Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out? What did my son? 
I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick ! 

Ouido. '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 Provencal maid. 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Mental ha. 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! 

Ouido. Who but he 

Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal ? Hath not the traitor still 
Bought, with his fair and specious eloquence. 
To win us from our purpose ? All things seem 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Mont alba. 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 Raimoud loves 
The sister of that tyrant? 

Procida. 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 1 

Montalba (apart.) You shall be childless too ! 

Procida. Was't you, Montalba? Now rejoice, 

I say I 

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. 

Montalba. What means this, my lord ? 

Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ? 

Procida. Why, should not all be glad who have 

no sons 
To tarnish their bright name? 

Montalba. I am not used 

To bear with mockery. 

Procida. Friend ! By yon high Heaven, 

I mock thee not ! 'T is a proud fate, to live 
Alone and unallied. Why, what's alone? 
A word whose sense isfree! Ay, free from all 
The venom'd stings implanted in the heart 
'!> those it loves. Oh I I could laugh to think 
>' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes " A son is born t" 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 I Were it not excellent ? 

Montalba. This is all idle. There are deeds to do 
Arouse thee, Procida 1 

Procida. 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 ! 't is well. 
They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth . 



There is a youth who calls himself my son. 
His name is Kaimond in his eye is light 
That shows like truth but be not ye deceived I 
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 noj 

this 

Be glorious, brave Montalba ? Linger not. 
Ye tardy messengers ! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt GCIDO and others. 

Is not this well ? 

Montalba. 'T is noble. Keep thy spirit to thia 

proud height, 

(aside.) And then be desolate like me ! my woe* 
Will at the thought grow light. 

Procida. What now remain* 

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 

Montalba. 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 I for that name his 

country 

He strikes my vengpance 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. d Hermitage surrounded by the Kuini 
of an Ancient Temple. 

CONSTANCE, ANSELMO. 

Constance. 'Tis strange he comes not! Is not 

this the still 

And sultry hour of noon ? Hr should have been 
Here by the day-break. Was there not a voice ? 
" No ! 't is the shrill Cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them, in the sun." Hark ! yet again I 
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. 

Jlnxelmo. 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 scene* 
Lonely and still ; where he that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers ? I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Constance. Hark! his step! 

I know it well he comes my Rai mond. welcome 

VITTORIA enters, CONSTANCE shrinks back on per 
eeiving her. 

Oh, Heaven ! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

yittoria (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. 

Jinselmo. What recent grief 

Darkens thy spirit thus? 

Vittoria. I said not grief. 

We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not 
That which it hath been. In the flowers whick 

wreathe 

Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown. 
Fraught with 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 hang* 
A darkness, heavy as th' oppressive gloom 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



139 



Of midnight phantasies. Ay, for this, too. 
There is a cause. 

Anselmo. How say'st thon, we are free? 

There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult, but too well 1 know 
They call the stranger lord. 

Vittoria. Who calls the dead 

Conqueror or lord ? Hush ! breathe it not aloud. 
The wild winds must not hear it 1 Yet, again, 
I tell thee, we are free I 

Anselmo. Thine eye hath look'd 

On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang 
O'er its dark orb. Speak! I adjuro thee, say, 
How hath this work been wrought? 

ViUoria. Peace ! ask me not i 

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 slangbter'd I- .oe 
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men 
Who 'midst the slain have slumber'd oft before, 
Making the shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. Is't not enough? 
Constance. Merciful Heaven' have such things 

been ? And yet 

There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky! 
I am an outcast now. 

Anselmo. O thou, whose w,ys 

Clouds mantle fearfully; of all the blind. 
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, 
How much is man the fiercest! Others know 
Their limits Yesl the earthquakes, and the 

storms, 

And the volcanoes! He alone o'erleaps 
The hounds of retribution ! Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye, 
On such dread scenes unmoved ? 

Vittoria. 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 husli'd ? Oh ! look not on me thus' 
Jtnsclmo. Lady ! thy thoughts lend sternness to 

the looks 

Which are but sad! Have all then perish'd? all? 
Was there no mercy I 

Vittoria. Mercy ! it bath 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 morel 
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 
Will be his meed. 
Constance (coming forward.) Oh, Heaven ! his 

name, his name ! 
Is it it cannot be! 

Vittoria (starting.) Thou here, pale girl ! 
I decm'd thee with the dead! How hast thou 

'scaped 

The snare ! Who saved thee, tast of all thy race ! 
Was it not he of whom I spakr e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida? 

Constance. It is enough. 

Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. 
Must he too die? 

Vittoria. 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. 

Constance. When did men 

Call mercy, treason? Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond 1 

Vittoria. Maiden I 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 ? 
Constance Mercy ! Oh ! wert thou to plead 



But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved! 

If thou hast ever loved 

Vittoria. If I have loved ? 

It is t/iat 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. 
Constance. Oh ! thou wilt yet relent, for wo- 

man's heart 
Was form'd to suffer and to melt. 

Vittoria. Away ! 

Why should I pity thee ? Thou wilt but provo 
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 Leer 
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? 

Ansel mo. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience 

quicken thought, 

Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vittoria. 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? Oh! 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! ^Eiit VITTORIA 

Anselmo (to Constance.) Despair not thou, 
My daughter! he that purifies the heart 
With grief, will lend it strength. 

Constance (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did 

she not say 
That some one was to die ? 

Anselmo. 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. 

Constance. 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 .'arid he must die! 
For my sake e'en for mine! 

Anselmo. Her words were strafpe, 

And her proud mind seem'd half to frenzy wrought 
Perchance this may not be. 

Constance. It must not be. 

Why do I linger here ? (She rises to depart. 

Anselmo. Where wouldsl thou go ? 

Constance. To give their stern and unrelenting 

hearts 
A victim in his stead. 

Anselmo. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 

On certain death? 

Constance. 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. 

Anselmo. Thou fair and gentle thing. 

Unused to meet a glance which doth not spoak 
Of tenderness or homage! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the king of terrors? 

Constance. 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 



140 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Before her gems are found ? Oh! now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath notshunn'd 
To look on death for me! My heart hath giveu 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith 
As high in its devotion. [Exit CONSTANCE. 

Jlnselmo. 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 1 can track her path. [xi( ANSEUCO. 



SCENE III. Hall of a Public Building. 

PROCIDA, MONTALBA, GUIDO, and others, seated a* 
on a Tribunal. 

Procida. The morn lower'd darkly, but the sun 

hath now 

With fierce and angry splendour, through the cloud* 
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, Mnntalba ! 

Montalba. Be firm. Should justice falter at t 
look 1 

Procida. No, thou say'st well. Her eyes art 

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. 

Raimond. 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 
Vrom the ton-searching light. Why, what bath 

wrought 

This change on noble brows ? There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your bands have coldly shed! Ye are of those 
Prom 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 ! 

Procida. Montalba, speak! 

There's something chokes my voice but fear me 
not. 

Montalba. 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 ? 

Raimond. I will plead 

T/tat 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 
Th' embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before ine glaring out. Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast. 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive hoavings. 
And thou thy sword Oh, valiant chief! is yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced, at once, 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Waft from her bosom drawn 1 Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn! 

Outdo (aside.) I look upon his mien, 
And waver. Can it be? My boyish heart 
Deem'd him so noble once 1 Away, weak 

thoughts ! 

Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, 
From his proud glance ? 

Procida. Oh, thou dissembler! thou 

So skill'd to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 



That, with thy sruilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! look on me. ami 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 ? (S/ioics him papers.) 
Who hath promised here 
(Belike to appease the manes 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 7 

Raimond. 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, per- 
chance. 

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 
Ev'n to each other. 

Procida (to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, 
And his eye quails not ! Is this innocence ? 

Montalba. 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 Provencal 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 ! 

Raimond. That Heaven, whose eye 

Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her: she is safe. 

Procida. 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. 

Constance. Oh ! art thou found ? 

But yet, to find thee thus ! Chains, chains for 

thee ! 

My brave, my noble love ! OfT with these bonds; 
Let him be free as air: for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raimond. 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. 

Constance. 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 ? 

Raimond. 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 counte- 
nances of thejudgesJ'aUs at the feet of Procida.) 

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 hiir take my life 1 
In truth a worthless sacrifice for his. 
But yet mine all. Oh ! he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raimond'. Constance, peace ! 

I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Constance (still addressing Procida.) Oh, yeC 

relent . 

If 'twas his crime to rescue m. behold 
I come to be the atonement 1 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 futher! 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



141 



Prof-ilia (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 tand alone, 
Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus? 
Bear her away! 

Raimand (starting forward.) And whither? 

Montalba. Unto death. 

Why should she live when all her race have 
perish'd ? 

Constance (sinking into the arms of Raimond.) 
Raimond, farewell ! Oh! when thy star hath risen 
To its bright noon, f.irget not, best beloved, 
I died for thee ! 

Raimond. High Heaven ! thou seest these things, 
And yet endur'st them! Shalt thou die for me, 
Purest and loveliest being? but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold 
Herdoppblue eyes are closed Should this be death! 
If thus, there yet were mercy ! Father, father I 
Is thy heart human ? 

Procida. Bear her hence, I say ! 

Why must my soul be torn ? 

ANSELMO enters, holding a Crucifix. 

Jinsclmo. 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. 

Raimond. Oh ! death e'en now hath veil'd 

The light of her soft beauty. Wake, my love I 
Wake at my voice 1 

Procida. ' Anselmo, lead her hence, 

And let her live, but never meet my sight. 
Begone! my heart will burst. 

Raimond. 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 cart of ANSELMO.) 

Constance (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 ? 

jtnseliiio. Oh, haste away! 

Constance. Yes ! Raimond calls me. He too it 

released 

From his cold bondage. We are free at last, 
And all is well. Away! 

(She is led out by ANSELMO. 

Raimond. The pang is o'er, 

Anil I have but to die. 

Montalba. 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. 

Procida. Ha I 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 ? 

Montalba. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Procida. 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. 

Procida. And hath he naught to plead ? 

Raimond. Naught but a soul unstain'd. 

Procida VVIiv that U little 



Stains on the soul are but as conscience deema 

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 gaspingsdown. Off! let me breathe in freedom! 
Mountains are on my breast ! (He sinks back.) 

Montalba. Guards, bear the prisoner 

Back to his dungeon. 

Haimond. Father! oh, look up; 

Thou art my father still ! 

Ouido (leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the 
neck of Raimond^) Oh ! Raimond, Raimond I 
If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Haimond. Friend of my young days. 

So may all-pitying Heaven ! (Raimond is led out.) 

Procida. Whose voice was that ? 

Where is he ? gone ? now I may breathe once 

more 
In the free air of heaven. Let us away. 

f Exeunt omnet. 



ACT THE FIFTH. 
SCENE I. A Prison, dimly lighted. 
RAIMOND sleeping. PROCIDA. enters. 

Procida (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he 
then sleep ? Th' o'ershadowing 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 I 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raimond (starting up.) My father ! Wherefore 

here ? 

I am prepared to die, yet would I not 
Fall by thy hand. 

Procida. 'T was not for this I came. 

Raimond. Then wherefore ? and upon thy lofty 

brow 
Why burns the troubled flush? 

Procida. Perchance 't is 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. 

Raimond. What ! thou 1 the austere. 

The inflexible Procida! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ! 

Procida. 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 mast bt 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Raimond. Let him fly 

Who holds no deep asylum in his breast. 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men! 
I can sleep calmly here. 

Procida Art thou in love 



142 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



With death and infamy, that so thy choice 

Is made, lost hoy! when freedom courts thy grasp? 

Raimond. 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 rny soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here, 
On earth, my hopes are closed. 

Procida. Thy hopes are closed ! 

And what were they to mine ? Thou wilt not fly I 
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? 

Raimond. Oh, 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 dew-drop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 

Procida. 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 passinnlpss energy. 
t roin the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which haverock'd the earth? And shall I 

now 

Thus fluctuate, as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds?" Look on me, boy 1 
G lilt neverdared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close. Oh, pitying Heaven, 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raimond. I will not plead. 

I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father, in thy h^art 
1 know my birthright shall be soon restored; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Procida. Oh ! 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 druss 
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. 

Raimond. 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 ! 

Procida. No, fear thou not! 

Thou 'It be remember'd long. The canker-worm 
O' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raimond. " Oh 1 not thus 

I would not thus be thought of." 

Proeida. 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 th' avenging power* 
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 death-bet 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raimond. Now death has lost 

His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent. 

Procida (wildly .) Thou innocent! Am I thy 

murderer, then ? 

Away I I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men I No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins? Let the earth drink it; 
T/uru wouldst receive our foes! but they shall 

meet 

From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raimond. Father ! yet hear me ! 

Procida. No! thou'rt skill'd to make 

E'en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus ? 

(Going to leave the prison, ht turns back for a 

moment.) 

Tf 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. 

Raimond. I am prepared. 

Procida. T is well. (Exit. PROCIDA. 

Raimond. 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 ! 

[JEitt into an inner cell. 



SCENE II. A street of Palermo. 
Many CITIZENS assembled. 

First Citizen. The morning breaks; his time ii 

almost come : 
Will he he led this way? 

Second Citizen. Ay, so 'tis said, 

To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in. 

Third Citizen. 'T was a vile plot ! 

And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds 
I' th' air last night? 

Second Citizen. Since the great work of slaughter, 
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours 
Which should be silent? 

Third Citizen. Oh! the fearful mingling, 

The terrible mimicry of human voices, 
In every sound which to the heart doth speak 
Of woe and death. 

Second Citizen. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail 
Of dying infants; and the half-supprcss'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. 

First. Citizen. 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 1 

(The sound of trumpets heard at a distance.) 

Second Citizen. % T was bul 

A rushing of the breeze. 

Third Citizen. E'en now, 'tis said. 

The hostile bands approach. 

(The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer.! 

Second Citizen. Again ! that sound 

Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells 
They rome, they come ! 

PROCIDA enters. 

Procida. The foe is at your gate* ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset 
Whv are ye loitering here ? 

Citizens. My lord, we came 

Procida. Think ye I know not wherefore?-' 
'twas to see 



HEMANS* POETICAL WORKS. 



143 



A fellow-being die I 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 niclit 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. 
Raimond. And Constance then is safe! Heaven 

bless thee, father! 

Good angels bear such comfort. 

Jlnselmo. I have found 

A safe asylum for thine honoured 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 

eall'd 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Raimond. 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 .' 
Jlnselmo. Alas ! what should I say ? 
Raimond. Why did I ask * 

K'lowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of hT 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. 

Jlnselmo. 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 I 
Is 'hy young spirit master'd and prepared 
For nature's fearf.il and mysterious change? 
Raimond. 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, 
t'rown'd with thai 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 s]ev.\> 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 wea- 
pons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ' 

Jlnselmo. 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! 

Raiinond. Thou 'rt right. I would not. 

Vet 't is a wrarv task to school the heart, 
Rr>- years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
tnt'i'that still an I passive fortitude, 
Which is hit Itarn'd from suffering. Would the 

tin ir 
P.i It isli ill -si' passionate throbbings were at hand! 



Jlnselmo. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not 

heard 

Bftt no the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe half 

reach'd 

Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior-men, are marshall'd, and gone fortn 
In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 

Raimond (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 i 
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! 

Jlnselmo 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. 

Raimond. Ay ! Thou canst feel 

The calm thou woulds.1 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 wreathe, 
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead : 
Will mine be such? 

VtTTORlA. rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

ntloria. 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. 

Jlnselmo. The fugitives ! 

What words are these ? the sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe ? 

Vittoria. That I should say 

It is too true! 

Jlnselmo. And thou thou Meedest, lady ! _ 

Vittoria. Peace! heed not me, when Sicily is 

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. 

Raimond. His country's curse 

Rest on the slave for ever ! 

rittoria. Then distrust 

E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay, 
That awift 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 winged steps! 

Raimond. Thou h ist not named 

Their chief Di Procida He doth not fly 7 

Vittoria. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils, 
Darine the hunters yet, he proudly strives ; 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm, 
With Guido and Montalha. hy his side, 
Fiht but for graves upon the battle-field. 

Raimond, And I am here ! Shall there be powei 

ah God ! 

In the roused energies of fierce despair 
To burst my heart-and not to rend my chains? 



144 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! 

Vittoria (after gazing upon him earnestly.') Why, 

'twere a deed 

Worthy the fame 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 'rise! 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.) 

Anselmo. Oh Heaven ! the life-hlood streams 
Fast from thy heart thy troubled eyes grow dim 
Who hath done this ? 

Vittoria. 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 mv summons, to his viewless home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Anselmo. Yet, oh yet, 

It may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vittoria. Away 1 

Bright is the hour which brings me liberty ! 

ATTENDANTS enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven 1 Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free 1 

(The Attendants seem to hesitate.') Know ye not her 
Who should have worn your country's diadem ? 
Jittendantt.. Oh, lady, we obey. 

(They take off RAIMOND'S chains. He springs j>, 
exultingly.) 

Raimond. Is this no dream 7 

Mount, eaglet 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 ! 

Vittoria. Away, be strong! 

And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, 
Be Conradin. (We rushes out.) 

Oh ! for one hour of life. 

To hear that name blent with th' exulting thotit 
Of victory 1 It will not be ! A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Anselmo. To purer worlds 

Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vittoria. Yes ! he is there, 

All glorious in his beauty! Conradin 1 
Death parted us and death shall reunite! 
He will not stay it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. (She dies ) 

Anselmo. 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 Oates. 

Voices (without.) Montjoy ! Montjoy 1 St. Dennis 

for Anjou ! 
Provencals, on ! 

Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost! 
(RAIMOND appears in the gateway, armed, and carry- 
ing a banner.) 

Raimond. Back, back, I say I ye men of Sicily I 
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 suslain'd, 
And mude the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, 
Still to be rall'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 I Back ! or prepare 
Am dst your hearths, your bowers, your very 
ihrincs 



To bleed and die in vain ! Turn, follow me! 

Conradin, Conradin ! for Sicily 

His spirit tights! Remember Conradin! 

(They begin to rally round him.) 
Ay, this is well! Now follow me, and charge! 

The Provencals rush in, but are rcpulned by the 
Sicilians. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE V. Part of the Field of Battle. 

MONTALBA enters wounded, and supported by RAI 
MONO, whose face is concealed by his helmet. 

Raimond. Here rest thee, warrior. 

Montalba. 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 wonls, 
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? 

Raimond. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Mon- 

talba. 
Gaze read it thus ! (He lifts the visor of his helmet.) 

Montalba. Raimond di Procida ! 

Raimond. 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. 

Montalba. 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 I 
That youth 't was 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, GDIDO, and other Sicilians. 

Procida. 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? 

AI.BERTI is brought in, wounded and fettered. 

Alberti. Procida ! 

Procida. Be silent, traitor ! Bear him from my 

sight 
Unto your deepest dungeons. 

Alberti. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word 
Rre my voice fail thy son 

Procida. Speak, speak! 

Alberti. Thy son 

Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot 
Was mine a'.one. (He is led away) 

Procida. * Attest it, earth and Heaven ! 

My son is guiltless ! Hear it, Sicily 1 
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 ! 

Guide. Oh, day of joy I 

The brother of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears. 

ANSELMO entert. 

Procida. Anselmo, welcome 1 

In a glad hour we meet ; for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Anselmo. And victorious! by his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Procida. How! the unknown 

Anselmo Was lie 

Thy noble Raimond ! By Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Procida. Now my cup 

Of joy too brightly mantles ! Let me press 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



145 



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 ! 

Jinselmo. Temper this proud delight. 

Procida. What means that look 7 

He hath not fallen ? 

Jinselmo. He lives. 

Procida. 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. 

Raimond. Bear me to no dull couch, hut let me die 
In the bright face of nature! Lift my helm, 
That I may look on Heaven. 

Pint Attendant (to second Attendant.) Lay him 

to rest 

On this preen 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. 

[Kr.it second Attendant. 

(To Raimond.) 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 ! 

kExit first Attendant. 
'd to die 1 'T was a 
proud strife ! 

My father bless'd th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Bless'd him, alas 1 because unknown !) and Guide, 
Beside me bravely struggling, call'd aloud, 
" Noble Sicilian, on !" Oh ! had they deem'd 
'T was 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 
fJreu' softer, trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, mieht the soul 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish 1 
Is't not her voice? 

CONSTANCE enters, speaking to a JWn, wht turn* 
into another path. 

Constance. Oh 1 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 1 

(She approaches RAIMOND.) 
Young warrior, is there aught thou here, my 

Raimond! 
Thou here and thus ! Oh ! is this joy or woe ? 

Raimond. Joy, be it joy, my own, my blessed love, 
E'en on the grave's dim verge ! yes ! it is joy ! 
Mv 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 
T.'en yet, with me ! They freed me, when the foe 
Mad half prevail'd, and I have proudly earn'd. 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Constance. Oh! speak not thus to die I 

TliBS wounds may yet be closed. 

(Site 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 I 

Raimond. 'Tis e'en sol 

The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her ; al 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. 

Constance. Say not vain ; 

The dying look not thus We shall not part I 

10 



Raimond. I have seen death ere now, and knowa 

him wear 
Full many a changeful aspect. 

Constance. Oh t but none 

Radiant as thine, my warrior! Thou wilt live 
Look round thee t all is sunshine is not this 
A smiling world? 

Raimond. 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 I 
There is no home for liberty, or love, 
Beneath these festal skies t 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 I 

Constance. And must this be ? 

Heaven, thou art merciful! Oh! bid our souls 
Depart together I 

Raimond Constance I 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 ! 

Constance. 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 1 

PROCIDA. and ANSELMO enter. PROCIDA, on seeing 

RAIMOND, starts back. 
Anselmo. TJft up thy head, 

Brave youth, exultingly ! for lo! thine hour 
Of glory comes I Oh ! doth it come too late ? 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd 

hat guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd 
To be th' atonement. 

Raimond. 'Tis enough! Rejoice, 

Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name 
O'er which thou may'st weep proudly 1 

'He sinks back.) 
To thy breast 

Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touch'd my veins. 

Constance. And must thou leave me, Raimond 
Alas! thine eye grows dim its wandering glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Raimond. Haste, haste, and tell my father 

I was no traitor! 

Procida (rushing forward.) To that 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 is it \v,ith thee thus? 
Look on me yet ! Oh! must this woe be borne ? 
Raimond. 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 hear 
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 me to glorious dreams. (He diet.) 

Anselmo. The strife is past. 

There fled a noble spirit 

Constance. Hush I he sleeps- 

Disturb him not! 

Anselmo. Alas! this is no sleep 

From which the eye doth radiantly unclose: 
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'erl 

(The music continues approaching. GUIDO 
enters, with Citizens and Soldiers.) 

Ovido. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches 
blaze 



148 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Where is our brave deliverer ? We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor I 

Anselmo. Ye come too late. 

Thu voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. (The music ceases.) 

Procida (after a pause.) Is this dust 
I look on Raimond ? 't is but sleep a smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake I 
Ob, God ! and this was his triumphant day 1 
My son, my injured son! 

Constance (starting.) Art thou bis father 1 
I know thee now. Hence 1 with thy dark stern eye, 
And thy cold heart I Thou canst not wake him 

now . 

Away ! he will not answer but to me, 
For none like me bath loved him 1 He is mine I 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Procidn. Ob! he knew 



Thy love, poor maid ! Shrink from me now n 

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 1 
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 burst* 
On the dark soul too late : and glory crowns 
Th' unconscious deadl An hour comee to break 
The mightiest hearts ! My son ! my son I is this 
A day of triumph ! Ay, for thee alone I 

(He throws himself upon the body of RAIMOND.) 
[Curtain fall* 



THE 




ADVERTISEMENT. 



IT was In th year 1308, that the Swiss rose against the tyranny of the Bailiffs appointed ore* 
them by Albert of Austria. The field called the Orutli, at the foot of the Seelisberg, and near the 
boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was fixed upon by three spirited yeomen, Walter Furst, (the 
father-in-law of William Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Ernl (or Arnold) Melchthal, as their place 
of meeting to deliberate on the accomplishment of their projects. 

"Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over the heights, and Stauffaeher in hU 
oat across the Lake of the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the llth of November, 1307, they 
net here, each with ten associates, men of approved worth ; and while at this solemn hour they 
were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success depended the fate of their whole posterity, 
Werner, Walter, and Arnold, held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of the Almighty, who 
has created man to an inalienable degree of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that 
freedom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe ; and with uplifted hands attested the same 
God, and all his saints, that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the defence of their 
injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on their future proceedings, and for the present, each 
returned to his hamlet." Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded In throwing off the Austrian yoke, and "it i 
well attested," says the same author, "that not one drop of blood was shed on this memorable 
occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The 
Swiss met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed by oath their ancient, and (as they 
fondly named it) their perpetual league." 



THE 



LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



T WAS night upon the Alps. The Sen n's(l) wild 

horn, 

Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone, 
Whose pealing echoes through the larch-woods 

borne, 

To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone, 

By cliff and pine-bridge, to their place of rest; 
The chamois slumber'd, for the chase was done ; 
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd, 
A nd the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy nest. 

II. 

Did the land sleep? the woodman's axe had 

ceased 

Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gather'd in ; the vintage feast 
Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hush'd by the streams ; the year was in its wane, 
The night in its mid-watch ; it was a time 
E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign. 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime. 
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the 

clime. 

HI. 

For there, where snows, in crowning glory 

spread, 

High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay ; 
And there, where torrents, 'mid Hie ice-caves fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings 'midst the realms of 

air, 

O'er cliffs the very birth-place of the day 
Oh! who would dream that tyranny could dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works 

e'en there 1 

IV. 

Yt thus it was amidst the fleet streams gush- 
ing 

To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell, 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 

Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell. 
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet 

bell 

Recall'd such life as Eastern patriarchs led: 
There peasant-men their free thoughts might not 

tell 

Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, 
And hallow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull 
dealt ky tread. 



V. 

But In a land of happy shepherd homes, 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining 
With their bright hearth-fires 'midst the twilight 

glooms, 

From bowery lattice through the fir-woods shin- 
ing; 

A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories loved and 

blest 

In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm, but fearless breast; 
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of it* 
rest I 

VI. 
A sound went up the wave's dark sleep wai 

broken 

On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 
Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste and by that moonlight flood, 
A band of patriot-men on Grutli's verdure stood. 

VII. 

They stood in arms the wolf-spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain 

race ; 
Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 

foe? 

Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, 
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place 
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face; 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil. 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 

VIII. 

O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to eon, 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage-lamps, expiring one by one, 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. But silent on its height. 
The snow-mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light. 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 

might. 

IX. 

So were they roused th' invading step had part 
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door. 
Which well had stood against the Fohn wind's (2) 

blast. 
Could bur Oppression from their home no uior*. 



150 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Why, what had she to do where all things wore 
Wild grandeur's impress ? In the storm's free 

way. 

How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with 
the day ? 

X. 

This might not long be borne the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, 
Fraught with His name, whose awful presence 

fills 

Their deep lone places, and for ever telling 
That He hath made man free 1 and they whose 

dwelling 

Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear; 
The weight of sufferance from their hearts re- 
pelling. 

They rose the forester the mountaineer 
)h ! what hath earth more strong than the good 
peasant-spear? 

XL 

Sacred be Grutli's field their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer-night. 
There while the sons of happier lauds were 

sleeping. 

Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep 

thoughts way, 

And braced their spirits for the patriot fight, 
With lovely images of homes that lay 
Bower'd 'midat the rustling pines, or by the torrent 

spray. 

XII. 
Now had endurance reach'd its bounds ! They 

MUM 

With eouraee set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name. 
When they should eath*r on their hills to die, 
Or shake the Glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. 'Tv as a scene, com 

bining 

All glory in itself the solemn sky, 
The stars, the waves their soften'd light en 

shrining, 
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 

shining. 

XIII. 

Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low, 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, 
With the woods' whisper and the waves' sweet 

flow, 

Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, 
E'en thus, of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death, 

XIV. 

And three, that seetn'd as chieftains of the band, 
Were gatber'd in the midst on that lone shore 
By Uri's lake a father of the land, (3) 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days whose shadows had pass'd o'er 
His path among the hills, and quench'd the dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams, 
For he bad walk'd with God, beside the mountain 
streams. 

XV. 

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone, 
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit? He was one, 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done, 
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press'd, 
Fearless of wrong ; and now, at set of sun, 
He bow'd not to his years, for on the breast 
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to rest. 



XVI. 

But for such holy rest strong hands must toil. 
Strong hearts endure ! By that pale elder's side. 
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride, * 
Werner, '4) the brave and true ! If men hav 

died, 

Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, 
He was a mate for such. The voice, that cried 
Within his breast, " Arise !" came still and deep 
Prom his far home, that smiled e'en then in moon- 
light sleep. 

XVII. 

It was a home to die for! As it rose 
Through its vine-foliage, sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And be whose life to that sweet spot was bound, 
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground. 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by 
As through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 

XVIII. 

But who was he, that on his hunting-spear 
Lean'd with a prouder and more fiery bearing? 
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear. 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. 'Midst tha 

throng. 

Of other mould he seein'd, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along. 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song, 

XIX. 

A memory on the mountains! one to stand, 
When the hills echoed with the deepening swel. 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land. 
And in some rock defile, or savage dell, 
Array her peasant-children to repel 
Th' invader, sending arrows for hi? chains! 
Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, 
Her banner with a smile for through his veins 
The joy of danger flow d, as torrents to the plains. 

XX. 

There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye ; a something, born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright. 
And proud, and tameless, laughing Fearto scorn ( 
It well might be! Young Erni's(5) step had 

worn 

The mantling snows on thrir most regal steeps. 
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn, 
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps 
Across the dark-blue rifts, th' unfatbom'd glacier 

deeps. 

XXI. 

He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being whose bright spirit had been fed 
'Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty. 
And thoughts of power. He knew each pat* 

which led 

To the rock's treasure-caves, whose crystals she* 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone 
Of his loud horn, the Lammer-Geyer (6) bad 

spread 

A startled wing ; for oft that peal had Mown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to souna 

alone. 

XXII. 
His step had traek'd the waste, his soul had 

stirr'd 

The ancient solitudes his voice bad told 
Of wrongs to call down Heaven. (7) That taU 

was heard 

In Hasli's dales, and where the shepherd's fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the tight 
Of Day's last footstep bathes in burning gob) 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



151 



Great Right's cliffs; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Cast* o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might. 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless huutor 

pass'd, 

And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
fhere leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down and bright and 

fast, 

As the clear waters, joyously and free. 
Burst from the desert-rock, it rush'd at last, 
Through the far valleys; till the patriot three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest 

Sea. (8) 

XXIV. 
They link'd their hands, they pledged their 

stainless faith, 

In the dread presence of attesting Heaven 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to 

death. 

With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. How man had striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they 

knew. 

And call'd upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might 

o'erthrew. 

XXV. 
They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys 

lay 

Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright mid-air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born 
Bo far was heard the blast of Freedom's echoing 

horn I 

XXVI. 
The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 

The frozen stillness which around them hung; 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending, 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollows rung: 
And the flame-signals through the midnight 

sprung, 

From the Surennen rocks like banners streaming 

To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 

On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 

Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 

seeming. 

XXVII. 

And the winds toss'd each summit's Mazingcrest, 
As a host's plumage ; and the giant pines, 
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eagle's 

nest, 
Heap'd up the flames, The clouds grew fiery 

if i. 



As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd 

and bright, 
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless 

vines 
From Walter's hearth stream'd forth the festive 

light, 
And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to Heaver 

that night. 

XXVIII. 

Then on the silence of the snows there \tr 
A Sabbath's quiet sunshine, and its beV- 
Fill'it the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sw 
For the stream's voice was chain'd by Winter 

spell, 
Thedeep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock ana 

dell 

Rung forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Peal'd from the mountain-churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea, 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alpi 

were free I 



NOTE& 



NOTE. 1. 

___ TV* Smn'i wild turn. 
Stnn, the BUM fiwn to a berdnnmn amooc tb Swiw Alp. 

NOTES. 

Afainit l/u Fohnwirvfi Mo*. 

fohawind, the South-eut wind, which frequently Uyi wute Iht 
country before U. 

NOT* 3. 

A father of th4 land. 
Witter Font, Uw fctber-in-Uw of Tell. 

NOTE 4. 

fftnur, Iht travt and true Hff- 
Werner Stauflicher, who hd been urged by hit wife to roue ul 

unite hii countrymen for the deliverance of Switzerland. 

NOTB&, 

_ rounf frnfr lUf had warn, *. 
Bral, Arnold JWehUaO. 

NOTE 6. 

Tht Lammtr-Oeyer had tpread, fe. 
Tht Ummer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine e*f U. 

NOTE?. 

Of wrong! to all down Heaven, +C. 
The eye of hii ijed father hid been put out, by the order, of th 



Austrian Governor. 



NOTE 



TbeUke of the FOOT Union. U frequently iocaUe*. 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



Mightier fai 

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway 
Of magic, potent orer inn and star, 
I* lore, though oft to agony dUtrest, 
Aid though hi* favourite seat be feeble woman's breast 

Wordnoorik. 

DM 1st das Loos des Sehonen auf der Brdet 



RECOOS OF WOMAN. 



ARABELLA STUART. 



"The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently en 
titled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of 
Henry VII., and consequently allied, by birth, to Eliza- 
beth, as well as James I. This affinity to the throne 
proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which 
it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were 
anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the 
enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart 
appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret, but 
early discovered union, with William Seymour, son of 
Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, 
and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in sepa- 
rate confinement. From this they found means to con- 
cert a romantic plan of escape ; and having won over a 
female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised 
in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sick- 
ness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last 
reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants 
were in waiting. She embarked; and, at break of day, 
a French vessel, engaged to receive her, was discovered 
and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, 
she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for 
him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, 
who. contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," 
says D'Israeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to 
this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped 
from the Tower : he reached the wharf, and found his 
confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. 
The time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was 
not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. 
Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, 
to his grief, on hailing il, that it was not the French ship 
charged with his Arabella ; in despair and confusion he 
found another ship from Newcastle, which, for a large 
sum, altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." 
Arabella, meantime, while imploring her attendants to 
linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat 
of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a 
vessel in the King's service, and brought back to a cap- 
tivity, under the suffering of which her mind and con- 
stitution gradually sunk " What passed in tfiat dread- 
ful imprisonment, cannot, perhaps, be recovered for 
authentic history, but enough is known ; that her mind 
grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if 
the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was 
only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often be- 
gun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent 
and rational) jret remain among her papers."-i)'/raeii' 
Curiosities of Literature. The following poem, meant 
as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations 
of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence 
during the time of her first imprisonment, while her 
mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Sey- 
mour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual 
deliverance. 



nd U not Ion In Tain, 
Tartar* snoach without a living tomb ? 



Ittmmi ilfln il cor che tain Unto. 

findemont* 



T w AS but a drean t I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs where early birds were singing 
I stood, o'ersbadow'd by the greenwood tree. 

And heard, it aeem'd, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far thro' a-royal forest : then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; -and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook. 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by. 
Save one I met the smile of one clear eye, 
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, t/wu wert there, 
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, mi-thought, thy hunting-spear away. 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side ; and we, that met and parted. 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back tochildhood's trust, and, fearless-hearted, 

Blent the glad fullness of our thoughts that hour 
Ey'n like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest flowers. 

II. 

'T is past ! I wake, 

A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman's spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervour ; and prevail, 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, 
Thro' hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face 
With a free gush of sunny tears erase 
The characters of anguish ; in this trust, 
1 bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

III. 

And thou too art in bonds ! yet droop thou not, 
Oh, my beloved I there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light. 
When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight. 
Covers its beautiful ! (1) If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow, 
If thy deep- thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, ev'n now. 
Seems floating thro' my sonl, were music taken 
For ever from this world, oh I thus forsaken. 
Could I bear on ? thou liv'st, thou liv'st, thou 'rt 

mine I 

With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, 
Sit, a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 
And lot the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care I 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whisper* of despair 1 
(155) 



156 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven. I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots! but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss? 
Vet shall I fear that lot? the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast. 
After long-suffering won ? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 
Sunset ! I tell each moment from the skies 

The last red splendour floats along my wall. 
Like a king's banner! Now it melts, it dies! 

I see one star I hear 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd too 

soon. 

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 
Thro' my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine, or in the citron-grove, 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. Hark I a bell's slow chime. 
My heart strikes with it. Yet again 'tis time! 
A step ! a voice ! or but a rising breeze ? 
Hark I baste I I come, to meet tbee on the seas. 

VI. 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly never more I the hope is crush'd 
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 
That spoke sweet oracles: and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial-urn. 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost) 
No tempest met o r barks no billow toss'd ; 
Yet were they sever'd, ev'n as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate! In vain in vain I 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning: It drew near 
Fraught with our foes I What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears? Once more a prison-wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour, thee ! 

I will not sink! 

Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 

thee ; 
And this shall be my strength the joy to think 

That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath 

around thee ; 

And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart, a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken, 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 

ie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 
My friend, my friend I where art thou 7 Day by 

day, 

Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away, 

My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 

Round hall and hamlet; Summer, with her smile, 

Fills the green forest ; young hearts breathe 

their vows ; 

Brothers, long parted, meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board : Hope laughs from loving 

eyes: 

All this is in the world 1 These joys lie sown, 
Th* dw of ever> path Ou one alo> 



Their freshness may not fall the stricken deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 

VIII. 
Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 

O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers. 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 

bent, 

Quivering to breeze and rain-drop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you Heaven's eye hath been, 
Thro' the leaves, pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts; the bee to you 
Hath murnmr'd, and the rill. My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams 

paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream, the green, thi 

free, 
The full of all sweet sound, the shut from me I 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell 

O Love and Freedom I ye are lovely things I 

With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams; but I the blood of kings, 
A proud, unmingling river, thro' my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains! \ 
Kings! 1 had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant, and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crush'd. Oh I Heaven is far, 
Earth pitiless I 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved 

So long, so sternly I Seymour, my beloved I 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Thro' its prevailing power! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt, and thou, oh ! thou, 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? 
Thou canst not! thro' the silent night, ev'n now 

I, that need prayer so much, wake and pray 
Still first for thee. Oh! gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end? 

Aid ! comes there yet no aid ? the voice of blood 
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood 
Sinks thro' the greensward 1 is there not a cry 
From the wrung heart, of power, thro' agony, 
To pierce the clouds? Hear, Mercy! hear me 

None 

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun, 
Have heavier cause ! yet hear I my soul grows 

dark 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark, 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to t**' abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of human hearts ? th' o'ennaslering 

wave! 
Who shall tell how it rush'd and none to save ? 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou 'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, 
Thou 'rt where the dancers meet ! a magic glaes 
Is set wilhin my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall ; 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all, 
Thine I What dost thou amidst the bright and fair. 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair ? 
It is not well of thee ! my love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore, 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying; 
Ev'n thou, on whom they bung their last green 

leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief- 

Death! what, is death a lock'd and treasured thing 
Guarded by swords of fire 7(2) a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



157 



Wherefore not spread free wings Heaven, Hea- 
ven ! con.rol 

These thoughts they rush I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at th' array 
Of fierce forms crowding it! Give strength to pray, 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is still'd. 

Father in Heaven ! Thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floiids of anguish fill'd, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father! if Thy child, 
Rock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, 
And sinn'd in her despair! It well may be. 
That Thou wouldst load my spirit back to Thee, 
By the crnsh'd hope too long on this world pour'd, 
The stricken love which hath perchance ador'd 
r A mortal in Thy place ! Now let me strive 
[ With Thy strong arm no more I Forgive, forgive 1 
I Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nieh. 

A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th'o'erwearied dust, from home : no breeze flits by. 

But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark! the warning ton* 
Deepens its word is Death. Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart. 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Ev'n in this hour's o'ershadowing tearfulness, 
Thee, its first love! oh! tender still, and true! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment. 

Now, with fainting frame 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
I'o hind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead I 
! bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
(ts might, acnin to bless thee, and again I 
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth ; but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and re-track 
(After a feyv kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send, 
Ev'n then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world 1 What were it then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wort gazing on me now? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell! the passion of long years I pour 
Into that word : thou hear'st not, but the woe 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet Farewell I 



BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.* 



Far! I'm * Greek, and how ihould I fear death ? 
A alave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom > 

* * 

I will not lire degraded. 

Sardanapalia. 



COMK from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio 1 They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; 
They came, and Eudnra stood robed and crown'd, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 

* Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Seriea of the 

"""!!? "' I - 1 "T",T- and fo in S Pn of a picture in the 
" Painted ZftOfrapAy" (here described. 



Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews 'midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone; 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale. 
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil, 
Changeful arid faint was her fair cheek's hue. 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 

through ; 

And the glance of her dark resplendent eye. 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door. 

Like one that is leaving his native shore; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone; 

She turn'd and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall : 

She goes unto love yet untried and new. 

She parts from love which hath still been true 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again I 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a habe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile. 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last 

The choking swell of her heart was past; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found waj 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. (3) 

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. 

WHY do I weep? to leave the vine 
Whose clusters o'er me bend, 

The myrtle yet, oh! call it mine I- 
The flowers I loved to tend. 

A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 
Like shadows o'er me sweep, 

I leave my sunny childhood here, 
Ob, therefore let me weep 1 

I leave thee, sister! we have play'd 

Through many a joyous hour. 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim over fount and bower. 
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more 

Kind sister, let me weepl 

I leave thee father I Eve's bright moon 

Must now light other feet, 
With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled 

I leave thee ! let me weepl 

Mother 1 1 leave thee ! on thy breast, 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless, yet I got 
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain, 

Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again? 

Sweet mother I let me weepl 



And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping bough*, 



158 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart, as a mountain spring, 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam. 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's hornet 
It is well I the cloud, on her soul that lay. 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre I 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother I on earth it must still be so, 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng, 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes 

gleam, 

Like a swan 'midst the reeds of a shadowy stream 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed; 
They have light leaves around them, blue skies 

above, 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love I 

II. 

Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage filow'd, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it. whose faintest shiver 
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd, 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound, 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay, 
To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither lanthis had brought his bride, 

And the guests were met by that fountain-tide; 

They lifted the veil from Eudora's face, 

It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 

With lips of love, and a brow serene, 

Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. 

Bring wine, bring odours I the board is spread 

Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head 1 

The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd 

On the young and fair from the world embower'd, 

The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade, 

The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 

But there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 

A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still 1 was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore? 
Silence I did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet ? 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword I 
The groves are fill'd with a pirate-horde I 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine; 
Now must the red blood stream for wine I 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang. 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards, and darkening 

brows, 

Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled ; 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 

Eudora, Eudora t thou dost not fly ! , 

She saw but lanthis before her lie, 

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 

Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe. 

And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 

That sought his young bride out mournfully. 

She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, 

Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 

As if the passion of that fond grasp 

Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 

But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 
The sea's fierce rovers they left him there ; 



They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 
And a hush of fear through the summer-grove 
So closed the triumph of youth and love I 

III. 

Gloomy lay the shore that night. 

When the moon, with sleeping iiglC, 

Bathed each purple Sciote hill, 

Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 

O'er the wave no gay guitar 

Sent its floating music far; 

No glad sound of dancing feet 

Woke, the starry hours to greet 

But a voice of mortal woe. 

In its changes wild or low, 

Through the midnight's blue repose, 

From the sea-beat rocks arose, 

As Eudora's mother stood 

Gazing o'er th' Egean flood, 

With a flx'd and straining eye 

Oh I was the spoilers' vessel nigh ? 

Yes ! there, becalm'd in silent sleep, 

Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 

On a sea of molten silver dark, 

Brooding it frown'd, that evil bark I 

There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 

Moveless and black from the tall still mast. 

And the heavy sound of its flapping sail, 

Idly and vainly woo'd the gale. 

Hush'd was all else had ocean's breast 

Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest ? 

To rest ? the waves tremble ! what piercing try 

Bursts from the heart of the ship on high ? 

What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire 

Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 't is fire ! 

There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 

Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow; 

There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, 

And the dashing of water, but fruitless all I 

Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 

The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 

It bath twined the mast like a glittering snake 

That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 

It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvas rolls 

Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls ; 

It hath taken a flag's high place in air, 

And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare, 

And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee, 

To a burning mount 'midst the moonlit sea. 

The swimmers are plunging from stern and prow 

fcudora, Eudora 1 where, where art thou ? 

The slave and his master alike are gone. 

Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 

The child of thy bosom ! and lo! a brand 

Blazing up high in her lifted hand I 

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 

Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare, 

And her fragile form to its loftiest height 

Dilated, as if by the spirit's might, 

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught, 

On ! could this work be of woman wrought? 

Yes 1 'twas her deed ! by that haughty smile, 

It was her's 1 She hath kindled her funeral pile ! 

Never might shame on that bright head be 

Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free. 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

Jn the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain. 

lo the form they must never enfold again. 

)ne moment more, and her hands are elasp'd, 
'alien is the torch they had wildly grasp'd, 
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd, 
And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud, 

And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move 
<ow the night gathers o'er youth and love I* 



" *'i'' h w * we " 

nthly Magatint, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



159 



THE SWITZER 8 WIFE. 



Werner Smuffacher, one of the three eonrederatei of 
the field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with 
which the Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the 
appearance of wealth and comfort which distinguished 
his dwelling. It was not, however, until roused by the 
entreaties of his wife, a woman who seems to have been 
of an heroic spirit, that he was induced to deliberate 
with his friends upon the measures by which Switzerland 
was finally delivered. 



Nor look nor tons raraleth aught 
S*Te woman's qnietee* of thonjht 
And yet around her ii > light 
Of inward majetty and might M. J. J. 


Wcr with ein hen an iclnen Buten drnekt, 
Der kann tar herd and hot mil freaden feehtnu 



It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by, 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine homo, 
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour, 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung 
bower; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose. 

Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden-tree, 
That sent its lulling whispers through his door 

Ev'n as man sits whose heart alone would be 
With some deep care, and thus can find no more 

Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, 

Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him. sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ; he mnrk'd it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 
Rang from the greensward round the sheltered 
spot, 

But seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heap'd-up flowers a glance of joy, 

And met his father's face : but then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 
Thro' tears half quivering, o'er him bent, and 

said, 
What grief, dear friend, bath made thy heart its 

prey. 
That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away 1 

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend 1 
Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 

Missing the smile from thine 1 Oh I cheer thee 1 

bend 
To his soft arms, unseal thy thoughts e'en now I 

Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 

Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face, 

But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 
Was looften'd from his soul ; its inmost place 



Not yet unveil'd oy love's o'ermaslering hand. 
" Speak low 1" he cried, and pointed where on high 
The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky: 

"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couch'd by forest-rills. 
And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear, 

Keep silence by the hearth 1 its foes are near. 

"The envy of the oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best-beloved in sight : 
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see ?" 

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek; 

Back on the linden-stem she lean'd her form. 
And her lip trembled, as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp-string, shaken by the storm. 
'Twns but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour. 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 
As it found language : "Are we thus oppress'd ? 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on Godt 

"I know what thou wouldst do, and be it done I 

Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to Heaven, my husband I this, thy son. 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be freel 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength if aught be strong on 

earth. 
"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 

Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 
My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 

And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 
I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued, 
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

"Go forth beside the waters, and along 
The chamois-paths, and through the forests go; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away I 
less but thy child, and leave me, I can pray I" 

He sprang up like a warrior-youth awaking 
To clarion-sounds upon the ringing air; 

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears 

breaking 
Prom his dark eyes, fell o'er her braided hair, 

And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die. 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child I 
Now shall thy name be armour to my heart; 

And this our land, by chains no more defiled. 
Be taught of thee to choose the better part 1 

I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell, 

Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps Farewell 1 

And thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 
In the clear starlight : he, the strength to rouM 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs 

dinging its blue, half-curtain'd eyes to sleep, 

With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



160 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



PROPERZIA ROSSI. 



Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bo- 
ogna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, 
died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A 
painting by Ducis, represents her showing her last work, 
basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the ob- 
ect of her affection, who regards it with indifference. 



Tell me no more, no more 

Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench ill haunting thirrt for happiness ? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its burden of affection! ? I depart, 
Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me ; I must Ieiv 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tear* 
As would have made life precious. 



ONE dream of passion and of beauty morel 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, tho' its race 
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart 1 For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be, 
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrine-l 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone. 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection ; something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were 

near, 

And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away, 

While thou Awake I not yet within me die, 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness, my spirit, wakel 

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 

Live I in thy work breathe out I that he may yet 

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 

Thine unrequited gift. 

n 

It comes, the power 

Within me born, flows back ; my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images: they throng they press 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness, 
I shall not perish all I 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty ; line by line, 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine, 
Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows and now 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne I thou shall wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh I more fair, 
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am pass'd away. Thou ar' the mould 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughu, th' untold, 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye, 
Speak to him. lorn one! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief! Oh ! could I throw 
into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low, 



And thrilling voice of song) when he came nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom on its tones to bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, to rise, to swell 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know. 
If love be strong as death 

III. 

Now fair thou art, 

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart I 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee ! Ohl I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought, 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven. 
Things not of such as die I But I have been 
Too much alone ; a heart whereon to lean. 
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 
An eye to be my star, a voice to bring 
Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of 

spring, 

These are denied me dreamt of still in vain, 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain, 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work, in thee, 

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the 

reed 

From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils mayentwine, 

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the 

meed 

Of love's kind words to woman I Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding-place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart. 
In its own fairy world of song and art. 
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings 

o'er? 

That which I have been can I be no more ? 
Never, oh! never more; though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still. 
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams. 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams; 
Never, oh! never morel Where'er I move. 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around! Too well they know, 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well. 
When there the blight hath settled ; but I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain. 
The inward burning of those words " in vain," 

Sear'd on the heart I go. 'Twill soon be past. 
Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven. 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth, who know'st not what uat 

given 

In that devotedness, the sad, and deep, 
And unrepaid farewell I If I could weep 
Once, only once, belov'd one I on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest I 
But that were happiness, and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly blest ! With thee to watch the sky. 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept ev'n as part of pur sr- jet air along, 
To listen silently ; with t 1 je to gaze 
On forms, the deified of oV <jn days, 
This had been Joy enough; and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power 
How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams! the fire 
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name- 
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 
When its full chords are hush'd awhile to live 
And one day haply in thy heart revive 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



161 



4ad thoughts nf me : I leave it, with a sound, 
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound, 
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell, 
Bay proudly yet" 'Ttcds her's wlu> loved me taellF 



GERTRUDE, 

OR 
FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 



The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it it 
believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination 
of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, 
anil attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last 
agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her 
own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, 
are most afTectingly described in a letter which she after- 
wards addressed to a female friend, and which was pub- 
lished some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled 
Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death. 



Dark lowers our fate, 

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, hall unloose 
This fix'd and sacral hold. In thy dark prison-bom*. 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
Tea, on the scaffold, if it needi most be, 
I never will forsake thee. 

/panna Batflit. 



HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her liair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold. 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried, 

"My Rudolph, say not so I 
This is no time to quit thy side, 

Peace, peace 1 I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow? 
The world I what means it ? mine IB hen 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this I 
And t*iou, mine honour'd love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on I 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe, 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh t with such a glazing eye. 

With such a curdling cheek 
Love, love ! of mortal agony, 

Thou, only thou shouldst speak I 

The wind rose high, but with It rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul In prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

11 



She wiped the death-damps from his brow, 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low, 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew, 
And on his cheeks such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh 1 lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the lust 1 
She had her meed one smile in death 

And his worn spirit pass'd. 
While ev'n as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not I 



I M E L D A. 



letimes 

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate, like thee, Imelda ! (4) 

Italy, a Potin. 

Fana la bella Donna, e par che donna. 

TCUH. 



We have the myrtle's breath around us here. 

Amidst the fallen pillars; this hath been 
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells 

And music with it, gushing from beneath 
The ivied altar 1 that sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death; 
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops but not of rain- 
On the dim violets by its marble bed. 
And the pale shining water-lily's head. 
Sad is that legend's truth. A fair girl met 

One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, 

With the blue heaven of Italy above, 
And citron-odours dying on the air, 

And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. What reck'd fAeir souls of 

strife 

Between their fathers ? Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, 

that hour, 

Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower. 
And star, just gleaming thro' the cypress boughs, 
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows. 

But change came o^'erthe scene. A hurrying tread 

Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cellars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught, 
Was it the clash of s word i 'a swift dark thought 

Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its tearfulness, and shook 

Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once 

more, 

She still'd her heart to listen, all was o'er; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 

That night Imelda's voice was in the song. 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng, 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dye 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies, 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze. 



162 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue, 
With something of dim fear; and in that glnncc 

Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest. 
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest, 
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time 
Hped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft, 
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, 
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and Ion , 
iirough the dim cedar shade ; the step of one 
hat started nt a leaf, of one that fled, 
f one that panted with some secret dread : 
What did Imelda there ? PHP sought the scene 
Wlnre love so late with youth and hope had been; 
Boilings were on her soul a shuddering thrill 
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 
Met her with melody sweet sounds and low; 
We hear them yet, they live along its flow 
Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 
She gain'd the wave flash'd forth 'twas darkly 

dyed 
Ev'n as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, 
There lay, as Inll'd by stream and rustling sedge, 
A youth, a graceful youth. " Oh! dost thou sleep ? 
Azzo!" she cried, "my Azzo ! is this rest?" 
But then her low tones falter'd : " On thy breast 
Is the stain, yes, *t is blood ! and that cold cheek, 
Thatmovelesslip! thou dost not slumber? speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! no sound no breath 
What hath come thus between our spirits ?-Death ! 
Death? I but dream I dream!" and there she 

stood, 

A faint, frail trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone, 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
'nto white waves dissolving, clear and cold; 
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a 

gleam 

'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream, 
Her brother's sword ! she knew it ; and she knew 
'Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slewl 
Woe for young love ! But love is strong. There 

came 

Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame, 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round. 
Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press'd 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
Bo the moon saw them last. 

The morn came singing 

Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 

And steps and voices out among the vines. 
What found that day-spring here? Two fair forms 

laid 

Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave. 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave ? 

Could it be so indeed ? That radiant girl, 
Deck'd as for bridal hours! long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light ; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining 

And her pale graceful arms how sadly bright 1 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying.- 
But she died first ! the violets hue had spread 

O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd. 
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head. 

And, on the youth's hush'd bosom, sunk to rest 

So slept they well ! the poison's work was done 

Love with true heart had striven but Death hat 

won 



EDITHi 

A TALE OF THE WOODS.' 



Du Heilige ! rufe dein Kind znruck ! 
leh habe genossen das irdische Gluck, 
Ich habe gelebt und reliebet. 

miUnttein. 



THE woods oh solemn are the boundless woods 
Of the great Western World, when day decline! 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods. 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pinei ' 
iVhen dimness gathers on the stilly air. 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to broot 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude I 
Yet, in that hour, 'midst those green wastes, there 

sate 

3ne young and fair; and oh I how desolate! 
But umlisrnay'd ; while sank the crimson light, 
And the liich cedars darken d with the night. 
Alone sin- sate: though many lay around. 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, 

Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 
Unto the forest oaks. A fearful scene 
For her whose home of other days had been 
'Midst the fair halls of England ! but the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear, 
And by its might upborne all else above. 
She shrank not mark'd not that the dead were 

near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bopom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound, 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! Oh 1 from such hope how 

long 

Affection wooes the whispers that deceive, 
Ev'n when the pressure of dismay grows strong, 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall ! So bow'd she there, 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight 

down, 

Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, 
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place. 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 
Whereiy she caught its changes : to her eye, 
The eye that faded look'd through gathering 

haze. 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony. 

Lifted a long deep melancholy gaze, 
When voice was not: that fond sad meaning 

pass'd 

She knew the fullness of her woe at last! 
One shriek the forests heard, and mute she lay, 
And cold ; yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death 
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad I but airs of heavenly breath 
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 

Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 

play'd, 
Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the 

shade. 

Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 
From reed, and spray, and leaf, the living string! 
Of earth's Eolian lyre, whose music woke 
Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she too woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widow'd Edith : fearfully her glance 

* founded on incidents related in an Anwrican wort. "Skstchc* 
of Coi.uecticut." 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



163 



Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flash'd o'er her spirit, ev'n ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept: 
Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now, 
Where was she ? 'Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief, 
Whose home look'd sad for therein play'd no 

child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there. 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or toueh'd with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung. 

O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung, 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And life return'd, 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead. 

To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd 
Her task of meek endurance, well she wore 
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore, 
'Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Ev'n as a breath of spring's awakening air. 
Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go, 
And ever from that time her fading mien. 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years ; but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seern'd parents. Oh! the joy, 
The rich, deep blessedness though earth's alloy, 
Pear that still bodes, be there of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 

Ot strong affection, in one healthful flow. 
On something all its own! that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 
When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus: her spirit dwelt, the while, 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she pray'd, 
Ev'n o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secre* whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warn'd her hence. 

And now, by many a word 
jink'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd, 
ty the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
*mg when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim, 
iy the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
411 eloquent with child-like piety, 
By the still beauty of her life, she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the 

love 

Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds: by slow degrees 
Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade 
And lets the sunbeam through : her voice was 

made 

Ev'n such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified, 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led. 
Until their prayers were one. When morning 

spread 

O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress-bough, 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath time 
Bank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
Now might she pass in hope, her work was done. 



And she was passing from the woods away, 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades ; her eye was bright 
Ev'n yet with something of a starry light, 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown 
Flushing the air; and winter's blnst had been 
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green 
Fringed their dark boughs; for spring again had 

come, 

The sunny spring! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast Alas! we think it sid 
To part with life, when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things, when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake. 
Is it not brighter then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms. 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs? 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day. 
And sounds and odours with the breezes' play. 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabi n-door, 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore ; 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" to the gray-hair'd chief she spoke 
"Know'st thou that I depart?" "I know, I 

know," 

He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go 
To thy beloved, my daughter!" " Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother 1" with meek smiles once 

more 

She murmur'd in low tones; "one happy lot 
Awaits, us. friends! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust. 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust, 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own. 
Under the cedar-shade : where he is gone 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be. 
And the dead parents, lispine nt whopp knee 
My childhood's prayer was learn'd, the Saviour's 

prayer 

Which now ye know, and I shall meet you there, 
Father, and gentle mother! ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye 
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply; 
But Edith felt them not; for now a sleep, 
Solemnly beautiful, -a stillness deep. 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow. 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd. 



" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away; 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride. 

Daughter) thou canst not stay. 

Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home. 

Where the skies are ever clear; 
The corn-month's golden hours will come. 

But they shall not And thee here. 

And we shall miss thy voice, my bird I 

Under our whispering pine; 
Music shall 'midst the leaves be heard. 

But not a song like thine. 

A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone. 
Hath such sweet falls yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

But thou, my bright one ! thou shall be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lov'st, shall see 

No fear of parting more. 

The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 
And the wind's wild moanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shall forget, 
'Midst flowers not such as die. 



164 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



The shadow from thy brow shall melt, 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt, 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway ihown 

Unto the happy dead. 

And we will follow thee, our guide! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side 

Go to the better land !" 



The song had ceased the listeners caught no 

breath. 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN CITY. 



What deep wounds ever clmed without a scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which difigure it. 

Childt Harold. 



ROTAL in splendour went down the day 

On the plain where an Indian city lay. 

With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 

Red as if fused in the burning sky, 

And its deep groves pierced by the rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Pill the pillar'd vaults of the Banian stood. 

Like torch-lit aisles 'midst the solemn wood, 

And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold, 

As a tree 'midst the genii-gardens old. 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire. 

And the stems of the cocoas wore shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus-flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps to the tanks below; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard, 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'di 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air. 

Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer. 

There wander'd a noble Moslem boy 

Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy , 

He gazed where the stately city rose 

Like a pageant of clouds in its red repose; 

He turn'd where birds through the gorgeous gloom 

Of the woods went glancing on starry plume; 

He track'd the brink of the shining lake, 

By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake. 

Till the path he chose, in its mazes wound 

To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn from the sun and wind, 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to tlie fiery west 
Spread out like a metal-mirror's breast. 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
SeemM made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase, 
For all free things of the wild-wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide bine sky, 
'Was the kindling flush of the boy's glad eye. 

From a tile in Fortes' Oriental Memoirs. 



Like a sea-bird's flight to tin foaming wave. 
From the shadowy bank was the bound be gave; 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in his young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear- 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother look'd from her tent the while, 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile: 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane. 

Had stay M the inarch of her pilgrim-train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief hours, 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, 

The red gold of sunset she loved them all. 

II. 

The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven; 
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back 
Oh! what had he met in his lonely track ? 
The serpent's glance, thro' the long reeds bright 1 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ? 
No! yet as one by a conflict worn. 
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye. 
And a gash on his bosom he came to die! 
He look'd for the face to hia young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 

"Speak to me! whence doth the swift blood run 

What hath befall'n thee, my child, my son ?" 

The mist of death on his brow lay pale. 

But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale, 

Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn. 

And wounds from the children of Brahma borne : 

This was the doom for a Moslem found 

With foot profane on their holy ground, 

This was for sullying the pure waves free 

Unto them alone 'twas their God's decree. 

A change came over his wandering look 

The mother shriek'd not then, nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Rending her mantle to staunch its flood : 

But it rush'd like a river which none may stay. 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with Heaven in vain. 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment the soul from the face had pass'd! 

Are there no words for that common woe ? 

Ask of the thousands, its depth that know! 

The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest, 

Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast. 

He had stood, when she sorrow'd, beside her knee, 

Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 

He had kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears, 

With the loving lip of his infant years; 

He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring 

day 

Now in his blood on the earth he lay! 
Afurdcr'd! Alas! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell I 

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead 
They that stood round her watch'd in dread ; 
They watch'd she knew not they were by 
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony. 
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss, 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this ; 
She shed no tear as her face bent low, 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow; 
She look'd but into the half-shut eye, 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrow's might! 

And what deep change, what work of power. 
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour? 
How rose the lonely one ? She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose I 
And proudly flung from her face the veil. 
And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



And 'midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood. 

Ay. lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high, 

With a close and rigid prasp she press'd 

The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast, 

And said" Not yet not yet I weep, 

Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep, 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent. 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

Cover his dust' bear it on before! 

It shall visit those temple-gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd. 
The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd ; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled. 
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child. 



As the light of the lances along it plav'd ; 

And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 

When the fiery steed of the waste swept by; 



When the fiery steed ot the waste swept n; 
And the camp as it lay. like a billowy sea. 
Wide round the sheltering Banian tree. 




There stood one tent from the rest apart- 
Thai was the place of a wounded heart. 
Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong; 
And full of death, as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd, 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from nor pale lips pour'd, 
F.ach one a spell to unsheathe the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall. 

Back with the dust of her son she came, 

When her voice had kindled that lightning flame 

She came in tlie might of a queenly foe, 

Banner, and javelin, and bended bow; 

But a deeper power on her forehead sate 

There sought the warrior his star of fate ; 

Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 

Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign, 

And the faintest tone from her lip was caught, 

As a Sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! the gift of grief. 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless! it cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die I 

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown, 
As a king in death miglit reject his crown ; 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way 
She wither'd faster from day to day. 
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain, 
To stay the flight of tier soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust ne'e/ for such conflicts born, 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, 
As on that eve when the fair boy died; 
Biie gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 



O'er ner weary heart with the day's farewell ; 
She spoke, and her voice in its dying tone 
Had an echo of feelings that lone seem'd flown. 
She inurmur'd a low sweet cradle sorg. 
Strange 'midst the din of a warrior throng, 

A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek ; 
But something which breathed frotn that mournful 

strain 

Sent a titful gust o'er her soul again, 
And starting as if from a dream, she cried 
Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there out 

grave." 

And the temples fell, thotisri the spirit pass'd, 
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr-dead. 
For the broken heart, and the bright "blood shed. 

Thro' the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming spvjed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol-fanes, 
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior veins 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay, 
Like the panther leapt on its flying prey, 
Till a city <if ruin begirt the shade, 
Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft : 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 
And the jungle grass o'er the. altar sprung 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung 



PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. 



There it but one place in the world. 
Thither where he lies buried ! 

* * * 

There, there is all that still remains of him, 
That single spot is the whole earth to me. 

Cclcridgt'i Waltenstcin 
AUs ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert. 

Childt Bamld. 



THERE went a warrior's funeral through the night 
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead. 
Under the moaning trees the horse-hoofs tread 
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell. 
As chieftains pass'd ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low 

shiver, 
Floated and died. Proud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; but of one 
Oht who shall speak? What words his brow 
unveil ? 

A father following to the grave his son I 
That ie no grief to picture! Sad and slow, 

Through the wood-shadows moved the knightly 

train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low, 

Fair even when found, amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd tl 
lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 



166 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Btately they trod the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo snudder'd through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last, in silence bent 
Round the He Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : and Aymer slept 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line. 
Whose broider'd f >l<ls the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine : 
So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor pave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave, 
And the pale image of a youth, array'd 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber.on his shield. Then all was done, 
AH still, around the dead. His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were 

stirr'd 

By some old song, or tale of battle won, 
Told round the hearth : but in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had 

ceased 

Mingled with theirs. Ev'n thus life's rushing tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side : 
Alas ! to think of this ! the heart's void place 

Fill'd up so soon ! so like a summer-cloud. 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace t 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? not of all ! the sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, 
And the dark locks whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle-eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying. 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in earla-iils lay. 
Thro' the dim fane soft summer-odours breathing, 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing. 
And with a flush of deeper brillianse glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 
Might speak of love a secret love and U>wly, 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair, 
And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, from hidden dells, 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, 
To blush through every season ? Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods, but duly still, 
For years, those gorgeous coronals renew'd. 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm. 
Even through mid-winter, fill'd the solitude 

With a strange smile, a glow of summer's realm 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devoted ness! 

One spring-morn rose, 
And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 

laid 
Oh ! not as 'midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon a dark-hair'd peasant 

maid: 
Who could reveal her story ? That still face 

Had once been fair ; for on the clear arch'd brow, 
And the curved lip, there linger'd yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye 
For death was on its lids- fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimm'A the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
Whence came that early blight? Her kindred'* 

place 

Was not amidst the high De Couci race; 
Yet there her shrine had been! She grasp'd a 

wreath 
The tomb's last garland ! This was lore in death! 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG. 



An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband 
desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with 
her children, and rowed it down the Mississippi toward 
a cataract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing 
a mournful death-song, until overpowered by the sound 
of the waters in which i; perished. The tale is related 
in Long's Expedition to the source of St. Peter's River. 

NOD, je DC puu vivre avec un coeur brise. 11 faut que je retroun 
la joie, et que je m'unisse aui esprite librw de Pair. 

Bridt ojMeuina, Translated by Madame de Slael. 

Let not my child be a girl, for very sad ij the life of a woman. 

Tht Praint. 

DOWN a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current: fearful was the speed 
Of the frail hark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yel within, 
Proudly, and daiintlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood : upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child. 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart. 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear. 
Wafting a wild proud strain, her song of death. 



Roll swiftly to the Spirit's land, thou mighty stream 

and free ! 
Father of ancient waters,(5) roll! and bear our 

lives with thee! 
The weary bird that storms have toss'd, would 

seek the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt, flies to 

the woods of balm. 

Roll on ! my warrior's eye hath look'd upon an- 

other's face, 
And mine hath faded from his sou), as fades a 

moonbeam's trace; 
My shadow comes not o'er bis path, my whisper 

to his dream, 
He flings away the broken reed roll swifter yet, 

thou stream t 

The voice that spoke of other days is busb'd with- 
in his breast, 

But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not let 
me rest ; 

It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 
is gone, 

I cannot live without that light Father of waves 1 
roll on \ 

Will he not miss the bounding step that met him 

from the chase ? 
The 1 heart of love that made his home an ever 

sunny place? 
The hand that spread the hunter's board, and deck' 

his couch of yore ? 
He will not ! roll, dark foaming stream, on to th 

better shore \ 

Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that bright 

land must flow, 
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory 

of this woe ; 
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 

breath may waft away 
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of th 

day. 

And thou, my babe! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot. 
Smile ! to that wasting of the heart, my own ! I 

leave tUee not ; 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



167 



Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love 

away, 
Thy mother bears thee far, young Fawn! from 

sorrow and decay. 

She bears thee to the glorious bowers where none 
are heard to weep, 

And where th' unkind one hath no power again 
to trouble sleep; 

And where the soul shall find its youth, as waken- 
ing from a dream, 

One moment, and that realm is ours On, on, dark 
rolling stream 1 



JOAN OF ARC, IN RHEIMS. 



Jeanne d' Arc avail eu la joie do voir a Chalons quel- 
ques amis de son entance. Une joie plus ineffable encore 
1'attendait a Kheims, au sein de son triomphe : Jaquea 
d'Arc, son pere y se trouva, aussitot que le troupes de 
Charles Vll. y furent entrees ; etcomme lea deux freres 
de notre Heroine I'avaient accompagnes, elle se vit, pour 
un instant au milieu de sa tUmille, dans leg bras d'un 
pere vertueux. Vie de Jeanne d'jlr* 



Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born fram 

Above mortality: 
Away ! to me a woman bring 
Street waten from affection'! spring. 



THAT was a joyous day in Kheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music roll'd 
Forth from her throng'rl cathedral; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within ? within, the light 

Thro' the rich gloom of pictured windows flowi ng 
Tinged with soft awt'ulness a stately sight, 

The chivalry of France, their proud heads bow- 
ing 

In martial vassalage! while 'midst that ring, 
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king 
Received his birthright's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swell'd out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner, forth like sunshine 

itreaniir.fr, 
And the gold helm, through clouds of fragrance 

gleaming. 

Silent and radiant stood? the helm was raised, 
And the fair face reveal'd that upward gazed, 

Intensely worshipping : a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 

Yet glorified with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seem'd bending o'er her votaress. That slight 

form 1 

Was that the leader through the battle storm ? 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye, 
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high? 
'T was so, even so ! and thou the shepherd's child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild 1 
Never before, and never since that hour. 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power. 
Stood forth as tlnm beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land ; 
And beautiful with joy and with renown. 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransom'd for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Row let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 



And bid the echoes of the tomhs awaken. 

And come thou forth, that Heaven's rejoicingsun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory! a triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gtish'd through the portals of the antique fane. 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound 1 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ? far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flow'd forth! The shouts that 

flll'd 

The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd 
One moment; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown. 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. "Joanne!" 

who spoke 
Like those whose childhood with her childhood 

grew 

Under one roof? "Joanne!" that murmur broke 
With sounds of weeping forth! She turn'd 

she knew 

Beside her, mark'd from all th:; thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 
The stately shepherd ; and the youth, whose joy 
From his dark eye flash'd proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest-born, that ever loved her best ; 
"Father! and ye, my brothers 1" On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank and swiftly back, 
Ev'n in an instant, to their native track 
Her free thoughts flow'd. She saw the pomp no 

more 

The plumes, the banners : to her cabin-door. 
And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade, (fii 
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd. 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turn'd. The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by th'! bird, which dwelt 
Where o'er her father's roof the beach-leaves hung. 

Was in her heart ; a music ht-ard and felt. 
Winning her back to nature. She unbound 
The holm of many battles from her head, 
And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the 

ground, 

Lifting her voice up, wept for joy, and said, 
"Bless me, my father, bless me! and with thee, 
To the still cabin and the beechen-tree, 
Let me return 1" 

Oh! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne! too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price, 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of .home with all its loves, doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 



To die for what we love ! Oh ! there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for thitf 
It ii to live without the vaniih'd light 
That strength is needed. 



Cos! trapasta al trapassar d'un Gioruo 
Delia vita mortal il fiora e'l verde. 



Tauo. 



AI.ONO the star-lit Seine went music swelling 

Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth : 
Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 

For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth 
And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 
A happy chime of many dancing feet. 
For in a palace of the land that night, 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 

hung. 
And from the painted walls a stream of light 

On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung t 



168 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 
Was one, the. lady from the Danube-side ? (7) 

Pauline, the meekly bright! though now no more 
Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless 
glee, 

Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to SPH; 

Acharm with graver, tenderer, sweet ness fraught 

The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through Ilie gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as tills a moonlight sky. 

Bate on h^r brow beneath its graceful hair. 
As her young daughter in the dance went by, 

With the flnnt step of one that yet hath known 

Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lnrk'd there no secret boding in her breast? 

Diil no faint whisper warn of evil nigh? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 

'Midst the light laughter of festivity: 
Whence come those tones! Alas! enough we 

know. 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show I 

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 
In fairy rincs around the echoing hall ? 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 

Silence! the minstrels pause and hark! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drown'd ! 

And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed ! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking, 
One moment holds them still in breathless dread; 

The wild fierce lustre grows then bursts a cry 

Fire! through the hall and round it gathering fly I 

And forth thty r sn as chased by sword and 

spear 

Tr> th- areen coverts of the garden -bowers ; 
A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 
Startling the birds and trampling down the 

flowers : 

While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 
Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she, Pauline ? the hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child but no sweet voice replies. 

" Bertha! where art thou ? Speak, oh ! speak, my 

own !" 

Alas I unconscious of her pangs the while, 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone. 

Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; 
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath 1 

But oh! thy strength, deep love ! there is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 

Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 
And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave; 

Back, back she rushes through a host combined 

Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, 'midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ? 

None ! Courage there stood still and never more 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes I 

Was one brief meeting theirs, one wild farewell ? 

And died they heart to heart? Oh! who can tell? 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 

On that sad palace, 'midst its pleasure-shades , 
Its painted roofs had sunk yet black with smoke 

And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 
But yecter-eve their shafts with wreaths were 

bound I- 
Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around ! 



And bore the ruins no recording trace 
Of all that woman's heart had dared and done! 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth from dust and ashes dimly shone) 

Those had the mother on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest 

And they were all the tender and the true 
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 

Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 
To deep, lone, chasten'd thoughts of grief and 
love. 

Oh! we have need of patient faith below. 

To clear away the mysteries of such woe ! 



J U A N A. 

Juana, mother of (he Emperor Charles V., upon the 
death of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, 
who had treated her with uniform neglect, had his body 
laid upon a bed of state in a magnificent dress, and being 
possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched it 
for a length of time incessantly, waiting for the moment 
of returning life. 



It ii but dust thou look's! upon. This lore, 
Tl.is wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave 
Gather it back within thy lonely hert; 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 



THE night-wind shook the -apestry round an an- 
cient palace-room, 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the 
gorgeous gloom. 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleami 
and red, 

Where a woman with long raven hair sat watch- 
ing by the dead 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free ; 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the 
cold slumberer's side, 

On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

Only her full iripassion'd eyes as o'er that clay 
she hem, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like 

shadows of a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death, the dreamer 

spoke aloud ; 
She spoke to him who rould not hear, and cried, 

"Thou yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 

one I for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew it 

could not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of 

death for thee ? 
They would have wrapt the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around, 
But I forbade and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crown'd ! 

" With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath, 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful who said that 

this was death? 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



169 



Silence hath been upon thy lips, a rid stillness round 

thee long, 
But the iinpeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd 

and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair lilu- thee. 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a 
light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine a cold un- 
smiling cheek, 

Out I have but a woman's heart, wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 

" But when Ihon wak'st, my prince, my lord ! and 

hcar'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and 

wept ; 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past, 
Surely that humble, patient love must win back 

love at last! 

" And thou wilt smile my own, my own, shall be 

the sunny smile, 
WSich brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me 

erewhilel 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine 
Ohl years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond 

glance of thine! 

"Thou'It meet me with that radiant look when 

thou comest from the chase, 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face 1 
Thou'It reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love, shall give 

me loveliness. 

" But wake ! my heart within me butns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music of 

thy voice : 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone, 
And the gladness of thinu opening eyes, may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth 

day by day, 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way, 
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er 

every grace, 
Left 'midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the 

watcher's breast, 
And they bore away the royal dead with requiem* 

to his rest, 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving 

in the wind 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 

despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 



A fearful gift upon thy heart ii laid, 
Woman ! power to differ and to love, 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 



WILDLT and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke; 
" Sing us a death song, for thine hour is come," 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son ; tho' from his cheek had flown 

The mantling crimson of the island-blond. 
And his press'd linslook'd marble. Fiercely bright, 
And high around Ii in, blazed the fires of night, 



Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : But who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, 
Known but to heaven that hour ? Perchance 

thought 

Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day ! and he might see the band, 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 
The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding ; 
Or, ns day closed upon their gentle mirth. 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth 
Where sat ihfir mother ; and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 
Lcarn'd at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone 
Of her " Qood-nigkl" might hieathe from boyhood 

gone ! 

He started and lo^g'd up: thick cypress boughs 
Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly 

red 

In the broad stormy firelight ; savage brows, 
With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er 

spread, 

Girt him like feverish phantoms; and pale stars 
Look'd thro' the branches as thro' dungeon bars, 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom- 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England ! Idle fear 1 
Would the winds tell it? Who might dream or 

hear 

The secret of the forests ? To the stake 
They bound him; and that proud young soldier 

strove 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts! the fondly rcar'd, the fait 
Gladdening all eyes to see! Arid fetter'd there 
He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
FlaTied up to light it, in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush! hark! aery 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity, 
A step hath pierced the ring ! Who dares intrudfl 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood ? 
A pirl a young slight girl a fawn-like child 
Of green Savannas ami the leafy wild, 
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Vet one that knew how early tears are shed, 
For hers had mourn'd a playmate brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long. 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd, 
Ev'n to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes; then raised her glittering eye 
And clear-toned voice that said, " He shall not 
die !" 

" He shall not die I" the gloomy forest thrill 'd 
To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng; and heart and hand wera 

still'd. 

Struck down, as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed, their dark souls bow'd before the 

maid, 

She of the dancing step in wood and glade ) 
And, as her cheek flush'd through its o ive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night- wind flew, 
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young 

mien 

Something of heaven, in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their child-like faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive't 

breath ; 

Prom his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress trees 
" Away," they cried, " young stranger, thou art 

free !"' 



170 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



COSTANZA. 



^..i Art thou then denlate? 
Of Meodt, of hopes foniken ? Come to me ! 
I UB thine own. Have tnuted hearti proved fab* ? 
TUtteren deceived thee ? Wanderer, come to me ! 
Why didit thou ever leave me? Know'it thou all 
I would have borne, and call'd it joy to bear, 
For thy take ? Know'it thou that thy voice had power 
To Aake me with a thrill of happinea 
By one kind tone ? to fill mine eyes with tear* 
Of yearning love? And tbou oh ! thou didit throw 
That crush'd affection back upon my heart J 
Yet com* '> me '.it died not 



SHE knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell, 
And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna-brow, 
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold the autumn forest's hue 
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
V'irein's or fairest martyr's. In her eye. 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived! And yet what woe, 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears I 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone. 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and 

made 

A temple of the pine and chestnut shade. 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Rose through each murmur of the green, and dim, 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in 

dreams, 

Music for weary hearts I 'Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed. 
Came, and 'brought hope ; while scarce of mortal 

birth 

He deem'd the pale fair form, that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long a cell, 

A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleam'd thro' the dark trees o'er a sparkling well, 

And a sweet voice, of rich, yet mournful tone, 
Told the Calabrian wilds, that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 't was prayer's own hour. That voice 

again 

Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
T v >at made the cypress quiver where it stood 
Xn day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
~jike spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Hher and wilder sounds in tumult met 
The floating song. Strange sounds I the trumpet'! 

peal, 

'dade hollow by the rocks; the clash of steel. 
The rallying war-cry. In the mountain-pass, 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 
fanners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
And the pine-branches crash'd before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : there enter'd hurrying feet, 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow; mail-clad men. 



Stern fugitives from that wild battlfi-glen. 
Scaring the ringdoves from the porch-roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in : the rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to )al him ; then fo. 

flight, 

Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 
Sped breathlessly again. They pass'd but he. 
The stateliest of a host alas I to see 
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep 
Till joy, for very fullness, turn'd to weep, 
Thus changed ! a fearful thing! His golden crest 
Was shivef'd, and the bright scarf on his breast- 
Some costly love-gift rent : but what of these ? 
There were the clustering raven-locks the breeze 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them steep'd in bloody showers 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung! the eye's dark ray 
Where was it ? and the lips ! they gasp'd apart, 
With their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful! but that white hue 
Was it not death's ? that stillness that cold dew 
On the scarr'd forehead? No! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands the forsaken 
Of all save one ! She fled not. Day by day 
Such hours are woman's birthright she, unknown, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong man's 

raving. 

He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form 
Still hovering nigh ; yet sometimes, when that 
storm 

Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing, 
Would soothe him with sweet ai-e,s. gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebb'd from his hollow cheek. 

At last, faint gleams 

Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams. 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head. 
And ea/.in? rou-H him from his leafy bed. 
He murmur'd forth, " Where am I? What soft 

strain 

Pass'd, like a breeze, across my burning brain ? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one 
Where is she now ? and where the gauds of priil 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side 1 
All lost ! and this is death ! I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 
Away I the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
Mj first, my holiest love I her broken heart 
Lies low, and I unpardon'd I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale. 
And stood before him with a smile oh! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear 
And said, "Cesario! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive. 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust 
As should be Heaven's alone and Heaven is just 
I bless thee be at peace !" 

But o'er his frame 

Too fast the strong tide rush'd the sudden shame, 
The joy, th* amaze! he bow'd his head it fell 
On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there, 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



171 



MADELINE. 
A DOMESTIC TALE. 



Who ihould it be ! Where ihouldft then look for kindneM ? 
When we are lick, where can we turn for succour, 
When we are wretched, where can we complain; 
And when the world looks cold and >urly on at, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With luch sure confidence at to a mother > 

Joanna Baillit. 



" My child, my child, them leav'st me I I shall hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance; I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy "Good-night" at parting for repose: 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
My child ! and thou, along the moonlight sea, 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, 
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest I and the exile's woe 
From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. Now farewell, farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
Wht'ii thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye 
That still sought mine : these moments are gone 

by, 

Thou too mustgo, my flower! Vet with thee dwell 
The peace of God! One, one more gaze farewell!" 

This was a mother's parting with her child, 
A young meek Bride on whom fair fortune smiled, 
And woo'd her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home ; yet there, with fond delay 
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird thro' trellis'd rose-leaves float, 
And fell upon her mother's neck, and wept, 
Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day, 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep 
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long 
Pour'd forth her own sweet solemn vesper-song, 
Breathing of home: through stillness heard afar. 
And duly rising with the first pale star. 
That voice was on the waters ; till at last 
The sounding ocean-solitudes were pass'd. 
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sa'ils were furt'd 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. Alas ! we trace 
The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, 
On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with tears. 
That home was darken'd soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas, 
I ! th unto one, and anguish how forlorn 1 
To her, that widow'd in her marriage-morn, 
Sat in hsr voiceless dwelling, whence with him. 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide. 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim. 

As from the sun shut out on every side. 
By the close veil of misery ! Oh I but ill, 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young 
high heart 

Bears its first blow! it knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach to suffer and be still, 

* Originally published in the Literary Souvenir for ISM 



And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and thro' the future houu 
To send no busy dream ! She had not lenrn'd 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd. 
In weariness, from life : then came th' unrest. 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sounds of voices far away. 
And household steps ; until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams 
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft, 
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells where with each word was fraught. 
To strangers? Oh ! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised ? did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow ? 
Something was there, that thro' the lingering night 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light, 
Something that faints not thro' the <l;iy's distress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ; 
Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came that 

power, 

Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower ? 
Whence ? who can ask ? the wild delirium pass'd, 
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening know 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 
The kind sweet smile of old ! and had she come, 
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home. 
To save her child ? Ev'n so nor yet in vain : 
In that young heart a light sprung up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seern'd this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
"Sweet mother, gentlest mother ! can it be ?" 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee ? 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore, 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



QUEEN OF PRUSSIA S TOMB. 



"' This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near 
Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came sudden 
ly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, 
and should have deemed it a mere adornment of th 
grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a ha- 
bitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white 
marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form 
was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with 
me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of 
his Queen. It. is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be 
a perfect resemblance not an in death, but when shu 
lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more cala 
and kind than the expression of her features. The hands 
are folded on the bosom ; the limbs are sufficiently cross 
ed to show the repose of life. Here the King brings her 
children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. Thesa 
hang in withered mournt'ulness above this living image 
of their departed mother." Sherer's Note* and Reflec- 
tions during a Ramble in Germany. 



In sweet pride upon that intuit keen 

She smiled ; then drooping mute and broken-hearted 

To the cold comfort of the grave departed. 

MMH 



IT stands where northern willow* weep, 

A temple fair and lone ; 
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep, 

From cypress-branches thrown ; 
While silently around it spread, 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead. 



172 



1IEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



And what within is richly shrined? 

A sculptured woman's form, 
Lovely in perfect rest reclined, 

As one beyond the storm . 
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 
The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow, 
The gentle, yet majestic grace, 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene offender gloom, 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There standi n eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought: 
She whose high heart finds rest beloW 
Was royal in her birth and woe. 

There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue; 
She was a mother in her love 

How sorrowfully true I 
Oh ! hallow'd long he every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief! 

She saw their birthright's warrior crown 

Of olden glory spoil'd, 
The standard of their sires borne down, 

The shield's bright blazon soil'd : 
She met the tempest meekly brave, 
Then turn'd, o'erwearied, to the grave 

She slumber'd ; but it came it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour. 
With the glad shout, and signal-flame, 

Sent on from tower to tower! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved 
Txvas hers, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep, 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep; 

Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 

And the crown'd eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain 

So was the triumph won I 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's SAe was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 



On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby, str.nd 
a small pillar, with this inscription :" This pillar wai 
erected in the year 1656. by Ann, Countess Dowager of 
Pembroke, for a memorial of her last parting, in this 
place, with her good and pious mother, Margaret, 
Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 3d April, 
I6I6."-See Notes to the " Pleasures of Memory " 



Ht ttera, Mmragh Eden'i wild-wood nlei panned 
Each mountain-scene, magnificently rude, 
Nor with ttention' lifted eye, revered 
That modeit itone, by pious Pembroke rear'd, 
Which still record!, beycnd the pencil 1 ! power, 
The silent lorrowt of a parting hoar ? 

Rogcn. 

MOTHER and child ! whose blending lean 

Have sanctified the place. 
Where, to the love of many years, 

Wag given one last embrace ; 
Oh! ye have shrined a spell of power, 
*>eep in your record of that hour ! 



A spell to waken solemn thought, 

A still, small uiider-tone, 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 
Which marks your parting spot, 

Who but a mother's love hath known 
The one love changing not ? 

Alas I and haply learn'd its worth 

First with the sound of "Earth to earth T 

But thou, high-hearted daughter! thou, 
O'er whose bright, honour'd head, 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow, 
Ev'n here were fondly shed, 

Thou from the passion of thy grief. 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For oh I though painful be th' exceai, 
The might wherewith it swells, 

In nature's fount no bitterness 
Of nature's mingling, dwells; 

And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride. 

Poison'd the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more 
Which thy young heart first knew? 

And all was all in this world o'er, 
With ties thus close and true ? 

It was! On earth no other eye 

Could give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days, 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladd'ning, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps. 
While on thy name, 'midst wood and bill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead. 
Think of the love embodied there, 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perish'd thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthl'y hour? 

Not so! I will not bow me so, 
To thoughts that breathe despair I 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child ! Your tears are past 

Surely your hearts have met at last 1 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.* 



"Ne me plaignez pat li vous taviex 
Combien de peinet ce tombeau m'a eparfneet 1* 



I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ; 
Spring-odours breathed around, 

And music, in the river- wave, 
Pass'd with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 
In the bright air glanced by, 

And a glad murmur seem'd to run 
Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough 
That fringed the ruins near; 



Extrinsic interest has lately altached to the fine Kenery of 
Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last 
residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one of many in th* 
eharch-yard of the village. The river runs imoothly by. The ruin 
ncient abbey that has been partially converted into a churcn, 
tly throw their mantle of tender shadow over it. Tata In 



of an: 



he UBa.ro. Family. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



173 



Voting voices were abroad but thou 
Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

And mournful grew my heart for thee, 
Thou in whose woman's mind, 

The ray that brightens earth and sea. 
The light of song was shrined. 

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom 
Thou wouldst have loved so well. 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 

In their bright reckless play, 
Might feel the flush and life of spring, 

And thou wert pass'd away ! 

But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came ; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have look'd ere now, 

rhan all that round our pathway shed 
Odour* and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here, 

Yet beautiful is earth I 
What seest thou then where no dim fear, 

No haunting dream, hath birth? 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gay 'st but where thou art, 

The sway is not with changeful hours, 
There love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud, but deep I 
The glorious bowers of earth among, 

Bow often didst thou weep I 



Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thoughts and high ? 

Now peace the woman's heart, hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye. 

NOTES TO RECORDS OF WOMAN. 
NOTE 1. 

When darlmeafrom the vainly-doting light, 

Covert itt beautiful ! 

" Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it niffinth 
me you are mine. Rachel tpf, and would not be comforted, tt 
eaun her children were no more. And that, indeed, is the ramedilesi 
sorrow, and none else !" From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her 
husband. See Curiosities of Literature. 

NOTE 2. 

Death ! what, it death a locVd and treatured thing, 
Guarded by twordi of fire f 

" And If you remember of old, / dare die. Consider what th 
world would conceive, if I should be violently enforced to do it." 
Fragmenti of her Letter i. 

NOTE 3. 

And her lovely thought! from their edit found way, 
In the ntddenflow of a plaintive lay. 

A Greek Bride, on leaving her father's house, take* leave of her 
friend* and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verse. Sea 
Fauriel's Chants Fopulaires de la Grece Moderne. 

NOTE 4. 

And loved when they ihould hate like thee, Imelda. 
The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des Repot 
liines iMienne. Vol. iii. p. 443. 

NOTE 5. 

Father of ancient water! rottt 
" Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi. 

NOTE 6. 

And to the Fairy'i fountain in the glade. 
A beautiful fountain near Domremi, believed to be haunted by 
fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood. 

NOTB 7. 

But loveliest far amidit the reveTt pride, 
Wai the, the Lady from the Danube-tide. 
The Princes* Pauline Schwartienberz. The story of h ft ft 
beautifully related in L'Allenugne. Vol. iii. p. 336. 



SONGS 



OF 



THE AFFECTIONS. 



They tell but dreams a lonely spirit's dreams 
Tet ever through their fleeting imagery- 
Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 
An aimless thought of home : as in the song 
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells 
A passionate memory of bine skies and flowrt, 
Aid living streams far off 1 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 



This is to be a mortal, 
And Kek the things beyond mortality ! 

Manfred. 

THY voice prevails ; dear Friend, my gentle Friend 
T'.is long shut heart for thee shall" he unseal'd, 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Ovsr the troubled stream, yet once reveal'd 
Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must clow 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

F is.'d in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 

sound 

Is mingled into harmomy profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfinpd, 
The trembling reeds and fountains; Our own dell. 
With its green dimness and ^Kolian breath, 
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well 
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal noon 
I would thou hadst ! for then my heart on thine 
Had pour'd a worthier love; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my horn* 
Pass'd one by one, and Melody and Mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But with the fullness of a heart that burn'd 
For thedetp sympathies of mind, I turn'd 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling memories fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute-note of the wind through cave and 

bower, 

A perilous delight ! for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, 
But miuister'd to that strange inborn fire. 

'Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells, 
In noonti;!e hours or golden summer-eves, 
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response --O thou rich world unseen ! 
Thou curtain'd realm of spirits ! Thus my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence dost thou lie 
Soread all around, yet by some filmy screen 

12 



Shut from us ever? The resounding woods, 

Do their depths teem with marvels ? and the 

floods, 

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 
Have they bright dwellers ? are th ir lone do 

mains 

Peopled with beauty, which may never still 
Our weary thirst of soul ? Cold, wea.i and cold 
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one MA 
Of our deep being ! Oh, for gifts mru high ! 
For a seer's glance to rend mortality I 
For a charm'd rod, to call from each lark shrine, 
The oracles divine 1 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the Earth I woke to love; 
O, gentle Friend ! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the worshipped nnme above, 
Is to love deeply and my spirit's dower 
Was a sad gilt, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring; with a buried care, 
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 
In the still shadow of its lonely sway. 
Folded me closer; till the world held naught 
Save the one Being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear, 
No joy but such as with his step drew near; 
Light was but where he look'd life where he 

moved 

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
Oh! but such love is fearful ! and I knew 
Its gathering doom: the soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light, 
Too sorrowfully clear! an under-lone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Whispering of grief. Of grief ?-be strong, awake 1 
Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul ? 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses ? a magic to control 
Worlds far removed ? from o'er the grave to the 
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph! Now return, 
And take thy treasure from its bosom'd urn, 
And lift it once to light I 

In fear, in pain, 

I said I loved but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved! we breathed no vow, 
iVo mingling visions might our fate allow, 
At 'into happy hearts; but still and deep. 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, 
Like golden sand in some dark river's w#ve. 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep 
So jealously ! a thing o'er which to shed, 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd with th' ezcM 
Of our strange nature's quiverine happiness. 
(177) 



ITS 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



But, oh ! sweet Friend ! we dream not of love's 

night 

Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine! Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast, 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blast, 
The sea is in cur soul? 1 

He died, he died. 

On whom my lone devotedness was cast 
1 might not keep one vigil by his side, 
/ whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the 

last! 

I might not once his fainting head sustain, 
Nor tiathe>his parch'd lip- in the hour of pain, 
Nor say to him. " Farewell !" He pass'd away 
O! had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death! but thus removed, 
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding-line hath proved, 
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless, he be- 
came 

Unto my thoughts another, yet the same 
Changed hallow'd glorified! and his low grave 
Seem'd a bright mournful altar mine, all mine: 
Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine, 
The birthright of the Faithful! their world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh! deem thou 

not 

That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak! I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip; a fiery shower 
My words were made; a might was given to 

prayer. 

And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 
And a dread triumph! Know'st thou what I 

sought ? 

For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought? 
Communion with the dead ! I sent a cry 
Through the veil'd empires of eternity, 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth. 
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Arm'd, and inspired, and wing'd with agony; 
By tears, which comfort not, hut burn, and seem 
To bear the hi 'art's blood in their passion-stream; 
I sumnion'd, I adjured! with quicken'd sense, 
With tin; keen vigil of a life intense, 
I watch'd, a:i answer from the winds to wring, 
I listen'd, if perchance 'the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar: I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes: one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky ; 
One prayer to night," Awake, appear, reply 1" 

Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne, 
The dark way never hath allow'd return ? 
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled, 
That earthly love is powerless on the dead? 
Believe it not! there is a large lone star, 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 
And under its clear light tlure lies a spot. 
Which well might utter forth Believe it not 1 

I sat beneath that planet, I had wept 
My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Wont by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour. 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously : there came 
A low sound, like the tremour of a flame, 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing 
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air; 
And I look'd up! Oh! for strong words to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought ! Before me there, 
He, the Departed, stood ! Aye, face to face- 
So near, and yet how far ! his form, his mien, 
Oave to remembrance back each burning trace 
Within : Yet something awfully serene, 
Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow that wore 
'>f the once beating heart no token more ; 



And stillness on the lip and o'er the hair 

A gleam, that trembled through the breathless ait 

And an unfathom'd calm, that seeni'd to lie 

In the grave sweetness of the illumined eye 

Told of the gulfs between our being set, 

And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, 

Made my soul faint : with fear 7 Oh ! not .viU 

fear! 

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
My love could be as nothing ! But he spoke 
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 
My bosom's infinite? O Friend. I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! Soft, solemn, clea, 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 
Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they rosn 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells , 
But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill 
PassM from me, like a mist before the morn, 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne, 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 
Pujisecs'd rny frame: I sought that lighted eye, 
From its intense and searching purity 
I .rank in ioul! I question'd of the dead 
Of the hush'd, starry shores their footsteps tread 
And I was inswer'd : if remembrance there, 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 
If Thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 
If Love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, anc 

blast, 

Find there the music of his home at last ; 
I ask'd, and I was answer'd : Full and high 
Was that communion with eternity, 
Too rich for aught so fleeting ! Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, " Farewell, 
On earth we meet no more !" and all was gone 
The pale bright settled brow the thrilling tone 
The still and shining eye ! and never more 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest! One full-fraught hour of 

Heaven, 

To earthly passion's wild implorings given, 
Was made niy own the ethereal fire hath shiver'<V . 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver'd. 
Brightly, consumingly ! What now is left ? 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft, 
A void, a chain! I dwell 'midst throngs, apart, 
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 
A fix'd, immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and life's fast-receding scene ; 
A gift hath sever'd me from human ties, 
A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Which never may return : their chords are bro 

ken 

The music of another land hath spoken, 
No after-sound is sweet ! this w<iary thirst ! 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice, 

Wnen the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
Through the young woods ? Thou dost ! And in 

that birth 

Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like th-e, find gladness ! Couldst thou 

know 

How every breeze then summons me to go I 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but wooes me to the Dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more, 
The only loved ! the dwellers on the shote 
Of spring fulfill'd ! The Dead '.whom call we sc ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us ! Away ! within me pent, 
That which is barr'd from its own element 
Still droops or struggles ! But the day mill come 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home, 
And the stream lingers 'midst the rocks, ytl greeti 
The sea at last ; and the wing'ri flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not I, too, be. 
My sj)irit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Y Sy the power whose conquering anguiaJj 

stirr'd 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



179 



Whose agony of triumph won thee hack 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track. 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine, 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine! 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE.' 

Courage was cast about her like a dress 

Of solemn comeliness, 
A gather'd mind and an untroubled face 

Did give her dangers grace. 

Dannt. 

THE war-note of the Saracen 
Was on the winds of France ; 

It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour, 
And the clash of the tourney's lance. 

The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay. 

On the old Provencal shore; 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armour wore. 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went anc 

came 

Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career. 
And haughty their stillness look'd and high. 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory ; 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid. 
Under their banners of battle she pray'd; 
With her pale fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
I 'praised to the Virgin's pnurtray'd above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gloomy wave. 
And her fragile frame, at every blast. 
That full of the savage war-horn pass'd, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part, 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet sted, 

Or the dust had stirr'd below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone, 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan ; 

Is her lord return'd with his conquering bands? 
No! a breathless vassal before her stands! 
"Hast thou been on the field ? Art thou come 

from the host?" 

"From the slaughter, lady! All, all is lost! 
Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe, 
And thy Lord," his voice took a sadder sound 
" Thy Lord he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through the gathering 

gloom." 

A change o'er her mien and her spirit past; 

She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 

She riash'd the tears from her kindling eye, 

With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, 

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 

At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look . 

" Dost thou stand by the tombs of the gloriout 

dead, 
And fear not to say, that their son hath fled ? 

Founded on in incident ia the early French historv 



Away! he is lying by lance and shield, 
Point me the path to his battle-field 1" 

The shadows of the forest 

Arc about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine bough. 

There 's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a 

chief; 

The branches that rock to the tempest-strife, 
Are groaning like things of troubled life; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral march through The gloomy sky 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead , 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low 
Ay ! but one word speaks of deeper woe; 
There lay the loved on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed, 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the tire was heap'd, and the bright wine 

pour'd, 

For those, now needing nor hearth nor hoard: 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
And oh! ye beloved of woman, farewell 

Silently, with lips compress'd. 
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast, 
Stately brow of anguish high. 
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye; 
Silently, o'er that red plain, 
Moved the lady 'midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seem'd as a charging cry. 
Or thp rinsing tramp of a steed, came nigh 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne , 
And her maidens trembled; but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now, 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough 
She search'd into many an unclosed eye, 
That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky; 
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled, lead on !" 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turn'd to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red ; 

Oh! swiftest there had the currents free, 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd, 
And the scatter'd plumage stream'd, 
And the broken shields were toss'd, 
And the shiver'd lances cross'd, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last vain 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had knowr 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand gras? 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful t 
And the face oh! speak not of that dead 
As it lay to answer love's look no more. 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 
She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of w 
The time was not yet for their waves to fl 
She felt the full presence, the might of des 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she turn'd to his followers " Your Lord if 
there ! 



180 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Look on him! know him by scarf and crest! 
Bear him away with his sires to rest I" 

Another day another night 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep . 

It come* with a broken and muffled tone, 

AB if that rite were in terror done; 

Yet the songs 'midst the seas hath a thrilling 

power, 
And he knows 't is a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, 
Through the aisle the mourners go ; 
With a hush'd and stealthy tread, 
Bearing on the noble dead, 
Sheathed in armour of the field- 
Only his wan face reveal'd, 
Whence the still and solemn gleam 
Doth a strange sad contrast seem 
To the anxious eyes of that pale band, 
With torches wavering in every hand, 
For theydreadeachmomentthe shout of war, 
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend. 

No brother of battle, no princely friend , 

No sound comes back like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry, 

But one free step, and one lofty heart, 

Bear through that scene, to the last, their part 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave; 
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, 
By turns does tho swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is lingerine still, 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 
Anguish and Triumph are met at strife, 
Rending the chords of her frail young life; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 
Lifting her voice, as if Death might hear. 

" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 

My soul hath risen for thy glory strong! 

Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 

The world thou leavest has no place for me. 

The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth 

Faithful and tender! Oh! call me forth! 

Give me my home on thy noble heart, 

Well have we loved, let us both depart !" 

And pale on the breast of the Dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 
The living- cheek ! Oh ! it was not vain, 
That strife of tlie spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like a glorious bride! 

[oy for the freed One ! she might not stay 

Vhen the crown had fallen from her life away ; 

!he might not linger a weary thing, 

1 dove, with no home for its broken wing, 

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, 

That know not its own land's melodies. 

from the long heart-withering early gone ; 

UK: hath lived she hath loved her task is done ! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 



Tableau, on I'Amonr fait alliance avee la Tombe : ratal ndott 
table de la mort et de la vie '.Madame de Stud. 



THERE was music on the midnight ; 

From a royal fane it roll'd. 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly toll'd 



Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high. 

The lonely hell, of death. 

There was hurrying through the midnight 

A sound of many feet 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulnesa, 

Along the shadowy street: 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster-gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance, 

In the centre of the na*e. 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave ; 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom, 
For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, 

Like a shallow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

'Midst the glare of light alone 
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still 

The drapery on her breast 
Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow 1 
Then died away that haughty sound. 

And from the encircling band 
Slept Prince and Chief, 'midst the hush profound, 

With homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair ? 

Did not a queenly grace. 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on tlie pale still face ? 

Death ! Death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of Life ? 
Is not. each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife? 
It was a strange and fearful sight. 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compress'd. 

Lest the strong heart should fair 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done, 
By thfc land's flower and chivalry, 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he look'd not, 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Tho' something, won from the grave's embrace 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth. 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifU, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : bear back the Dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding ail 

In dark procession go ; 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



181 



And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array. 
Are borne to the house of silence down. 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train, 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe. 

When they lower'd the dust again. 
*T is hush'il at last the tomb above, 

Hymns die, and steps depart: 
Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN 



O sanctiwinia, o purissima ! 

Dulcil Virgo Maria, 
Mater amala. inteinerata, 

On, ora pro nobi>. 

Sicilian Marina 1 ! Hymn. 



IN the deep hour of dreams, 
i Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea. 

And by the star-light gleams, 
Mother of Sorrows ! lo, I come to thee. 

Unto thy shrine I bear 
Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 

AH, all unfolded there, 
Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye 

For thou, that once didst move. 
In thy still beauty, through an early home, 

Thou know'st the grief, the love. 
The fear of woman's soul ; to thee I come ! 

Many, and sad, and deep, 
Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 

Thou, too, couldst watch and weep 
Hear, gentlest mother! hear a heart oppress'd I 

There is a wandering burk 
Bearing one from me o'er the restless waves ; 

Oh 1 let thy soft eye mark 
His course ; be with him, Holiest, guide and save I 

My soul is on that way ; 
My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim, 

Through the long weary day, 
1 walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him. 

Aid him, and me, too, aid 1 
Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess 

On thy weak child is laid 
The burden of too deep a tenderness. 

Too much o'er kirn is pour'd 
My being's hope scarce leaving Heaven a part : 

Too fearfully adored, 
Oh I make not him the chastener of my heart 1 

I tremble with a sense 
Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low 

Sweet mother! call me hence ! 
This wild idolatry must end in woe. 

The troubled joy of life. 
Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 

And, worn with feverish strife, 
Would fold its wings -take back, take back thine 
own I 

Hark ! how thn wind swept by! 

The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave- 
Hope of the sailor's eye, 

And maiden's heart, blest mother, guide and save I 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreach'd by human thought 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! it thy home be there, 



And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 

Answer me, answer me I 

Have we not communed here with life and death? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 

Answer, oh ! answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine The soul that 

shone 

Intensely, mournfully, through gathering 'laze 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unicnown, 
Naught of what lived in that long earnest gaze .' 
Hear, hear, and answer me I 

Thy voice its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife, 
Like a faint breeze : oh ! from that music flown. 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life. 
But once, oh ! answer me I 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's .tush, 

In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 

deep. 

When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep- 
Spirit! then answer me! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me I 

The grave is silent : and the far-ofT sky, 
And the deep midnight silent all, and lonet 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply. 
What voice has Earth ? Hear, pity, speak, mine 
own! 

Answer me, answer me I 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 



For all his wildnen and proud fantaiiet, 
I love him ! 

Only. 

TUT heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

Chamois bounds, 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam 1 ike stars, through 

the stillness of the air. 
And where the Lauwine's* peal is heard Hunter ! 

thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lov'st me well, dear Friend ! but bet- 
ter, better far, 
Thou lov'st that high and haughty life, with rocks 

and storms at war ; 
In the green sunny vales with me. thy spirit would 

but pine 
And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those 
thy native heights, 

With the sweet song, our land's own song, of pas- 
toral delights ; 

For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not 
as mine= 

And yet I will be thine, my Love ! and ytt I will 
be thine. 

And I will leave my blessed home, my Father's 

joyous hearth. 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth. 
With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its 

fire-light shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou 

art mine! 



*LauwiMt, the avalanche. 



.82 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



t is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad fre* 

heart, 
That I cast away for thee for tbee all reckless 

as tliou art ! 
With tremblings and with vigils lone, I bind my 

self to dwell ; 
Yet, yet I would not change that lot, oh no 1 1 

love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 

wild as thou, 
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless 

fire of brow ! 
Mournful ! but dearer far I call its mingled fear 

and pride. 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 

earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath, 
To watch through long, long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness this doom I 

know is mine, 
And yet I will be thine, my Love I and yet I will 

be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each 

danger past, 
That I may kneel and pray for tbee, and win thee 

aid divine, 
For this I will be thine, my Love I for this 1 will 

be thine I 



SONG OF EMIGRATION 



THERE was heard a song on the chiming sea, 

A mingled breathing of grief and glee; 

Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there. 

Filling with triumph the sunny air; 

Df fresh green lands, and of pastures new. 

It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone. 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

"Away, away, o'er the foaming main !" 
This was the free and the joyous strain 
"There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We will shape our course by a brighter star; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath pressed, 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 

" But alas ! that we should go" 
Sang the farewell voices then 

" From the homesteads, wann and low, 
By the brook and in the glen !" 

" We will rear new homes under trees that glow 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er DOT white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline ; 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still." 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard -trees. 

Where first our children play'd 
'Midst the birds and honey-bees !** 

" All, all our own shall the forests be, 

As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 

None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass!' 

We will track each step through the wavy grass; 

We will chase the elk in his speed and might. 

And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 

"But, oh! the gray church-tower, 
And the sound of Sabbath-bell, 

And the shelter'd garden-bower, 
We have bid them all farewell 1" 



' We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods I 
And our works unto many a lake's green shore, 
Where the Indian's graves lay, alone, before." 

" But who shall teach the flowers, 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours? 
Home, home and friends, farewell !" 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD 



IN the silence of the midnight 

I journey with my dead ; 
In the darkness of the forest-boughs, 

A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 
As by mighty wings upborne ; 

The mountain eagle hath not plumes 
So strong as Love and Scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness, 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have ask'd the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place, 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer 
"Go, bring us back thine own!" 

And the streams from all the hunters' hilts, 
Rush'd with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chain less host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon flight have sped. 

I have left the spoiler's dwellings, 

For evermore, behind ; 
Unmingled with their household sounds, 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 

I watch'd my child's decay, 
Uncheer'd, I saw the spirit-light 

From his young eyes fade away. 

When his head sank on my bosom, 
When the death-sleep o'er him fell, 

Was there one to say, "A friend is near 7" 
There was none ! pale race, farewell I 

To the forests, to the cedars. 

To the warrior and his bow, 
Back, back ! I bore thee laughing thence 

I hear thee slumbering now 1 

I bear thee unto burial 
With the mighty hunters gone; 

I shall heat thee in the forest-breeze, 
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son I 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead ; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, 

My father's path I tread. 



An Indian, who had established himself in a township of 
Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced toward* 
him by the while inhabitants, particularly on the death f his onlj 
child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, dug up the -ody of h 
child, and carried it with him two hundred miles through the 
s to join the Canadian Indian*. See Tudar't Lettat on (to 
cro State* of Jnwrwa 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



185 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT 
FOR HIS BROTHER.* 



If I could see him, it i 



well with me? 

Cottridgt'l H'alleruUin 



THERE were iights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquish'd city's halls, 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls ; 
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But their Lord, the King of Arragon, 'midst the 

triumph, wail'd the dead. 

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the ten ti 

and towers below, 
The moon-lit sea, the torch-lit streets, and a 

gloom came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, 'midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city! thou city 

of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last 

in thee 1 
I am lonely 'midst thy palaces, while the glad 

waves past them roll, 
And the soft breath of thine orange-bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

" My brother 1 oh I my brother ! thou art gone, 
the true and brave. 

And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 
grave ; 

There are many round my throne to stand, and to 
march where I lead on ; 

There was one to love me in the world, my bro- 
ther ! thou art gone ! 

' In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's 

wrath, 
We stood together, side by side ; one hope was 

ours, one path; 
Thou hast wrapt me in the soldier's cloak, thou 

hast fenced me with thy breast ; 
Thou hast watch'cl beside my couch of pain oh ' 

bravest heart, and best' 

" I see the festive lights around ; o'er a dull sad 

world they shine ; 
1 hear the voice of victory my Pedro! where is 

t In tic ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found 

reply ! 
Oh brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts, and gallant fleets, to spread my 

glory and my sway, 
And chiefs to lea r l them fearlessly ; my friend 

hath pass'd away! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain, 
Ant .he face that was as light to mine it cannot 

come again ! 

' I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the 
offering for a crown ; 

With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 
purchased cold renown ; 

How often will my weary heart 'midst the sound* 
of triumph die. 

When I think of thee, my brother! thou flower of 
chivalry ! 

" I am lonely I am lonely ! this rest is even a> 
death ! 

Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the bat- 
tle-trumpet's breath ; 

The ijief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of hii 
brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of Naples ii 
ITectingly described by the historian, Mariana. It is also the sub- 
ject of on* at the old '.Spanish ballads in Lockhart's beautiful col- 



Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave 
But where art thou, my brother? where? in tny 

low and early grave !" 

And louder swell'd the songs of joy through that 

victorious night, 
AnC faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' 

mil torches' light ; 
But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was hear/ 

the conqueror's moan 
" My brother ! oh ! my brother ! best and bravest 

thou art gone !" 



THE RETURN. 



HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood 
back ? 

The free, the pure, the kind ?" 
So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, 

As they play'd to the mountain-wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ?" 

Whisper'd my native streams; 
"Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove. 

Still revered its first high dreams ?" 

" Hastfthou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-hall'?" 
Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air 

From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye ?" 

Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, 

As I answer'd " O, ye shades I 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams ! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The day-spring's glorious dreams. 

"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hart 
pass'd 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

" But I bear from my chi.dhood a gift of tears 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed years, 

They shall make me again your own." 



THE VAUDOIS' WIFE.* 



Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 
Of fate I while I can feel thy dear caress : 

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess 
That thou to me hut been all tenderness, 

And friend, to more than human friendship just. 
Oh 1 by that retrospect of happiness, 

And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 

God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in durt. 

Gertrude of tfyommg 

Tfnr voice is in mine ear, beloved I 

Tl.-' 'Tok is in my heart, 
Thy bosom is my resting-place, 

And yet I must depart. 
Earth on my soul is strong too strong 

Too precious is its chain, 
All woven of thy love, dear friend, 

Yet vain though mighty vain ! 



* The wife of a Vaudois lead.-r, in one of the attacks made on th< 
Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, -ml died in her bu 
band's arms, exhorting him to courage and joduranct. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Th"i see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved i 

Thou see'st my life-blood flow. 
Bow to the chastcner silently. 

And calmly let me go ! 
A little while between our heart' 

The shaJowy gulf must lie, 
Yet have we for their communing 

Still, still Eternity' 

Alas! thv tsars are on my chei'k 

Mv spirit th,;y detain ; 
I kno-v that from thine agony 

Is wring that rmrni.ig rain. 
Best, kin.lest, weep not; make the pang 

The hitter conflict, loss 
Oh! sa:l it is, and yet a joy, 

To feel thy love's excess! 

But calm thra ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ! 
The voice that must be silent soon, 

Would speak to thee once more. 
That thou may'st bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide, 

For my own, my treasured share, 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

I bless thee for kind looks and words 

Shower'd on my path like dew, 
For all the love in those deep eyes 

A gladness ever new! 
For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 

But in kindly tones of cheer; 
For every spring of happiness 

My soul hath tasted here I 

I bless thee for thu last rich boon 

Won from affection tried, 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perih by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to Heaven. 

Now be thou strong I Oh ! knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our b'iss! 
We plighted our young hearts when storm* 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task 

To suffer and to die ! 

Be strong I I leave the living voice 
Of this, my martyr'd blood, 



A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 
The fainting from despair. 

Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Ay, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must be altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; 
There must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free 
Farewell 1 there's but one pang in death. 

One only, leaving tbee I 



THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW- 



Did yon say all ? 



All my pretty one 1 



Let us make medicine of this great rev 
To cure this deadly grief ! 



MY battle-vow ! no minster walls 

Gave back the burning word, 
Nor cross nnr shrine the low deep tone 

Of smother'u vengeance heard ; 
But the ashes of a ruin'd home 

ThrilPd, as it sternly rose, 
With the mingling voice of blood that shook 

The midnight's dark repose. 

I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 

But where my children lay, 
And the startlud vulture, at my step, 

Soar'd from their precious clay. 
I stood amidst my dead alone 

I kiss'd their lips I pour'd, 
In the strong silence of that hour, 

My spirit on my sword. 

The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor, 

The blacken'd threshold-stone, 
The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood, 

Whose fountain was my own ; 
These, and the everlasting hills, 

Bore witness that wild night; 
Before them rose th' avenger's soul, 

In crush'd affection's might. 

The stars, the searching stars of heaven. 

With keen looks would upbraid, 
If from my heart the fiery vow, 

Sear'd on it then, could fade, 
'"hey have no cause ! Go, ask the streams 

That by iny paths have swept, 
The red waves that unstain'd were born 

How hath my faith been kept ? 

And other eyes are on my soul, 
That never, never close, 

The sad, sweet glances of the lost- 
They leave me no repose. 

Haunting my night-watch 'midst the rocks. 
And by the torrent's foam, 

Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 
Full, full of love and home ! 

Alas! the mountain eagle's heart, 

When wrong'd, may yet find rest ; 
Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
But I your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful ! 

To the stormy fight again ! 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GR\VE. 



Thither where he lies buried ! 
That single spot is the whole world to me. 

Ccieridgc't fPaOenttnt. 

THT votee WM ftl My soul ! it call'd me on ; 

O my kwt friefld I thy voiee was in my soul ! 
Prom the eoW faded World, whence thou art gone, 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come, I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well 

We loved ! oh! still, I know that still we love! 
I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, 
Through these dim aisles in dreams of thte tt 
rove : 

This is my home ! 



See Wallmstnn, Act 6. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



185 



Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom! 

Speak! thnu hast died, and sent me no farewell! 
1 will not shrink ; oh . eighty is the tomb, 

But one thing mightier, which it cai.^ot quell, 
This woman's her* 

This lone, full, fragile heart! the strong alone 
In love and grief of both tin; burning shrine! 

Thou, my soul's friend ! with grief hast surely do*., 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine. 
Say, couldst tliou part J 

hsar tin; rustling banners ; and I hear 

T/;e wind's low singing through <he fretted 

.none ; 

I hr>ar not the,e; and yet I feel tliee near 
What is this nound that keeps tliee from thine 
own ? 

Breathe it away ! 

I wait thse I adjure tliee! hast thou known 
II. >w I have loved thee? couldst thou dream it 

all? 

Am I not here, with night and death alone. 
And fearing not? and hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway 7 

Thou canst not come! or thus I should not weep! 

Thy love is deathless but no longer free! 
Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 

The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Boon, soon, and fast! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep dreams, 
Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain; 
Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams. 
The worn heart break its bonds and death and 
pain 

Be with the past ! 

THE SISTERS OF SCIO 



Ai are our hearts, our way is one, 
And cannot be divided. Strung affection 
Contends with aii thing!, and o'ercnmeth all thinfi. 
Will I not live with thee ? will 1 not cheer thee? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then i wouldst thou be ad? 

Joanna Bfitttt. 

* SISTER, sweet Sister! let me weep awhile! 

Bear with me give the sudden passion way I 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, 

Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears; 
Oh! could my life melt from me in these tears 1 
" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye, 

Our brother's bounding step where are they, 

where ? 
Desolate, desolate our chambers lie! 

How hast thou won thy spirit from despair? 
O'er miwc swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep; 
I sink away bear with me let me weep!" 
" Yes! weep, my Sister! weep, till from thy heart 

The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou 

not! 
I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 
To meet in quenchless trust ; my soul is strong 
Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

14 \ breath of our frse heavens and noble sires, 

A memory of our old victorious dead, 
These mantle me with power t and though their 
fires 

In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 
Yet shall they light UP onward, side by side ; 
Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ? 
" Cheer, then, beloved . on whose meek brow is set 

Our mother's image in whose voice a tone, 
A faint sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, 

An echo of our childhood's music gone; 
Cheer thee ! thy Sister's heart and faith are high 
Our path is one with thee I live and die!" 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 



The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Car 
pio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure tha 
release of his lather, the Cuum Suldana, who had been 
imprisoned l>y Kin;; Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the 
tin'" of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair, 
i in- ar which he maintained proved so destructive, that 
the men of the land gathered round the King, and 
united in demanding Saldnna's liberty. Alfonso, accord- 
ingly, offered Bernardo immediate possession of his 
father's person, in exchange fi>r his castle of Carpio. 
HiTirnil >, with u: hesitation, gave up his strong hold, 
with all his capiives; and being assured that his father 
was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the King 
to meet him. "And when lie saw his lather approach- 
ill!.', lie exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, '"Oh, 
God ! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming ?' ' Look 
where he is,' replied the cruel King, 'and now go and 
greet him whom you have BO long desired to see.' " 
The remainder of the story will be found related in tha 
ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly 
in the dark as to Bernardo's history aftp* 'his event. 



THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed 

his heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-impri- 

son'd sire ; 
'I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 

captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! oh, break 

my father's chain !" 

" Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 

som'd man this day ; 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 

him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 

his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger'! 

foamy speed. 

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a 

glittering hand. 
With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd 

so long to see." 

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved, his 
cheek's blood came and went , 

He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and 
there, dismounting, bent ; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 
he took, 

What was there in its touch that all hia fiery spi- 
rit shook ? 

That hand was cold a frozen thing it dropp'd 

from his like lead, 
He look'd up to the face above the face was of 

the dead I 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow the brow was 

flx'd and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes but in them was 

no sight ' 

flp from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but vt IKJ 

could paint that gaze? 
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw I* horror 

and amaze ; 
They might have chain'd him, as before that stony 

form he stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lip the blood. 

" Father !" at length he mtirmur'd low and wept 

like childhood then, 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown, 
II" flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust 

eat* down. 



186 



IIEMAXS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Then covering with bis steel-gloved hands hi 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the 

sword for now. 
My king is false, my hope betray d, my Father 

oh ! the worth. 
The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away 

from earth ! 

' I thought to stand where banners waved, ray sire 

beside thee yet, 
1 would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met, 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then, for 

thee my fields were won, 
And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son !" 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the cour- 
tier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastf ring grasp, the rearing 
war-horse led, 

A nd sternly set them face to face, the king before 
the dead ! 

1 Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 
hand to kiss 7 

Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me 
what is this ! 

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought give an- 
swer, where are they ? 

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 
through this cold clay ! 

" Into these glassy eyes put light, be still ! keep 

down thine ire, 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak this earth is 

not my sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove foi whom my 

blood was shed, 
Thou canst not and a king? His dust be moan 

tains on thy head !" 

lie loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell, upon the 
silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd 
from that sad place : 

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in mar- 
tial strain, 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hilli 
of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS.* 



To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This place ii coniecrate ; to death and lif 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction. 

Wardnoortk. 



How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
O bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither ' 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year 
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 
Hopes, from their source all holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 

Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours ; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting ; 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting ; 
But thou, young mother! to thy gentle heart 
Didst take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 

A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

At Hindelbank, near Berne, she is represented as bursting from 
the sepulchre, with her infant in her anna, at the sound of the last 
trumpet. An inscription on the tomb concludes thus :" Her* am I, 
God ! with the child whom thou hast given me." 



Slumberer ! love calls thee, for i he night is past ; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast. 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking? 
Thou hear'st, thou answer's!, "God of earth and 

Heaven ! 
Here am 1, with the child whom thou hast given !" 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE, 



Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious Winter's rages, 
Thou thy worldly task bast doi.e, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy v> ages. 



I attended a funeral where there were a number of the 
German settlers present. After I had performed such 
service as is usual on similar occasions, a most vene- 
rable-looking old man came forward, and asked me if I 
were willing that they should perform some of their pe- 
culiar rites. He opened a very ancient version of Lu- 
ther's Hymns, and they all began to sing, in German, so 
loud that the woods echoed the strain. There was some- 
thing affecting in the singing of these ancient people, 
carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and 
using the language and rites which they had brought 
with them over the sea from the Va.tcrla.nd, a word 
which often occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow 
and mournful air, which they sung as they bore the 
body along ; the words " mein Gott," " mein Bruder' 
and " Vaterland," died away in distant echoes amongst 
the woods. I shall long remember that funeral hymn. 
flint's Recollections of the Valley of the Mississippi. 



THERE went a dirge through the forest's gloom 
An exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

" Brother !" (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : 
Long the Exile's woe hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 
Music from thine own blue streams, 
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams ; 
Voices from thy country's vines, 
Met thee 'midst the alien pines, 
And thy true heart died away ; 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

Bo swell'd the chant ; and the deep wind's moan 
Seem'd through the cedars to murmur" Gone r 

Brother ! by the rolling Rhine, 
Stands the home that once was thine 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that blest thine infant bead. 
Pills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer, 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee play'd, 
Rest beneath their own oak shade. 
Far. far hence ! yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath call'd thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland !" 

The Fatherland /"with that sweet word 
\ burst of tears 'midst the strain was heard. 

" Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourn'd and lost one found I 
But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air; 
Loved and bright things to resign, 
As even now this dust of thine ; 



HEMANS' POETI3AL WORKS. 



187 



Yet to hope ! to hope in Heaven, 
Though flowers fall, and ties he riven- 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland 1" 

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom ;- 
They had reach'd the Exile's lonely tomb. 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 



Alas! what kind of grief should thy yean know ? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



AND is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy 7 
What should the cloud be made of ? blessed child 1 
Th> spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, 
All day hath ranged through sunshine, clear, yet 
mild: 

And now thou tremblest ! wherefore ? in thy soul 
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage from the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young 

eye 

Hath look'd not into Death's, and thence become 
A questioner of mute Eternity, 
A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain, 
By feverish watching for some step beloved ; 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd, 
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child ! 'midst what dim phantoms lost. 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost tliou weep? 

Awake ! they sadden me those early tears, 
First gushings of the strong dark river's flow, 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years, 
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe ! 

Awful to watch, ev'n rolling through a dream, 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes 1 
Wake, wake ! as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, 
Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling 

rove; 
Come to the kindly region all thine own, 

home, still bright for thee with guardian love 



Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee back from visionary strife! 
Oh ! shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice, 
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life? 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 



Oh! that those lips had language! Life hath pajs'd 
With me but roughly since 1 saw thee last. 

Coitjftr. 

THINE eyes are charm M thine earnest eyes 

Thou image of the dead I 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 

Oft in their meek blue light enshrined, 

A blessing seems to be, 
And sometimes there my wayward mind 

A still reproach can see : 

And sometimes Pity soft and deep. 

And quivering through a tear; 
Xlven as if Love in Heaven could weep, 

For Grief left drooping here. 



And oh ! my spirit needs that balm, 

Needs it 'midst fitful mirth; 
And in the night-hour's haunted calm, 

And by the lonely hearth. 

Look on me thug, when hollow pri tie 

Hath made the weary pine 
For one true tone of other days, 

One glance of love like thine I 

Look on me thus, when sudden gleo 

Bears my quick heart along, 
On wings that struggle to be free, 

As bursts of skylark song. 

In vain, in vain ! too soon are felt 

The wounds they cannot flee ; 
Better in childlike tears to melt, 

Pouring my soul on thee ! 

Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone, 

Whence is thy power of change, 
Thus ever shadowing back my own. 

The rapid and the strange ? 

Whence are they charm'd those earnest eyes 1 

I know the mystery well ! 
In mine own trembling bosom lies 

The spirit of the spell ! 

Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 't is born 

Oh ! change no longer, thou 1 
For ever be the blessing worn 

On thy pure thoughtful brow I 



PARTING WORDS 



On struggle more, and I am free .Byron. 



LEAVE me, oh ! leave me ! unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, 
Too mighty in their loveliness farewell, 

That I may part in peace I 

Leave me ! thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 
Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear-. 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease 1 

I hear thy whisper and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush, 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart ; 
Dear one ! this must not bg. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze 
Thou art all earth to me I 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 

Too much and death is here I 

Doth our own spring make happy music now. 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imazed in its flow ? 
Alas 1 vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so nearl 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless! 
Not now ! 't will not be now ! my aching sight 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away 1 

Leave me! thou eom'st between my heart and 

Heaven I 

I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die I 
Why must our souls thus love, and then be ri vent 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony I 
f to, yet awhile delay 1 



1S8 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD.* 

THOD'RT passing hence, my brother 1 

Oh! my earliest friend, farewell I 
Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth, 

And from the household-tree, 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 

The brightness goes with thee. 

But thoii, my friend, my brother! 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirge-like tone of parting word* 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main ; 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood. 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Pass'd like a swift bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still Oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is fill'd 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft, deep eyes look through my dreams 

Tender and sadly sweet ; 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet 1 

And tell our white-hair'd father, 

That in the paths he trode, 
The child he loved, the last on earth. 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more bis face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother. 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of rny spirit forth, 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see ! 
Oh! brother, brother! may I dwell. 

Ere long, with them and thee 1 



THE TWO HOMES. 



Uh ! if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love immortal too ? 



SEEST thou my home ? 't is where yon woods are 

waving, 

In their dark richness, to the summer air; 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-bank* 

laving. 
Leads down the hills a vein of light, *t is there I 

'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 

gleaotiag. 

Fringed with the violet, colour'd with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 

dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! the spirit of its love is breathing 
(n every wind that plays across my track ; 

" Menage* from the living to the dead are not uneocumi in 
,JM Highland*, The Gael have such a ceaseless con*eiouine*B of 

tnmortalitjr. that their departed friends are considered as merely ab- 
ent for a time, and permitted to relieve the hours of separation b 
occasional intercourse with the objects of their earliot affection*." 

See the Notw to Mrs. Brunton'i Works 



From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved there pray'd for there my mo- 
ther 

Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother 
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 
There laughs my home sad stranger ! where il 
thine 1 

Ask'st thou of mine? In solemn peace 'tis lying. 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 
'Tis where 7, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step But where are 
they? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwel 

ing; 

Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving J 
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 
That with the dead, where'er they he, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe but dark seas roll between. 



THE 



DEATH -BED 



Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht ! da ich noch ein Bute wai 
war's rnein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sic la leben, wie sie zu sterben I 
Die Raubtr. 

Like tkte to die, thou gun ! My boyhood's dream 
Was this: and now tnv spirit, with thv beam. 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power. 
Nature's deep longings: Oh! for some kind eye. 
Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 
Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of hope and brighter day?, 
Beyond the pass of shadows! But I go, 
I, that have been so loved, go hence alone; 
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth' 

glow. 

Sweet friends f it may be that a softer tone, 
Even in this moment, with your laughing glee, 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me: 
Of me, your soldier, 'midst the mountains lying, 
On the red banner of his battles dying. 
Far, far away! and oh! your parting prayer 
Will not his name be fondly murmur'd there? 
It will ! A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth 
Mother! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Voung brother, fare thee well ! on each dear bead 
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed, 
My soul's last earthly breathings! May your home 
Smile for you ever ! May no winter come, 
No world, between your hearts ! May even your 

tears, 

For my sake, full of long-remember'd years, 
Quicken the true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears' might shin* 
Over my slumbers : yet your love will keep 
My memory living in the ancestral halls, 
Where shame hath never foil: the dark nigbl 

falls, 

And I depart. The brave are gone to rest. 
The brotHers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reap'd : their work is done 
Thou, too, art set ! farewell, farewell, thou sun ! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod, 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



IIEMANS' POETICAL WOKKS. 



189 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 

T0 * * * 



True, indeed, it is, 

That they whom death has hidden from our light, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past- 
Mortality's lait exercise and proof 
It undergone. Wordsworth. 



The love where death has et his teal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disa 



Huron. 



I CALL thee blest . though now the voice be fled, 
Which, to thy soul, brought day-spring with its 

tone, 

And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
, Eyes that ne'er look'd 01. thine but light was 
f thrown 

Far through thy breast : 

, And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord, since he is gone, 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee blest I 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As 'mid the waste an Isle of fount and palm, 
For ever green ! the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm; 
"J'is thine, all thine 1 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn, 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn. 
That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home /there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway. 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hush'd air! 

And oh . that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee blest, 
If only there I 

Blest, for the beautiful within me dwelling, 
Never to fade ! a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love, 
The rainbow still unreach'd, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and mark'd, hast known its home and place ; 
And the high memory of its holy worth, 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved 7 
Thou art ! the love his spirit bore away, 
Was not for death ! a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, 
Thine still in Heaven I 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF B>TLE. 



Where hath not woman stood, 
Strong in affection'.* might ? a rred upborn 
By an o'ennastering current 1 

GEWTLE and lovely form, 

What didst thou here. 
When the fierce battle-storm 

Bore down the spear 1 

Banner and shiver'd crest, 

Beside thee strown, 
Tell, that amidst the best, 

Thy work was donel 

Yet strangely, sadly fair, 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, 
Earth-bound the free; 

How gave those haughty dead 
A place to thee? 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crown'd 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around. 

Soft voices, clear and young. 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er thy dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell. 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note 

Savage arid shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still) 

And the swift charger sweep 

In full career, 
Trampling thy place of sloop,- 

Why earnest thou here? 

Why? ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever, where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen ? 

Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name; 

Some, for the stormy play 

And joy of strife; 
And some, to fling away 

A weary life; 

But thou, pale sleeper, thou, 
With the slight frame, 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame; 

Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour. 

To liA thy head I 

Only the true, the strong, 

The love, whose trust 
Woman's deep soul too long 

Pours on the dust I 



.90 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 



And dreams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears, and torture*, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thought!, 
They make us what we were not what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by. 



SPIRIT-LAUD 1 thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife, 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the Wealth that is lost from earth, 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes I thou art like those dim sea-caves, 

A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 

And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 

and go, 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep I 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye, 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair even as Eden fair ; 
All the beloved <if my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see, 
The eyes, whose love hath been life te me : 

They are there, and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, and joyoas, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tonei are in each, that say, 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away 1" 

1 walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 
I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint 

through the lay, 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away!" 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 
" It is but a dream; it will tnelt away 1" 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 't is gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, 
Bright faces, kind voices! where are ye, where* 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me burn 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return 1 

Call out from the future thy visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave, take thv solemn 

light, 

And oh ! with the loved, whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be I 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 

No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear; 

Bo my soul may bear on through the long, long day, 

fill 1 go where the beautiful melts not away I 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

GLOOM is upon thy silent hearth, 

silent house ! once flll'd with mirth ; 
Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thy early flowers 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days . 
My children's birth-place ! yet for me, 
It is too much to look on thee. 

Too much ! for all about thee spread, 

1 feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household-words 
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trus, 
For all which went with "dust to dust" 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's jraw, 
To lift through tears, my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high 1 

Oh! many are the mansions there,* 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by. 
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears.f 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres I 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band 

But by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death. 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore, 
The seve-'J wroath is bound once morel 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you i 
Guide me like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on bight 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

THE stranger's heart ! phi wound it not! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 



In my Tathrr's tvw '"'- '" '" 

f From u indent Hebrew dirge 

** Mourn for the mourner, 

For he a at rut. and we 



mansions. /o/m, chip, itf 
ind not for the dead 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



191 



Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leavet 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim 
Far far are those who pray'd with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land 
The voices of thy kindred band 
Oh! 'midst them all when blest thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart 1 



COME HOME! 



COMB home ! there is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower-scents wander by, 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep. 
And the sweet word brother wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

O ye Beloved ! come home ; the hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song, 

Returns and ye are gone! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burden in 2 the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens 'midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones? 
With all your boyhood's glee 

Untamed, beneath the desert's palm, 
Or on the lone mid-sea ? 

By stormy hills of battles old ? 
Or where dark rivers foam? 

Oh! life is dim where ye are not- 
Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 



* /mjitoro pace 1"* 



ONE draught, kind Fairy ! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast, 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal, pause! within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gnthor'd long and slowly ; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; 



Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the im- 
preasion nmrlured upon him by some tombs at Bologna, bearinf 
Ibis simple inscription and adds, "When I die, I could wish thai 
some friend vroQld see these words, and DO other, plated above my 
Crare. "hnplora put." 



Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 

Pour from the fount! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd. 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from tne bosom's inmost folded leaf. 
Rase the one master-grief! 

Yet pause once more ! all, all thy soul hath 

known, 

Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade I 
Is there no voice whose kind awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made? 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall ? 
Think wouldst thou part with all i 

Fill with forgetfulness ! there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness but they are far 
Never ! oh never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning sou' 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl i 

Yet pause again ! with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 

That make such visions bright ? 

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high! yet stay 
'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright 

band: 

Pour the sweet w aters back on their own rill, 
I must remember still. 

For their sake, for the dead whose image naugh. 
May dim within the temple of mv breast 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit, yet 
I ask not to forget. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 



Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith. 



WHERE shall the minstrel rind a theme? 

Where'er, for freedom shed, 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love, deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor o'er fear and death. 

Where'er a chieftain's crested brow 
Too soon hath been struck down, 

Or a bright virgin head laid low, 
Wearing its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Through storm and summer air, 

Telling, that all around have strivea 
Man's heart, and hope, and praytr. 

Where'er a blessed Home hath been 

That now is Home no more : 
A place of ivy, darkly green, 

Where laughter's light is o'er. 

Where'er, by some forsaken grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sine, a wild-flower wara, 
A star its vigil keep. 



192 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Or where a yearning heart of old, 

A dream of shepherd men, 
With forma of more than earthly mould 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 

There may the bard's high themes be found 

We die, we pass away : 
But faith, love, pity these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, 

The tear from hidden springs. 
The thorn and glory of the rose 

These are undying things. 

Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

The exhiustless flood rolls on. 



RHINE SONG 

Or THE GERMAN SOLDIERS AFTER VICTORY. 



" I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott de- 
scribe a glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a 
friend of his ! the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreit- 
tein, by the German army of Liberators on their victo- 
rious return from France. ' At the first gleam of the 
river,' he said, 'they all burst forth into the national 
chaunt, ' Am Rlioin ! Am Rhein !' They were two days 
passing over ; and the rocks and the castle were ringing 
to the song the whole time ; for each band renewed it 
while crossing ; and even the Cossacks, with the clash 
and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, 
catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the 
chorus, 'JlmRhein! Am ftAeinT" Manuscript Letter. 



TO TBE AIR OF "AM RHEIN, AH RHEIN." 



SINGLE VOICE. 

IT is the Rhine 1 our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine, I see the bright flood 

shine 1 

Sing on the march, with every banner waving 
Sing, brothers, 'tis the Rhine! Sing, brothers, 
'tis the Rhine 1 

CHORUS. 

rhe Rhine! the Rhine our own imperial River 1 
Be glory on thy track, be glory on thy track 1 

We left thy shores, to die or to deliver ; 
We bear thee Freedom back, we bear thee Free- 
dom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail . Hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of water, 
Ev'n as my mother's song ; ev'n as my mother's 

song; 

That Bound went past me on the field of slaughter, 
And heart and arm grew strong) And heart 
and arm grew strong 1 

CHORUS. 

Roll proudly on I brave blood is with thee sweep- 
ing, 
Four'd out by sons of thine, pour'd out by sons 

of thine, 

Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 
Like thee, victorious Rhine 1 Like thee, victo- 
rious Rhine 1 



SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! Home ! thy glad wave hath a tone of 

greeting. 

Thy path is by my home, thy path is by my home . 
Even now my children count the hours till meeting, 
O ransom'd ones, I come! O ransom'd ones, I 
come I 



Go, tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never. 
Sound on by hearth and shrine, sound on by 

hearth and shrine! 

Sing through the hills, that thou art free for ever 
Lift up thy voice, O Rhine 1 Lift up thy voice, 
O Rhine 1 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiai 
sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be 
desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the fol- 
lowing poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed 
to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a 
mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth fare- 
well in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song. 



Terra, oleil, rations, belle et donee Nature, 

L'air eat li parfume ! la lumiere wt si pure ! 
Aux regards d' on Mourant leaoliel eat li bean! 

Lamortm*. 



A SONO was heard of old a low, sweet song. 
On the blue sens by Delos : from that isle, 
The Sun-God's own domain, a gentle girl 
Gentle yet all inspired of soul, of mien. 
Lit with a life too perilously bright 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying! but for her, 
The child of beauty and of poesy, 
And of soft Grecian skies oh ! who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth. 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears. 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Colour'd with loving light she gazed her last. 
Her young life's last, that hour I From her pale 

brow 

And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back. 
And bending forward as the spirit sway'd 
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell 
O'er dancing waves : " Oh ! linger yet," she cried 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar, 
Oh! pause upon the deep! 

That I may gaze yet once, once more, 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep, 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore 
Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar 1 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 
Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 

I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; 
I hear a sound of flutes a swell of -?ong 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng I 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar 
Beneath my native sky I 

Let my life part from that bright shore 
With Day's last crimson gazing let me die I 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! slowly should be born* 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 
Lord of the Lyre ! to me ; 

With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, 
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart. 



HEMANS' POETICAL WORKS. 



193 



" Now, wasted by the inborn lire. 
I sink to early rest ; 

The ray that lit the incense-pyre. 
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 
O sunshine, skies, rich Mowers ! too soon I go, 
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow I 

" Bright Isle! might but thine echoes keep 

\ tone of rny farewell, 
One tender accent, low and deep, 
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 

dwell ! 

Might my last breath send music to thy shore! 
Oh ! linger, seamen, linger on the oar 1" 



AVCIENT GREEK CHAUNT OF VICTORY 



Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, 
Our virgins dance beneath the shade. 



Byron. 



lo ! they come, they come ! 

Garlands for every shrine ! 
Strike lyres to greet them home; 

Bring roses, pour ye wine! 

Swell, swell the Dorian flute 
Through the blue, triumphant sky I 

Let the Cittern's tone salute 
The sons of victory. 

With the oflering of bright blood 
They have ransom'd hearth and tomb, 

Vineyard, and field, and flood ; 
lo ! they come, they comet 

8ing it where olives wave, 

And by the glittering sea. 
And o'er each hero's crave, 

Sing, sing, the land is free ! 

Mark ye the flashing oars, 

And the spears that light the deep? 
How the festal sunshine pours 

Where the lords of battle sweep! 

Each hath brought back his shield ; 
Maid, greet thy lover home ! 

Mother, from that proud field, 
lo ! thy son is come ! 

Who murniur'd of the dead ? 

Hush, boding voice ! We know 
That many a shining head 

Lies in its glory low. 

Breathe not those names to-day 1 
They shall have their praise ere loTig, 

And a power all hearts to sway, 
In ever-burning song. 

But now shed flowers, pour wine, 
To hail the conquerors home! 

Bring wreaths for every shrine 
lo ! they come, they come I 



NAPLES. 

A SONG OF THE SYREN. 



Then gentle winds arose, 

With many a mingled close, 
of w\ld .t'.olian sound and mountain odour Keen ; 

Where the clear Baian ocean 

Welters with air-like motion 
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green. 

SMlty. 

STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 
Bright City of the Waves! her magic song 
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, 
Fills thy soft summer air: and while my glance 

13 



Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 
Floats thus oVr Fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 
Daughter of Sunshine ! doth the Syren sing. 

" Thine is the glad wave's flashing play, 
Thine is the laugh of the golden day, 
The golden day, and the glorious night, 
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light I 
Forget, forget, that thou art not free! 

Queen of the summer sea. 

" Pavour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky I 
Thine are all voices of melody. 
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower. 
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 
Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea ; 

Forget that thou art not free! 

" Let the wine flow in thy marble halls! 
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls! 
And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, 
And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 
Queen of the day and the summer sea, 

Forget that thou art not free !" 



So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves 
Dance to herchannt. But sternly, mournfully, 
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots 
And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 
Take up the cadence of her strain alone. 
Murmuring " Thou art, not free .'" 



THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. 



SHE came forth in her bridal robes array'd, 
And 'midst the graceful statues, round the hall 
Shedding the calm of their celestial mien. 
Stood pale, yet proudly beautiful, as they: 
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair. 
And death upon her brow ! but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hour. 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness, 
Had burden'd her full soul. But now, oh! now. 
Its time was come and from the spirit's depths, 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice, in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind! 

The soft pure air, 

Came floating through that hall ; the Grecian air 
Laden with music flute-notes from the valts, 
Echoes of song the last sweet sounds of life; 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Stream'd, as a royal mantle, round her form, 
The glorified of love ! But she she look'd 
Only on him for whom 't was joy to die, 
Deep deepest, holiest joy ! or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswopt the tide 
Of her unswerving soul 'twas but a thought 
That own'd the summer-loveliness of life 
For him a worthy offering! So she stood. 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile, 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles ! then flush'd her cheek. 
And all the triumph, all the agony. 
Borne on the battling waves of love and death. 
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
Burst like a fount of fire. 

" I go, I go ! 
Thou Sun, thou golden Sun, I go, 

Far from thy liaht to dwell ; 
Thou shall not find my place below, 
Dim is that world bright Sun of Greece, farewell P 

The Laurel and the glorious Rose 

Thy glad beam yet may see, 
But where no purple summer glows, 
O'er the dark wave /haste from them and the* 



194 



IIEMANS' POETICAL AVOKKS. 



Yet doth my spirit faint to part? 

I ii.ourn thee not. O Sun ! 
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart, 
Sing me triumphal songs! my crown is wont 

Let not a voice of weeping rise ! 

My heart is girt with power! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh as to grace a conqueror's closing hour) 

For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord I 

Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 
Thine is the torch of life restored. 
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory! 

Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfatliom'd still h-fore, 
In one consuming burst rind way, 
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour I 

Thouknow'st.thouknow'st what love is now/ 

Its glory and its might 
Are they not written on my brow? 
And will that image ever quit thy sight? 

No! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my meinnry keep 
Its own bright altar-place of rest, 
While o'er my grave the cypress-branches weep. 

Oh ! the glad light ! the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free, 

And rich notes fill the scented air. 

And all are gifts ray love's last gifts to thee I 

Take me to thy warm heart once morel 

Night falls my pulse beats low 
Seek not to quicken, to restore, 
Joy is in every pang I go, I go ! 

I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill 

Yet swells the tide of rapture strong. 
Though mists o'ershade mine eye ; 
Sing, I'iran ! sing a conqueror's song! 
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die!" 



THE FALL OF D'ASSA& 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 



The Chevalier I)' Assns, called the French Deciui. fell 
nobly whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, 
by niclil. He had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, 
at a short distance, and was suddenly surrounded by an 
ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with in- 
itiiiit death if hu made the least sign of their vicinity. 
With their bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, 
and calling aloud " A mui, Avergne ! ce sont les eiino- 
mis !" fell, pierced with mortal blows. 



ALONE through gloomy forest shades 

A soldier went by night; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades. 

No star shed guiding light. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round, 

The youth all cheerly pass'd ; 
Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound 

That mutterV. in the blast. 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? 

In his far home, perchance ; 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 

'Midst the gay vines of France: 

Wandering from battles lost and won. 

To hi'ar and hlcss again 
The rolling of ih wild Garonne, 

Ur murmur of the Seine. 



Hush! Hark ! did stealing steps gT by' 
Came not faint whispers near? 

No! the wild wind hath many a sigh 
Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark, yet again ! and from his hand. 
What grasp hath wrench'd the blade? 

Oh! single 'midst a hostile band, 
Young soldier', thou'rt betray 'd I 

"Silence!" in undertones th^y cry 

" No whisper not a breath! 
The sound that warns thy comrades nigh 

Shall sentence thee to death." 

Still, at the bayonet's point he stood. 
And strong to meet the blow; 

And shouted, 'midst his rushing blood, 
" Arm, arm, Au ve rgne ! the foe !" 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call 

He heard their tumults grow; 
And sent his dying voice through all 

"Auvergne, Jluverpne! the foe!" 



BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY. 1087. 



"At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince 
Henry, his third son. the Norman prelates, and a multi- 
tude of clergy and people, assembled in the Church of 
St. Stephen, which the Conqueror had founded. Th 
mass had been performed, the corse was placed on the 
oier, and the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced th 
panegyric on the deceased, when a voice from the crowd 
exclaimed,' He whom yon have praised, was a robber. 
The very land on which you stand is mine. By violence 
he took it from my father; and, in the name of God, I 
forbid y to bury him in it.' The speaker was Ascc- 
line Fitz Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, gnueht 
reparation from the justice of William. After some <! 
bate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty shil- 
lings for the grave, and promised that he should receive 
the full value of bis land. The ceremony was then con- 
tinued, and the body of the king deposited in a coffin o. 
tone." Lmgard, Vol. II. p. 98. 



LOWLY upon his bier 

The royal Conqueror lay ; 
Baron and chief stood near, 

Silent in war-array. 

Down the long minster's aisle 
Crowds mutely gazing stream'd. 

Altar and tomb the while 
Through mists of incense gleam'd 

And by the torches' blaze, 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lower'd him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose ; 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose: 

"Forbear! forbear !" it cried, 
" In the holiest name, forbear) 

He hath conquer'd regions wide, 
But he shall not slumber there I 

"By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrint 
By the harvests which this earth 

Hath borne for me and mine ; 

" By the house e'en here o'erthrown, 
On my brethren's native spot; 

Hence! \\ith his dark renown, 
rumbor our birth-place not I 



HEMANS* POETICAL WORKS. 



196 



"Will my sire's unransom'd field, 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumbers in the grave? 

"The tree before him fell, 

Which we cherish'd many a year, 
But its deep root yet shall swell, 

And heave against his bier. 

"The land that I have tilPd 

Hath yet its brooding breast 
With my home's white ashes fill'd, 

And it shall not give him rest I 

' Each pillar's massy bed 

Hath been wet by weeping eyes 
Away! bestow your dead 

Where no wrong against him cries." 

Shame glow'd on each dark face 
Of those proud and steel-eirt men, 

And they bought with srold a place 
For their leader's dust e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far! 
And a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star I 

Ont deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven, 
Oh I who shall number those 

That were but heard in heaven 1 



CHORUS. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERL 



(In the icene where the dying Alcestis has bid farewell 
to her husband and children.) 

(ATTENDANTS OF ALCESTIS.) 

PEACR, mourners, peace ! 
Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread I 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pangs ; let tears unheard be shed. 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, O friend! 

Upon thy faithful breast, 
The head that sinks, with mortal pain opprestl 

And thou, assistance lend 

To close the languid eye. 
Still beautiful, in life's last agony, 

Alasl how long a strife! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath, 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death !