Act V, Scene II — A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech.
Melech, Sadi.
Mel. It must be that these sounds and sights of war Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek Fades hourly in my sight! What other cause-- None, none! She must go hence! Choose from thy band The bravest, Sadi! and the longest tried, And I will send my child----
Voice without. Where is your chief?
De Chatillon enters, guarded by Arab and Turkish soldiers.
Arab Chief. The sons of Kedar’s tribe have brought to the son Of the Prophet’s house a prisoner!
Mel. (half drawing his sword.) Chatillon! That slew my boy! Thanks for the avenger’s hour! Sadi, their guerdon--give it them--the gold! And me the vengeance!
(Looking at Rainier, who holds the upper fragment of his sword, and seems lost in thought.)
This is he That slew my first-born!
Rai. (to himself.) Surely there leap’d up A brother’s heart within him! Yes, he struck To the earth a Paynim----
Mel. (raising his voice.) Christian! thou hast been Our nation’s deadliest foe!
Rai. (looking up and smiling proudly.) ’Tis joy to hear I have not lived in vain!
Mel. Thou bear’st thyself With a conqueror’s mien! What is thy hope from me?
Rai. A soldier’s death.
Mel. (hastily.) Then thou wouldst fear a slave’s?
Rai. Fear! As if man’s own spirit had not power To make his death a triumph! Waste not words; Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel! I slew thy son! [Looking at his broken sword. Ay, there’s the red mark here!
Mel. (approaching him.) Thou darest to tell me this!
[A tumult heard without.
Voices without. A Chatillon!
Rai. My brother’s voice! He is saved!
Mel. (calling.) What, ho! my guards!
Aymer enters with the knights, fighting their way through Melech’s soldiers, who are driven before them.
Aym. On with the war-cry of our ancient house: For the Cross--De Chatillon!
Knights. For the Cross--De Chatillon!
[Rainier attempts to break from his guards. Sadi enters with more soldiers to the assistance of Melech. Aymer and the knights are overpowered. Aymer is wounded and falls.
Mel. Bring fetters--bind the captives!
Rai. Lost--all lost! No! he is saved!
(Breaking from his guards, he goes up to Aymer.)
Brother, my brother! hast thou pardon’d me That which I did to save thee? Speak! forgive!
Aym. (turning from him.) Thou see’st I die for thee! She is avenged!
Rai. I am no murderer! Hear me! turn to me! We are parting by the grave!
Moraima enters veiled, and goes up to Melech.
Mor. Father! Oh! look not sternly on thy child. I came to plead. They said thou hast condemn’d A Christian knight to die----
Mel. Hence--to thy tent! Away--begone!
Aym. (attempting to rise.) Moraima! hath her spirit come To make death beautiful? Moraima! speak.
Mor. It was his voice! Aymer!
[She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil.
Aym. Thou liv’st--thou liv’st! I knew thou couldst not die! Look on me still Thou livest! and makest this world so full of joy-- But I depart!
Mel. (approaching her.) Moraima! hence! Is this A place for thee?
Mor. Away! away! There is no place but this for me on earth! Where should I go? There is no place but this! My soul is bound to it!
Mel. (to the guards.) Back, slaves! and look not on her! [They retreat to the background. ’Twas for this She droop’d to the earth.
Aym. Moraima, fare thee well! Think on me! I have loved thee! I take hence That deep love with my soul! for well I know It must be deathless!
Mor. Oh! thou hast not known What woman’s love is! Aymer, Aymer, stay! If I could die for thee! My heart is grown So strong in its despair!
Rai. (turning from them.) And all the past Forgotten!--our young days! His last thoughts hers! The Infidel’s!
Aym. (with a violent effort turning his head round.) Thou art no murderer! Peace Between us--peace, my brother! In our deaths We shall be join’d once more!
Rai. (holding the cross of the sword before him.) Look yet on this!
Aym. If thou hadst only told me that she lived! --But our hearts meet at last!
[Presses the cross to his lips.
Moraima! save my brother! Look on me! Joy--there is joy in death!
[He dies on Rainier’s arm.
Mor. Speak--speak once more! Aymer! how is it that I call on thee, And that thou answer’st not? Have we not loved? Death! death!--and this is--death! Rai. So thou art gone, Aymer! I never thought to weep again-- But now--farewell! Thou wert the bravest knight That e’er laid lance in rest--and thou didst wear The noblest form that ever woman’s eye Dwelt on with love; and till that fatal dream Came o’er thee! Aymer! Aymer! thou wert still The most true-hearted brother! There thou art Whose breast was once my shield! I never thought That foes should see me weep! but there thou art, Aymer, my brother!----
Mor. (suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath He bade me save his brother!
(Falling at Melech’s feet.) Father, spare The Christian--spare him!
Mel. For thy sake spare him That slew thy father’s son!--Shame to thy race!
(To the soldiers in the background.)
Soldiers! come nearer with your levell’d spears! Yet nearer!--gird him in! My boy’s young blood Is on his sword. Christian, abjure thy faith, Or die: thine hour is come!
Rai. (turning and throwing himself on the weapons of the soldiers.) Thou hast mine answer, Infidel! [Calling aloud to the knights as he falls back. Knights of France! Herman! De Foix! Du Mornay! be ye strong! Your hour will come!---- Must the old war-cry cease?
[Half raising himself, and waving the cross triumphantly.
For the Cross--De Chatillon!
[He dies.
(The curtain falls.)
ANNOTATION ON “DE CHATILLON.”
[“The merits of ‘The Siege of Valencia’ are more of a descriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind; and abounding as it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with striking scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted for representation, but, on the contrary, the characters are developed by painting much more than by incident. Withal, it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not rhetorical but diffuse.
“From the previous writings of the same author, and until the appearance of ‘The Vespers of Palermo,’ it seemed to be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs Hemans was not of a dramatic cast--that it expatiated too much in the development of sentiment, too much in the luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under the trammels essentially necessary for the success of scenic dialogue.
“The merits of ‘The Vespers’ are great, and have been acknowledged to be so, not only by the highest of contemporary literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal testimony of theatrical applause. What ‘has been, has been,’ and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so fairly earned; but we must candidly confess, that before the perusal of ‘De Chatillon,’ (although that poem is probably not quite in the state in which it would have been submitted to the world by its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing opinion, that the most successful path of Mrs Hemans did not lead her towards the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, however, now much altered; and we hesitate not to say, after minutely considering the characters of Rainier--so skilfully acted on, now by fraternal love, and now by public duty--and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where inclination is opposed to principle--that, by the cultivation of this species of composition, had health and prolonged years been the fate of the author of ‘De Chatillon,’ that tragedy, noble as it is, which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic efforts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in excellence by ulterior efforts.
“Mrs Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It is quite evident that she had succeeded in imbibing new and more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She had passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally termed the dramatic poem--from the ‘Historic Scenes’ to ‘Sebastian’ and ‘The Siege of Valencia;’ but ‘The Vespers of Palermo’ and ‘De Chatillon’ can alone be said to be her legitimate dramas.
“The last, however, must be ranked first, by many degrees of comparison. Without stripping her language of that richness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage as essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in this attempt, preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied with romance--brevity and effect, in situations strongly alluring to amplification; and, in her delineation of some of the strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is exhibited a knowledge of nature’s workings, at once minute, faithful, and affecting.”--MS. Critique by Δ.]
THE FOREST SANCTUARY.
“Long time against oppression have I fought, And for the native liberty of faith Have bled and suffer’d bonds.” Remorse; a Tragedy.
[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.]
I.
The voices of my home!--I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night-- The blessed household voices, wont to fill My heart’s clear depths with unalloy’d delight! I hear them still, unchanged: though some from earth Are music parted, and the tones of mirth-- Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright-- Have died in others; yet to me they come Singing of boyhood back--the voices of my home!
II.
They call me through this hush of woods reposing In the gray stillness of the summer morn; They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born. Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst, E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn By quenchless longings, to my soul I say-- Oh! for the dove’s swift wings, that I might flee away,
III.
And find mine ark! Yet whither? I must bear A yearning heart within me to the grave. I am of those o’er whom a breath of air-- Just darkening in its course the lake’s bright wave, And sighing through the feathery canes--hath power To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard’s cave! So must it be! These skies above me spread: Are they my own soft skies?--Ye rest not here, my dead!
IV.
Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear; Save one! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping High o’er one gentle head. Ye rest not here!-- ’Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine ear; But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birthplace moan, as moans the ocean-shell.
V.
Peace!--I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth, And lineage, and once home,--my native Spain! My own bright land--my fathers’ land--my child’s! What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds? He hath brought marks of torture and the chain-- Traces of things which pass not as a breeze; A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe--thy gifts are these!
VI.
A blighted name! I hear the winds of morn-- Their sounds are not of this! I hear the shiver Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver Their sounds are not of this!--the cedars, waving, Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving, It is not murmur’d by the joyous river! What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?
VII.
Is it not much that I may worship Him With naught my spirit’s breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice That I have learn’d at last to know His voice From man’s? I will rejoice!--my soaring soul Now hath redeem’d her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him her own unfetter’d way!
VIII.
And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise; Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, When I have check’d its throbs to give thee rest, Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me rise! Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?
IX.
Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy? Within thy fathers’ halls thou wilt not dwell, Nor lift their banner, with a warrior’s joy, Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves Have borne us far from our ancestral graves? Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel, As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood’s mould th’ indignant brow of scorn.
X.
This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child! I have not sorrow’d, struggled, lived in vain. Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild; And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main, As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade The flood’s voice, and the wind’s, by swells pervade; Hear me! ’Tis well to die, and not complain; Yet there are hours when the charged heart must speak, E’en in the desert’s ear to pour itself, or break!
XI.
I see an oak before me:[290] it hath been The crown’d one of the woods; and might have flung Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green; But a wild vine around the stem hath clung, From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing, Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among. Alas! alas! what is it that I see? An image of man’s mind, land of my sires, with thee!
XII.
Yet art thou lovely! Song is on thy hills: O sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, That lull’d my boyhood, how your memory thrills The exile’s heart with sudden-wakening pain! Your sounds are on the rocks:--that I might hear Once more the music of the mountaineer! And from the sunny vales the shepherd’s strain Floats out, and fills the solitary place With the old tuneful names of Spain’s heroic race.
XIII.
But there was silence one bright, golden day, Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone, In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, And from the fields the peasant’s voice was gone; And the red grapes untrodden strew’d the ground; And the free flocks, untended, roam’d around. Where was the pastor?--where the pipe’s wild tone? Music and mirth were hush’d the hills among, While to the city’s gates each hamlet pour’d its throng.
XIV.
Silence upon the mountains! But within The city’s gate a rush, a press, a swell Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win; And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, A dead pause following each--like that which parts The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts Fast in the hush of fear--knell after knell; And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder-rain That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane!
XV.
What pageant’s hour approach’d? The sullen gate Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown Back to the day. And who, in mournful state, Came forth, led slowly o’er its threshold-stone? They that had learn’d, in cells of secret gloom, How sunshine is forgotten! They to whom The very features of mankind were grown Things that bewilder’d! O’er that dazzled sight They lifted their wan hands, and cower’d before the light!
XVI.
To this, man brings his brother! Some were there, Who, with their desolation, had entwined Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind The breastplate on for fight; but brow and cheek Seem’d theirs a torturing panoply to speak! And there were some, from whom the very mind Had been wrung out; they smiled--oh, startling smile, Whence man’s high soul is fled! Where doth it sleep the while?
XVII.
But onward moved the melancholy train, For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain-- Heaven’s offering from the land of chivalry! Through thousands, thousands of their race they moved-- Oh, how unlike all others!--the beloved, The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye Grew fix’d before them, while a people’s breath Was hush’d, and its one soul bound in the thought of death!
XVIII.
It might be that, amidst the countless throng, There swell’d some heart with pity’s weight oppress’d: For the wide stream of human love is strong; And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast Childhood is rear’d, and at whose knee the sigh Of its first prayer is breathed--she, too, was nigh. But life is dear, and the free footstep bless’d, And home a sunny place, where each may fill Some eye with glistening smiles,--and therefore all were still.
XIX.
All still,--youth, courage, strength!--a winter laid, A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind! Still, as at noon a southern forest’s shade, They stood, those breathless masses of mankind, Still, as a frozen torrent! But the wave Soon leaps to foaming freedom; they, the brave, Endured--they saw the martyr’s place assign’d In the red flames--whence is the withering spell That numbs each human pulse? They saw, and thought it well.
XX.
And I, too, thought it well! That very morn From a far land I came, yet round me clung The spirit of my own. No hand had torn With a strong grasp away the veil which hung Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe I watch’d the fearful rites; and if there sprung One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt’s own poison-cup.
XXI.
But I was waken’d as the dreamers waken, Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken, And they must battle till their blood is shed On their own threshold floor. A path for light Through my torn breast was shatter’d by the might Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom’s tread Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, Making the blighted place all green with life again.
XXII.
Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass Of cloud o’ersweeping, without wind, the sky, Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, And mark’d its victims with a tearless eye. They moved before me but as pictures, wrought Each to reveal some secret of man’s thought, On the sharp edge of sad mortality; Till in his place came one--oh! could it be? My friend, my heart’s first friend!--and did I gaze on thee!
XXIII.
On thee! with whom in boyhood I had play’d, At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams; And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid Bare, as to heaven’s, its glowing world of dreams; And by whose side midst warriors I had stood, And in whose helm was brought--oh, earn’d with blood!-- The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Smote on my fever’d brow! Ay, years had pass’d, Severing our paths, brave friend!--and thus we met at last!
XXIV.
I see it still--the lofty mien thou borest! On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power-- The very look that once thou brightly worest, Cheering me onward through a fearful hour, When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, Midst the white Andes--even as mountain deer, Hemm’d in our camp; but through the javelin shower We rent our way, a tempest of despair! And thou--hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!
XXV.
I call the fond wish back--for thou hast perish’d More nobly far, my Alvar!--making known The might of truth;[291] and be thy memory cherish’d With theirs, the thousands that around her throne Have pour’d their lives out smiling, in that doom Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb! Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, Filling man’s heart and home with records of the dead.
XXVI.
Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread sight Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, But the scarce-own’d unwhisper’d thought of night, As a thing written with the sunbeam lies; Thou know’st--whose eye through shade and depth can see, That this man’s crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The call’d of yore--wont by the Saviour’s side On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide.
XXVII.
For the strong spirit will at times awake, Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode; And, born of thee, she may not always take Earth’s accents for the oracles of God; And even for this--O dust, whose mask is power! Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour! Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, And therefore thou destroyest!--where were flown Our hopes, if man were left to man’s decree alone!
XXVIII.
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw A sudden freshness back on vanish’d days, Like water-drops on some dim picture’s hue; Calling the proud time up, when first I stood Where banners floated, and my heart’s quick blood Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew, And he--his sword was like a brother’s worn, That watches through the field his mother’s youngest born.
XXIX.
But a lance met me in that day’s career-- Senseless I lay amidst the o’ersweeping fight; Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear, That scene on memory flash’d!--the shivery light, Moonlight, on broken shields--the plain of slaughter, The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water-- And Alvar bending o’er me--from the night Covering me with his mantle. All the past Flow’d back; my soul’s far chords all answer’d to the blast.
XXX.
Till, in that rush of visions, I became As one that, by the bands of slumber wound, Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame, Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things! Troubled even thus I stood, but chain’d and bound On that familiar form mine eye to keep: Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!
XXXI.
He pass’d me--and what next? I look’d on two, Following his footsteps to the same dread place, For the same guilt--his sisters![292] Well I knew The beauty on those brows, though each young face Was changed--so deeply changed!--a dungeon’s air Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!--flowers So cherish’d! were ye then but rear’d for those dark hours?
XXXII.
A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left! With your lutes hanging hush’d upon the wall, And silence round the aged man, bereft Of each glad voice once answering to his call. Alas, that lonely father! doom’d to pine For sounds departed in his life’s decline; And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall, With his white hair to sit, and deem the name A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame![293]
XXXIII.
And woe for you, midst looks and words of love, And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long! How had I seen you in your beauty move, Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song!-- Yet sat, even then, what seem’d the crowd to shun, Half-veil’d upon the pale clear brow of one, And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong-- Thoughts, such as wake to evening’s whispery sway, Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay.
XXXIV.
And if she mingled with the festive train, It was but as some melancholy star Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, In its bright stillness present, though afar. Yet would she smile--and that, too, hath its smile-- Circled with joy which reach’d her not the while, And bearing a lone spirit, not at war With earthly things, but o’er their form and hue Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.
XXXV.
But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, A treasure all undreamt of,--as the night Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll Unheard by day. It seem’d as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppress’d Almost with pain, and bursting from control, And finding first that hour their pathway free: Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be!
XXXVI.
For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, Was fled; and fire, like prophecy’s, had sprung Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn-- Pride--sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound By these at times, even as with adamant round, Kept so from breaking! Yet not thus upborne She moved, though some sustaining passion’s wave Lifted her fervent soul--a sister for the brave!
XXXVII.
And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings Round woman in such hours!--a mournful sight, Though lovely!--an o’erflowing of the springs, The full springs of affection, deep as bright! And she, because her life is ever twined With other lives, and by no stormy wind May thence be shaken, and because the light Of tenderness is round her, and her eye Doth weep such passionate tears--therefore she thus can die.
XXXVIII.
Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking scene, As through a triumph move; and cast aside Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory’s mien, O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide, And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth, Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, Where thy glad soul from earth was purified; Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the past, That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last.
XXXIX.
For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, Midst thy young spirit’s dreams, than that which grows Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, The shelter’d of one roof; and thus it rose Twined in with life. How is it that the hours Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, From the heart’s memory fade in this world’s breath so oft?
XL.
But thee that breath hath touch’d not; thee, nor him, The true in all things found!--and thou wert blest Even then, that no remember’d change could dim The perfect image of affection, press’d Like armour to thy bosom! Thou hadst kept Watch by thy brother’s couch of pain, and wept, Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith Unto thy soul; one light, one hope ye chose----one death.
XLI.
So didst thou pass on brightly!--but for her, Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken! All Merciful! to think that such things were, And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken! To think of that fair girl, whose path had been So strew’d with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene! And whose quick glance came ever as a token Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice As a free bird’s in spring, that makes the woods rejoice!
XLII.
And she to die!--she loved the laughing earth With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers! Was not her smile even as the sudden birth Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers? Yes! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours Flow’d from her lips, was to forget the sway Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull decay!
XLIII.
Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last I saw that form, came floating o’er my mind: A golden vintage-eve; the heats were pass’d, And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, Her father sat where gleam’d the first faint star Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar, She, on the greensward at his feet reclined, In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.
XLIV.
And now--oh, God!--the bitter fear of death, The sore amaze, the faint o’ershadowing dread, Had grasp’d her!--panting in her quick-drawn breath, And in her white lips quivering. Onward led, She look’d up with her dim bewilder’d eyes, And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies, Far in their sultry southern azure spread, Glowing with joy, but silent!--still they smiled, Yet sent down no reprieve for earth’s poor trembling child.
XLV.
Alas! that earth had all too strong a hold, Too fast, sweet Inez! on thy heart, whose bloom Was given to early love, nor knew how cold The hours which follow. There was one, with whom, Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried, Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have died: But he was far away; and with thy doom Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mortal fear!
XLVI.
No aid!--thou too didst pass!--and all had pass’d, The fearful--and the desperate--and the strong! Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along; And some as men that have but one more field To fight, and then may slumber on their shield,-- Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng Roll’d on, and bore me with their living tide, Even as a bark wherein is left no power to guide.
XLVII.
Wave swept on wave. We reach’d a stately square, Deck’d for the rites. An altar stood on high, And gorgeous, in the midst: a place for prayer, And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall? No fair young firstling of the flock to die, As when before their God the patriarchs stood?-- Look down! man brings thee, heaven! his brother’s guiltless blood!
XLVIII.
Hear its voice, hear!--a cry goes up to thee, From the stain’d sod; make thou thy judgment known On him the shedder!--let his portion be The fear that walks at midnight--give the moan In the wind haunting him, a power to say, “Where is thy brother?”--and the stars a ray To search and shake his spirit, when alone With the dread splendour of their burning eyes! So shall earth own thy will--Mercy, not sacrifice!
XLIX.
Sounds of triumphant praise! the mass was sung-- Voices that die not might have pour’d such strains! Through Salem’s towers might that proud chant have rung When the Most High, on Syria’s palmy plains, Had quell’d her foes!--so full it swept, a sea Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free! --Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanes, Hath fill’d the choral forests with its power, Some deep tone brings me back the music of that hour.
L.
It died away;--the incense-cloud was driven Before the breeze--the words of doom were said; And the sun faded mournfully from heaven: He faded mournfully, and dimly red, Parting in clouds from those that look’d their last, And sigh’d--“Farewell, thou sun!” Eve glow’d and pass’d; Night--midnight and the moon--came forth and shed Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot-- Save one--a place of death--and there men slumber’d not.
LI.
’Twas not within the city--[294] but in sight Of the snow-crown’d sierras, freely sweeping, With many an eagle’s eyrie on the height, And hunter’s cabin, by the torrent peeping Far off: and vales between, and vineyards lay, With sound and gleam of waters on their way, And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping In many a peasant home!--the midnight sky Brought softly that rich world round those who came to die.
LII.
The darkly glorious midnight sky of Spain, Burning with stars! What had the torches’ glare To do beneath that temple, and profane Its holy radiance? By their wavering flare, I saw beside the pyres--I see thee now, O bright Theresa! with thy lifted brow, And thy clasp’d hands, and dark eyes fill’d with prayer! And thee, sad Inez! bowing thy fair head, And mantling up thy face, all colourless with dread!
LIII.
And Alvar, Alvar!--I beheld thee too, Pale, steadfast, kingly: till thy clear glance fell On that young sister; then perturb’d it grew, And all thy labouring bosom seem’d to swell With painful tenderness. Why came I there, That troubled image of my friend to bear Thence, for my after-years?--a thing to dwell In my heart’s core, and on the darkness rise, Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful eyes?
LIV.
Why came I?--oh! the heart’s deep mystery!--Why In man’s last hour doth vain affection’s gaze Fix itself down on struggling agony, To the dimm’d eyeballs freezing as they glaze? It might be--yet the power to will seem’d o’er-- That my soul yearn’d to hear his voice once more! But mine was fetter’d!--mute in strong amaze, I watch’d his features as the night-wind blew, And torch-light or the moon’s pass’d o’er their marble hue.
LV.
The trampling of a steed! A tall white steed, Rending his fiery way the crowds among-- A storm’s way through a forest--came at speed, And a wild voice cried “Inez!” Swift she flung The mantle from her face, and gazed around, With a faint shriek at that familiar sound; And from his seat a breathless rider sprung. And dash’d off fiercely those who came to part, And rush’d to that pale girl, and clasp’d her to his heart.
LVI.
And for a moment all around gave way To that full burst of passion! On his breast, Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay, But blest--in misery’s very lap--yet blest! O 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 die without despair?
LVII.
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 arms, so 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 Its mother’s breast beyond the lightning’s reach to kill?
LVIII.
Brief rest! upon the turning billow’s height A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain, Floating between the savage gusts of night, That sweep the seas to foam! Soon dark again The hour--the scene; th’ intensely present rush’d Back on her spirit, and her large tears gush’d Like blood-drops from a victim--with swift rain Bathing the bosom where she lean’d that hour, As if her life would melt into th’ o’erswelling shower.
LIX.
But he whose arm sustain’d her!--oh, I knew ’Twas vain!--and yet he hoped--he fondly strove Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo, As life might yet be hers! A dream of love Which could not look upon so fair a thing, Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring, Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, And deem that men indeed, in very truth, Could mean the sting of death for her soft flowering youth!
LX.
He woo’d her back to life. “Sweet Inez, live! My blessed Inez!--visions have beguiled Thy heart; abjure them! thou wert form’d to give And to find joy; and hath not sunshine smiled Around thee ever? Leave me not, mine own! Or earth will grow too dark!--for thee alone, Thee have I loved, thou gentlest! from a child, And borne thine image with me o’er the sea, Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak! Oh! yet live for me!”
LXI.
She look’d up wildly; there were anxious eyes Waiting that look--sad eyes of troubled thought, Alvar’s--Theresa’s! Did her childhood rise, With all its pure and home-affections fraught, In the brief glance? She clasp’d her hands--the strife Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, Within her woman’s breast so deeply wrought, It seem’d as if a reed so slight and weak Must, in the rending storm not quiver only--break!
LXII.
And thus it was. The young cheek flush’d and faded, As the swift blood in currents came and went, And hues of death the marble brow o’ershaded, And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent Through its white fluttering lids. Then tremblings pass’d O’er the frail form, that shook it as the blast Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent Its way to peace--the fearful way unknown. Pale in love’s arms she lay--she!--what had loved was gone!
LXIII.
Joy for thee, trembler!--thou redeem’d one, joy! Young dove set free!--earth, ashes, soulless clay, Remain’d for baffled vengeance to destroy. Thy chain was riven! Nor hadst thou cast away Thy hope in thy last hour!--though love was there Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, And life seem’d robed in beautiful array, Too fair to leave!--but this might be forgiven, Thou wert so richly crown’d with precious gifts of heaven!
LXIV.
But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, Which, with its weight of agony, had lain Breaking on his! Scarce could the mortal chill Of the hush’d bosom, ne’er to heave again, And all the silence curdling round the eye, Bring home the stern belief that she could die-- That she indeed could die!--for, wild and vain As hope might be, his soul had hoped: ’twas o’er-- Slowly his failing arms dropp’d from the form they bore.
LXV.
They forced him from that spot. It might be well, That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell, Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung, Were mark’d as guilt. There are who note these things Against the smitten heart; its breaking strings --On whose low thrills once gentle music hung-- With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange tones replying.
LXVI.
But ye in solemn joy, O faithful pair! Stood gazing on your parted sister’s dust; I saw your features by the torch’s glare, And they were brightening with a heavenward trust! I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, Melt from my Alvar’s glorious mien away; And peace was there--the calmness of the just! And, bending down the slumb’rer’s brow to kiss, “Thy rest is won,” he said, “sweet sister! Praise for this!”
LXVII.
I started as from sleep;--yes!--he had spoken-- A breeze had troubled memory’s hidden source! At once the torpor of my soul was broken-- Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. There are soft breathings in the southern wind, That so your ice-chains, O ye streams! unbind, And free the foaming swiftness of your course! I burst from those that held me back, and fell Even on his neck, and cried--“Friend! brother! fare thee well!”
LXVIII.
Did he not say “Farewell?” Alas! no breath Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throng Told that the mysteries in the face of death Had from their eager sight been veil’d too long. And we were parted as the surge might part Those that would die together, true of heart. His hour was come--but in mine anguish strong, Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, Blindly I rush’d away from that which was to be.
LXIX.
Away--away I rush’d; but swift and high The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, Till the transparent darkness of the sky Flush’d to a blood-red mantle in their hue; And, phantom-like, the kindling city seem’d To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they stream’d, With their wild splendour chasing me! I knew The death-work was begun--I veil’d mine eyes, Yet stopp’d in spell-bound fear to catch the victims’ cries.
LXX.
What heard I then?--a ringing shriek of pain, Such as for ever haunts the tortured ear? I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain Piercing the flame, untremulous and clear! The rich, triumphal tones!--I knew them well, As they came floating with a breezy swell! Man’s voice was there--a clarion-voice to cheer In the mid-battle--ay, to turn the flying; Woman’s--that might have sung of heaven beside the dying!
LXXI.
It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know That its glad stream of melody could spring Up from th’ unsounded gulfs of human woe! Alvar! Theresa!--what is deep? what strong? --God’s breath within the soul! It fill’d that song From your victorious voices! But the glow On the hot air and lurid skies increased: Faint grew the sounds--more faint: I listen’d--they had ceased!
LXXII.
And thou indeed hadst perish’d, my soul’s friend! I might form other ties--but thou alone Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, By other years o’er boyhood’s memory thrown! Others might aid me onward: thou and I Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, Once flowering--never more! And thou wert gone! Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me?
LXXIII.
And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave! I could not weep--there gather’d round thy name Too deep a passion. Thou denied a grave! Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier’s fame! Had I not known thy heart from childhood’s time? Thy heart of hearts?--and couldst thou die for crime? No! had all earth decreed that death of shame, I would have set, against all earth’s decree, Th’ inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee!
LXXIV.
There are swift hours in life--strong, rushing hours, That do the work of tempests in their might! They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers Unto th’ undoubting mind; they pour in light Where it but startles--like a burst of day For which th’ uprooting of an oak makes way; They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight; They touch with fire thought’s graven page, the roll Stamp’d with past years--and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!
LXXV.
And this was of such hours! The sudden flow Of my soul’s tide seem’d whelming me; the glare Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, Scorch’d up my heart with breathless thirst for air, And solitude, and freedom. It had been Well with me then, in some vast desert scene, To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear On with them, wildly questioning the sky, Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man’s dim destiny.
LXXVI.
I would have call’d, adjuring the dark cloud; To the most ancient heavens I would have said-- “Speak to me! show me truth!”[295]--through night aloud I would have cried to him, the newly dead, “Come back! and show me truth!” My spirit seem’d Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem’d With such pent storms of thought! Again I fled, I fled, a refuge from man’s face to gain, Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely fane.
LXXVII.
A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast! Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor Shut in the grave; a shadow of the past, A memory of the sainted steps that wore Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem’d to brood Like mist upon the stately solitude; A halo of sad fame to mantle o’er Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men; And all was hush’d as night in some deep Alpine glen.
LXXVIII.
More hush’d, far more!--for there the wind sweeps by, Or the woods tremble to the streams’ loud play; Here a strange echo made my very sigh Seem for the place too much a sound of day! Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, fading, Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading. And I stood still: prayer, chant had died away; Yet past me floated a funereal breath Of incense. I stood still--as before God and death.
LXXIX.
For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed![296] Dust--imaged forms--with cross, and shield, and crest; It seem’d as if your ashes would have started Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest! Yet ne’er, perchance, did worshipper of yore Bear to your thrilling presence what I bore Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast! I could have pour’d out words, on that pale air, To make your proud tombs ring. No, no! I could not there!
LXXX.
Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand years, Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept; Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears And kneeling votaries on their marble kept! Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb! And you, ye dead!--for in that faith ye slept, Whose weight had grown a mountain’s on my heart, Which could not there be loosed. I turn’d me to depart.
LXXXI.
I turn’d: what glimmer’d faintly on my sight-- Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow Seen through dissolving haze? The moon, the night, Had waned, and down pour’d in--gray, shadowy, slow, Yet dayspring still! A solemn hue it caught, Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught With stoles and draperies of imperial glow; And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone.
LXXXII.
Thy form, thou Son of God!--a wrathful deep, With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread, And such a weight of night!--a night, when sleep From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. A bark show’d dim beyond Thee, with its mast Bow’d, and its rent sail shivering to the blast; But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread, Thou, as o’er glass, didst walk that stormy sea Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee.
LXXXIII.
So still thy white robes fell!--no breath of air Within their long and slumb’rous folds had sway. So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair From thy clear brow flow’d droopingly away! Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour!--dark The gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark! But Thou!--o’er all thine aspect and array Was pour’d one stream of pale, broad, silvery light: Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding night!
LXXXIV.
Aid for one sinking! Thy lone brightness gleam’d On his wild face, just lifted o’er the wave, With its worn, fearful, human look, that seem’d To cry, through surge and blast--“I perish--save!” Not to the winds--not vainly! Thou wert nigh, Thy hand was stretch’d to fainting agony, Even in the portals of th’ unquiet grave! O Thou that art the life! and yet didst bear Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer!
LXXXV.
But was it not a thing to rise on death, With its remember’d light, that face of thine, Redeemer! dimm’d by this world’s misty breath, Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine? Oh! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty! And the pale glory of the brow!--a shrine Where power sat veil’d, yet shedding softly round What told that Thou couldst be but for a time uncrown’d!
LXXXVI.
And, more than all, the heaven of that sad smile! The lip of mercy, our immortal trust! Did not that look, that very look, erewhile Pour its o’ershadow’d beauty on the dust? Wert thou not such when earth’s dark cloud hung o’er Thee?-- Surely thou wert! My heart grew hush’d before Thee, Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way: What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, and pray?
LXXXVII.
Amidst the stillness rose my spirit’s cry, Amidst the dead--“By that full cup of woe, Press’d from the fruitage of mortality, Saviour! for Thee--give light! that I may know If by thy will, in thine all-healing name, Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame, And early death; and say, if this be so, Where, then, is mercy? Whither shall we flee, So unallied to hope, save by our hold on Thee?
LXXXVIII.
“But didst Thou not, the deep sea brightly treading, Lift from despair that struggler with the wave? And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding, Beheld a weeper at a mortal’s grave? And is this weight of anguish, which they bind On life--this searing to the quick of mind, That but to God its own free path would crave-- This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, Thy will, indeed? Give light! that I may know the truth!
LXXXIX.
“For my sick soul is darken’d unto death, With shadows from the suffering it hath seen; The strong foundations of mine ancient faith Sink from beneath me--whereon shall I lean? Oh! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh Of the dust’s anguish! if like man to die-- And earth round him shuts heavily--hath been Even to Thee bitter, aid me! guide me! turn My wild and wandering thoughts back from their starless bourne!”
XC.
And calm’d I rose: but how the while had risen Morn’s orient sun, dissolving mist and shade! Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison, In the bright world such radiance might pervade? It fill’d the fane, it mantled the pale form Which rose before me through the pictured storm, Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array’d With life!--How hard to see thy race begun, And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, O Sun!
XCI.
I sought my home again; and thou, my child, There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine, With eyes, whose lightning laughter[297] hath beguiled A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine; Thou in thy mother’s arms, a babe, didst meet My coming with young smiles, which yet, though sweet, Seem’d on my soul all mournfully to shine, And ask a happier heritage for thee, Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see.
XCII.
Now sport, for thou art free! the bright birds chasing, Whose wings waft star-like gleams from tree to tree; Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate, racing, Sport on, my joyous child! for thou art free! Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart, And inly vow’d, for thee a better part To choose; that so thy sunny bursts of glee Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen woe, But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on--as now they flow.
XCIII.
Thou hast a rich world round thee--mighty shades Weaving their gorgeous tracery o’er thy head, With the light melting through their high arcades As through a pillar’d cloister’s;[298] but the dead Sleep not beneath; nor doth the sunbeam pass To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass; Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led To worship, thou art blest! to thee is shown Earth in her holy pomp, deck’d for her God alone. [290] “I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical temperament, expressing the kind of horror which he felt on beholding, on the banks of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which had been in a manner overpowered by an enormous wild-grape vine. The vine had clasped its huge folds round the trunk, and from thence had wound about every branch and twig, until the mighty tree had withered in its embrace. It seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous coils of the monster Python.”--Bracebridge Hall. Chapter on Forest-Trees.
[291] For a most interesting account of the Spanish Protestants, and the heroic devotion with which they met the spirit of persecution in the sixteenth century, see the Quarterly Review, No. 57, Art. “Quin’s Visit to Spain.”
[292] “A priest named Gonzalez had, among other proselytes, gained over two young females, his sisters, to the Protestant faith. All three were confined in the dungeons of the Inquisition. The torture, repeatedly applied, could not draw from them the least evidence against their religious associates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a recantation from the two sisters, since the constancy and learning of Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theological victory. Their answer, if not exactly logical, is wonderfully simple and affecting:--‘We will die in the faith of our brother: he is too wise to be wrong, and too good to deceive us.’ The three stakes on which they died were near each other. The priest had been gagged till the moment of lighting up the wood. The few minutes that he was allowed to speak he employed in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung the 109th Psalm, till the flames smothered their voices.”--Ibid.
[293] The names, not only of the immediate victims of the Inquisition were devoted to infamy, but those of all their relations were branded with the same indelible stain, which was likewise to descend as an inheritance to their latest posterity.
[294] The piles erected for these executions were without the towns, and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, from the length of the preceding ceremonies, delayed till midnight.
[295] For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind struggling against habit and superstition in its first aspirations after truth, see the admirable Letters from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado.
[296] “You walk from end to end over a floor of tombstones, inlaid in brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and crosiers, and spears, and shields, and helmets, all mingled together--all worn into glass-like smoothness by the feet and the knees of long-departed worshippers. Around, on every side, each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed from age to age the venerable ashes of the holiest or the loftiest that of old came thither to worship--their images and their dying prayers sculptured among the resting-places of their remains.”--From a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathedrals, in Peter’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.
[297] “El’ lampeggiar de l’angelico riso.”--Petrarch.
[298] “Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades of moss-grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs first suggested that Gothic architecture beneath whose pointed arches, where they had studied and prayed, the parti-coloured windows shed a tinged light; scenes which the gleams of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, and flickering on the variegated turf below, might have recalled to their memory.”--Webster’s Oration on the Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.--See Hodgson’s Letters from North America, vol. ii. p. 305.