Part II

Part II

Hast thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty’s farewell? Italia! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O’er all that hath been great on earth. Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child: Though fane and tomb alike are low, Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow; And, robed in that exulting ray, Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay-- Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, In nature’s pomp magnificent! What marvel if, when all was lost, Still on thy bright enchanted coast, Though many an omen warn’d him thence, Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114] Still gazing on the lovely sky, Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die? Like him, who would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell? Hath not thy pure and genial air Balm for all sadness but despair?[115] No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace Not all thy magic can efface! Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn The world and all its gifts to spurn; Time may steal on with silent tread, And dry the tear that mourns the dead, May change fond love, subdue regret, And teach e’en vengeance to forget: But thou, Remorse! there is no charm Thy sting, avenger, to disarm! Vain are bright suns and laughing skies To soothe thy victim’s agonies: The heart once made thy burning throne, Still, while it beats, is thine alone.

In vain for Otho’s joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes’ rich array Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave!

Where, through Gargano’s woody dells, O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116] A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. ’Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there; Around that dweller of the wild There “bright appearances” have smiled, And angel-wings at eve have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echoes made An Eden of the lonely shade! Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps; Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown And veil’d his low sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aërial vesper-hymns may hear Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine’s departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o’er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs, To soothe his soul with vows and prayers; And if for him, on holy ground, The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, Midst rocks and forests, by the bed Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, She dwells, remote from heedless eye, With nature’s lonely majesty.

Vain, vain the search!--his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest: The weary pilgrimage is o’er, The hopes that cheer’d it are no more. Then sinks his soul, and day by day Youth’s buoyant energies decay. The light of health his eye hath flown, The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. Joyless as one on whom is laid Some baleful spell that bids him fade, Extending its mysterious power O’er every scene, o’er every hour: E’en thus he withers; and to him Italia’s brilliant skies are dim. He withers--in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair-- He only seems to perish there.

Yet sometimes will a transient smile Play o’er his faded cheek awhile, When breathes his minstrel boy a strain Of power to lull all earthly pain-- So wildly sweet, its notes might seem Th’ ethereal music of a dream, A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone! Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe; And if at times its wakening swell Some tale of glory seems to tell, Soon the proud notes of triumph die, Lost in a dirge’s harmony. Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved, Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved, Ere the sad strain could catch from thence Such deep impassion’d eloquence! Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy-- He is no child of hope and joy! Though few his years, yet have they been Such as leave traces on the mien, And o’er the roses of our prime Breathe other blights than those of time.

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d. Oh! there are sorrows which impart A sternness foreign to the heart, And, rushing with an earthquake’s power, That makes a desert in an hour, Rouse the dread passions in their course, As tempests wake the billows’ force!-- ’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind?

His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow: And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d Dwells the sad secret in his breast; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well conceals-- He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone In music’s eloquence alone; His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d Through his full song and swelling chord.

He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain; And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber’s banks along, Where Empire’s desolate remains Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains; Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home; When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls; When hush’d is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown-- A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, ’Tis like a dirge for empires gone!

Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!-- The feast is spread, and music’s call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O’er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep-- The still small voice of conscience--die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music’s power shall fly; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woe; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart--but not the mien!

Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow, Still darker lower the shadows now; Changed are his features, now o’erspread With the cold paleness of the dead; Now crimson’d with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d; Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay’d, He sinks--while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter--“This is death!”

Then rush’d that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill’d with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer’s mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried:-- “Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now! Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from me! Yet these are but a moment’s throes-- Howe’er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath-- My life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time!

“Deem’st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied--but destroy’d! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought-- That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!--once a hero’s bride! Otho! thou know’st the rest--he died. Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst thou trust in aught again?

“He died, and I was changed--my soul, A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow-- The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d, The debt of blood shall soon be paid! Thine hour is come--the time hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene; That feeling long is past--my fate Hath made me stern as desolate.

“Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom? Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb! He sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory--Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!”

The day departs--that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away: From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber’s stream, And softly tints each Roman hill With glowing light, as clear and still As if, unstain’d by crime or woe, Its hours had pass’d in silent flow. The day sets calmly--it hath been Mark’d with a strange and awful scene: One guilty bosom throbs no more, And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er. And thou, ere yet another sun His burning race hath brightly run, Released from anguish by thy foes, Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose. Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky Fix yet once more thy parting eye! A few short hours--and all shall be The silent and the past for thee. Oh! thus with tempests of a day We struggle, and we pass away, Like the wild billows as they sweep, Leaving no vestige on the deep! And o’er thy dark and lowly bed The sons of future days shall tread, The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, By them unknown, by thee forgot.

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

[115]

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

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

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

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

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

THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

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

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound Of mirth and music, at the close of day, Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, In gay magnificence the feast was spread; And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes, That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d In godlike beauty, awfully serene. Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined Round that luxurious board!--in every face Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth, But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.

Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom May still survive the wearers--and the rose Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb Receives the mighty to its dark repose! The day must dawn on battle, and may set In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high! Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet Lend her one hour for parting revelry. They who the empire of the world possess’d Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.

Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien, And read their annals on that brow of care! Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been: Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair. Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire The buoyant energies of days gone by; There is delusion in its meteor fire, And all within is shame, is agony! Away! the tear in bitterness may flow, But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee: in decay Not less than kingly--though of all bereft, Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away. Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!

But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made His desolation--thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d, To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride. Imperial being! e’en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light Inspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye, Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright With the deep glow of feverish energy. Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught With an immortal fire--in every beam It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream; For thou with death hast communed to attain Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]

And the stern courage by such musings lent, Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent With all the majesty of mighty woes: While he, so fondly, fatally adored, Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d Can deem the day-star of its glory set; Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.

But there is sadness in the eyes around, Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away. “Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries; “Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep; While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me.

“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er, O victors of Philippi! many a field Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more! By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d. Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread, Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d, Now bursts the tempest on his crested head! Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky, The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”

The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night-- Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep; From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep. For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams, The battle-signal to decide their doom, Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;-- Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb; Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease, When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.

Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound Of gathering tumult?--Near and nearer still Its murmur swells. Above, below, around. Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, Is heard upon the midnight air to float; And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.

These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strain Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; And the deep horror chilling every vein Owns them of stern terrific augury. Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away, O ye invisible and awful throng! Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along. Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky By that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”[119]

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

[119]

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

ALARIC IN ITALY.

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

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? His steps have track’d that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dead,[120] Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He pass’d--the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains;

And woke they not--the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylæ? And left they not their silent dwelling, When Scythia’s note of war was swelling? No! where the bold Three Hundred slept, Sad freedom battled not--but wept! For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand, And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; Nor one high soul from slumber broke When Athens own’d the northern yoke.

But was there none for thee to dare The conflict, scorning to despair? O City of the seven proud hills! Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills, As doth a clarion’s battle-call-- Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall? Did no Camillus from the chain Ransom thy Capitol again? Oh, who shall tell the days to be No patriot rose to bleed for thee!

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121] Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:-- How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th’ ascendant star of destiny! She woke--to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour’d from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine: Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O’er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying.

Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! The time hath been when thy distress Had roused up empires for redress! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder’d temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies.

Ye who on bright Campania’s shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep-- Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed,[122] O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords. Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes-- While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art-- Oh! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye To visions of divinity; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace.

Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites; And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors! your flowery bondage break, Sons of the stormy North, awake! The barks are launching from the steep-- Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123] And Afric’s burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war. Where shall his race of victory close? When shall the ravaged earth repose? But hark! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? A sterner conquerer hath been there! A conqueror--yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world’s release; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer--Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now--a grave alone. But his--her lord from Alp to sea-- No common sepulchre shall be! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne’er descry! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch’s bed. Let not his royal dust be hid ’Neath star-aspiring pyramid; Nor bid the gather’d mound arise, To bear his memory to the skies. Years roll away--oblivion claims Her triumph o’er heroic names; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory’s ray; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, O leader of the free! That general doom awaits not thee: Thou, where no step may e’er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener’s final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, And hollow in the torrent’s bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done--the captive’s hand Hath well obey’d his lord’s command. Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there; To rest at length from victory’s toil, Alone, with all an empire’s spoil!

Then the freed current’s rushing wave Rolls o’er the secret of the grave; Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep. Time hath past on since then--and swept From earth the urns where heroes slept; Temples of gods and domes of kings Are mouldering with forgotten things; Yet not shall ages e’er molest The viewless home of Alaric’s rest: Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, The guardian of his dust for ever.

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

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

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

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

THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.

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

The sun sets brightly--but a ruddier glow O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway’d by the wind, they wave--while glares the sky As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams-- Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124] --But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round--intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round; Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien-- She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign?

Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children’s martyrdom; Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. “Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. Think’st thou I love them not?--’Twas thine to fly-- ’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.”

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.

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

HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.

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

A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries Rose from her dwellings--youthful cheeks were pale, Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, And voices mingling in tumultuous wail; Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair.

Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside The regal splendour of their fair array, With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride, And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay; While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine Who made of old renown and empire thine.

But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate, The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold; And all the scene reveals its solemn state, Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold; And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode, The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God.

Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest? Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne, And call the oracle’s recess thine own!

Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host, Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast, Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been.

Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might, To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill? Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain, Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again!

Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store: What recks his heart though age unsuccour’d die, And want consume the cheek of infancy?

Away, intruders!--hark! a mighty sound! Behold, a burst of light!--away, away! A fearful glory fills the temple round, A vision bright in terrible array! And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame, His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame!

His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane Seems waving fire--the kindling of his eye Is as a meteor--ardent with disdain His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty! Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear Some dread archangel through the fields of air.

But who is he, in panoply of gold, Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form, Yet in its brightness awful to behold, And girt with all the terrors of the storm! Lightning is on his helmet’s crest--and fear Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe.

And by his side two radiant warriors stand, All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace-- Oh! more than kingly--godlike!--sternly grand, Their port indignant, and each dazzling face Beams with the beauty to immortals given, Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven.

Then sinks each gazer’s heart--each knee is bow’d In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight, Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd, Bursts on their leader in terrific might; And the stern angels of that dread abode Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God.

Darkness--thick darkness!--low on earth he lies, Rash Heliodorus--motionless and pale-- Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train, Is borne from that inviolable fane.

The light returns--the warriors of the sky Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away; Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day; Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill! Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.

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

NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA.

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

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

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

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

In Genoa, when the sunset gave Its last warm purple to the wave, No sound of war, no voice of fear, Was heard, announcing danger near: Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate But slumber’d till its hour of fate, Yet calmly, at the twilight’s close, Sunk the wide city to repose.

But when deep midnight reign’d around, All sudden woke the alarm-bell’s sound, Full swelling, while the hollow breeze Bore its dread summons o’er the seas. Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted; Then mingled with th’ awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors! arm! for danger calls; Arise to guard your native walls! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene.

But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O’er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying: Now floating o’er each tall arcade, Around the pillar’d scene display’d, In light relieved by depth of shade: And now, with ruddy meteor glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow’d servants of the fane. Of life’s past woes the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch’s face Expression holy, deep, resign’d, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o’er his snowy head have pass’d, And left him of his race the last, Alone on earth--yet still his mien Is bright with majesty serene; And those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from th’ eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye Whose fount is immortality, And o’er his features pour’d a ray Of glory, not to pass away. He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone, On earth by nought but pity’s tie Detain’d a moment from on high! One to sublimer worlds allied, One from all passion purified, E’en now half mingled with the sky, And all prepared--oh! not to die-- But, like the prophet, to aspire, In heaven’s triumphal car of fire. He speaks--and from the throngs around Is heard not e’en a whisper’d sound; Awe-struck each heart, and fix’d each glance, They stand as in a spell-bound trance: He speaks--oh! who can hear nor own The might of each prevailing tone?

“Chieftains and warriors! ye, so long Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate Hath made your country desolate; Now by the love ye bear her name, By that pure spark of holy flame On freedom’s altar brightly burning, But, once extinguished, ne’er returning; By all your hopes of bliss to come When burst the bondage of the tomb; By Him, the God who bade us live To aid each other, and forgive-- I call upon ye to resign Your discords at your country’s shrine, Each ancient feud in peace atone, Wield your keen swords for her alone, And swear upon the cross, to cast Oblivion’s mantle o’er the past!”

No voice replies. The holy bands Advance to where yon chieftain stands, With folded arms, and brow of gloom O’ershadow’d by his floating plume. To him they lift the cross--in vain: He turns--oh! say not with disdain, But with a mien of haughty grief, That seeks not e’en from heaven relief. He rends his robes--he sternly speaks-- Yet tears are on the warrior’s checks:-- “Father! not thus the wounds may close Inflicted by eternal foes. Deem’st thou thy mandate can efface The dread volcano’s burning trace? Or bid the earthquake’s ravaged scene Be smiling as it once hath been? No! for the deeds the sword hath done Forgiveness is not lightly won; The words by hatred spoke may not Be as a summer breeze forgot! ’Tis vain--we deem the war-feud’s rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath’d us that undying flame; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy!--blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget.”

He pauses. From the patriarch’s brow There beams more lofty grandeur now; His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command; His voice is awful, and his eye Fill’d with prophetic majesty.

“The dead!--and deem’st thou they retain Aught of terrestrial passion’s stain? Of guilt incurr’d in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty? And say’st thou, mortal! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone? There hath been blood--by Him ’twas shed To expiate every crime who bled; Th’ absolving God, who died to save, And rose in victory from the grave! And by that stainless offering given Alike for all on earth to heaven; By that inevitable hour When death shall vanquish pride and power, And each departing passion’s force Concentrate all in late remorse; And by the day when doom shall be Pass’d on earth’s millions, and on thee-- The doom that shall not be repeal’d, Once utter’d, and for ever seal’d-- I summon thee, O child of clay! To cast thy darker thoughts away, And meet thy foes in peace and love, As thou wouldst join the blest above.”

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling Is o’er the chieftain’s bosom stealing. Oh, not in vain the pleading cries Of anxious thousands round him rise! He yields: devotion’s mingled sense Of faith, and fear, and penitence, Pervading all his soul, he bows To offer on the cross his vows, And that best incense to the skies, Each evil passion’s sacrifice.

Then tears from warriors’ eyes were flowing, High hearts with soft emotions glowing; Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, And ardent throngs in transport meeting; And eager footsteps forward pressing, And accents loud in joyous blessing; And when their first wild tumults cease, A thousand voices echo “Peace!”

Twilight’s dim mist hath roll’d away, And the rich Orient burns with day; Then as to greet the sunbeam’s birth, Rises the choral hymn of earth-- Th’ exulting strain through Genoa swelling, Of peace and holy rapture telling.

Far float the sounds o’er vale and steep, The seaman hears them on the deep-- So mellow’d by the gale, they seem As the wild music of a dream. But not on mortal ear alone Peals the triumphant anthem’s tone; For beings of a purer sphere Bend with celestial joy, to hear.

THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.

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

The Troubadour o’er many a plain Hath roam’d unwearied, but in vain. O’er many a rugged mountain-scene And forest wild his track hath been: Beneath Calabria’s glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry; His voice hath swell’d on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees; From Ebro’s banks to Danube’s wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave; And yet, if still on earth thou art, Monarch of the lion-heart! The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish’d not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot.

He hath reach’d a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o’er the lovely Rhine: The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might; Dark is their aspect of sullen state-- No helmet hangs o’er the massy gate[126] To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain’s board a welcome guest; Vainly rich evening’s parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky.

Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant’s mandate, the prisoner’s moan, Or the wild huntsman’s bugle-blast, When his phantom train are hurrying past.[127] The weary minstrel paused--his eye Roved o’er the scene despondingly: Within the length’ning shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed. The rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown’d; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood-- By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll’d below; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild; Nor pastoral pipe nor convent’s bell Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell; But all was lonely, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude.

But hark! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour’s wild song is waking. Full oft that song in days gone by Hath cheer’d the sons of chivalry: It hath swell’d o’er Judah’s mountains lone, Hermon! thy echoes have learn’d its tone; On the Great Plain[128] its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders’ tents among; Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon; And now afar o’er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine.

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

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

THE TROUBADOUR’S SONG.

“Thine hour is come, and the stake is set,” The Soldan cried to the captive knight, “And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight.

“But be our faith by thy lips profess’d, The faith of Mecca’s shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine.”

“I have seen the flow of my bosom’s blood, And gazed with undaunted eye; I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, And think’st thou I fear to die?

“I have stood where thousands, by Salem’s towers, Have fall’n for the name Divine; And the faith that cheer’d their closing hours Shall be the light of mine.”

“Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth’s fresh bloom? Thou art offer’d life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb.”

“I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour’s brow; He spurn’d the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now!”

“Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest? And doth not thy spirit, proud captive! pine Again on its shores to rest?

“Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father’s birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o’er, Forgotten in foreign earth.”

“Oh! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There’s a brighter clime above!”

The bard hath paused--for another tone Blends with the music of his own; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain.

“Are there none within thy father’s hall, Far o’er the wide blue main, Young Christian! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain?”

“There are hearts that still, through all the past, Unchanging have loved me well; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell.

“Better they wept o’er the warrior’s bier Than th’ apostate’s living stain; There’s a land where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again.”

’Tis he! thy prince--long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host! ’Tis he!--to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour! away, away! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave;[129] Arouse the sons of the noble soil To win their Lion from the toil. And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow; The festal board shall be richly crown’d, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king.

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

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

THE DEATH OF CONRADIN.

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

No cloud to dim the splendour of the day Which breaks o’er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm’d the great of yore-- Th’ imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade Their marble domes e’en ocean’s realm invade. That race is gone--but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires pass’d away.

The beam of heaven expands--its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean’s breast. Misenum’s cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo’s height, With all Italia’s sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil’s tomb. Campania’s plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o’er the mighty dead; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples! rise; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow’d and dark with many a lava streak.

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse! Rich with all nature’s and all fiction’s hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err’d to paint Elysium there? Call up his spirit, wanderer! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter’d, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn,[130] Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o’er th’ enchanted ground; His lays are murmur’d in each breeze that roves Soft o’er the sunny waves and orange-groves; His memory’s charm is spread o’er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope; Shedding o’er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still.

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness’d many a dark reality. Oft o’er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return.[131] There with the whisper of Campania’s gale Hath mingled oft affection’s funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes--while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre.[132] And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell’d from strange voices of no mortal tone; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o’er the hills to float Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.[133]

Pass’d are those ages--yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th’ Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore-- It must be crimson’d ere the day is o’er! There is a throne in regal pomp array’d,-- A scene of death from thence must be survey’d. Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?--each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale: But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look.

Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene,[134] And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror! Vainly in his face Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace; Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament: And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence--to despair!

But thou, fair boy! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother’s eye, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die Hath grown too full for utterance--Can it be! And is this pomp of death prepared for thee? Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone! Oh! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array’d so richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne’er control? Bright victim! to Ambition’s altar led, Crown’d with all flowers that heaven on earth can shed, Who, from th’ oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy--if to thee denied? There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves--the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant’s rage Is passing to his fate: the eyes are dim Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on him. He mounts the scaffold--doth his footstep fail? Doth his lip quiver? doth his cheek turn pale? Oh! it may be forgiven him if a thought Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised glory’s meed, And all th’ affections that with him shall bleed! If, in his life’s young dayspring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death!

But no! the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow: that youthful face Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels--but not to man; his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him in fate’s dread hour? How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope--when hope on earth is gone?

That solemn pause is o’er--the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven: The sun rejoices in th’ unclouded sky, Life all around him glows--and he must die? Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes; Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire, May sleep suppress’d a while--but not expire. One softer image rises o’er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest! “Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?”--that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. The lifted axe is glittering in the sun-- It falls--the race of Conradin is run! Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven--and not in vain! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou!--but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e’en yet to thee!

The scene of death is closed--the throngs depart, A deep stem lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy! may grace thine obsequies. O vainly royal and beloved! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean’s wave; Mark’d by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour’d, unadorn’d--but unforgot; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering--never to forgive!

The sunset fades from purple heavens away-- A bark hath anchor’d in the unruffled bay: Thence on the beach descends a female form,[135] Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten’d heart bespeak, Inured to woes--yet what were all the past! She sank not feebly ’neath affliction’s blast, While one bright hope remain’d--who now shall tell Th’ uncrown’d, the widow’d, how her loved one fell? To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came--and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix’d in speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear’s relief, Awhile she kneels--till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother’s cry is heard--“My Conradin! my child!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SCEPTIC.[136]

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

When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn’d to dare the splendour of the sky, And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn’s empyreal source; Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor’s light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire? No! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day! --And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour’d its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death? What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven? If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains?--a dark eternity!

Is earth still Eden?--might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest? Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than life can show? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand’s base?

Votary of doubt! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die! ’Tis well--thine eye is yet undimm’d by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom’s warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice!

But life hath sterner tasks; e’en youth’s brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil; The soul’s pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling--Man! Earth’s noblest sons the bitter cup have shared-- Proud child of reason! how art thou prepared? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow’d, And o’er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure’s train?

Yes! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th’ unfathom’d grave! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, She who, like heaven’s own sunbeam, smiles for all? Will she speak comfort?--Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush’d the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown!

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore; Thou couldst not, mortal! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee.

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left; And, haply, one whose strong affection’s power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune’s hour, Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed.

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth! and canst thou dare to love? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest Within that hallow’d shrine--a parent’s breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol--destined but to die; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever’d souls, made perfect, re-unite? Then tremble! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let “for ever” vibrate on thine ear! If some bright hour on rapture’s wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought--’tis gone!

Go! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control; Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight; There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, Lean on the willow, idolise the dust! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread “for ever”--and despair!

And oh! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course--explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky: Is the blue canopy serenely fair? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep! Yes! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate! Not always heaven’s destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempests and in clouds; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the zephyr’s breath, And festal garlands veil the shafts of death!

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, It wish’d not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, O’ershadow’d with the midnight of the tomb? Where shalt thou turn? It is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze-- No gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image of the dead; And if, when slumber’s lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit’s guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this; Thy future lends not e’en a dream of bliss.

But who shall dare the gate of life to close, Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows? That fount unseal’d, whose boundless waves embrace Each distant isle, and visit every race, Pours from the throne of God its current free, Nor yet denies th’ immortal draught to thee. Oh! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, While yet th’ Atoner hath not ceased to plead-- While still, suspended by a single hair, The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break The bruisèd reed; e’en yet, awake, awake! Patient, because Eternal,[138] He may hear Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, And send his chastening Spirit from above, O’er the deep chaos of thy soul to move.

But seek thou mercy through his name alone, To whose unequall’d sorrows none was shown; Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, As man to suffer, and to heal as God; And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, Endured all scorn, and aided all distress.

Call thou on Him! for he, in human form, Hath walk’d the waves of life, and still’d the storm. He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, O’er Salem wept, relenting to the last-- Wept with such tears as Judah’s monarch pour’d O’er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored; And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, Taught from his Cross the lesson--to forgive!

Call thou on Him! His prayer e’en then arose, Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. And haste!--ere bursts the lightning from on high, Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly![139] So shall th’ Avenger turn his steps away, And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey.

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, As the soft halcyon, o’er thy heart subdued; Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed Inspiring influence o’er thy fallen head. --He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade Of such deep night as man for man hath made, Through lingering years--if call’d at length to be Once more, by nature’s boundless charter, free Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun.

Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain’d In its own dread abyss of darkness chain’d, If the Deliverer, in his might at last, Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, The beam of truth o’erpowers its dazzled sight, Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. But this will pass away: that spark of mind, Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, Born to be foster’d with ethereal day. Then wilt thou bless the hour when o’er thee pass’d, On wing of flame, the purifying blast, And sorrow’s voice, through paths before untrod, Like Sinai’s trumpet, call’d thee to thy God!

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven’s messenger, affliction, to deride? In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky? Torn by the vulture, fetter’d to the rock, Still, demigod! the tempest wilt thou mock? Alas! the tower that crests the mountain’s brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, Yet not the less be shatter’d on its height By one dread moment of the earthquake’s might! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne’er was bent.

Oh! what is nature’s strength? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy--seek an answer there! Turn not away, though pity’s cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave Forsook the struggling soul she could not save! Weep not, sad moralist! o’er desert plains Strew’d with the wrecks of grandeur--mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o’ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent’s own: Earth has more awful ruins--one lost mind, Whose star is quench’d, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome.

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore That waste, illumed by reason’s beam no more? Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll Around the shatter’d temple of the soul, Curtain’d with midnight? Low its columns lie, And dark the chambers of its imagery;[140] Sunk are its idols now--and God alone May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown! Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, Is heard an oracle that cries--“Beware! Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies! One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies! Haste, ere the hour of doom--draw nigh to Him Who dwells above, between the cherubim!”

Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career-- Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere, Tell us thy tale! Perchance thy race was run With science in the chariot of the sun; Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, And search the laws that nature’s springs control, There tracing all--save Him who guides the whole!

Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast Through the dim shades, the portals of the past; By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, The depths of time exploring, to retrace The glorious march of many a vanish’d race.

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, Silenced all meaner notes, and swell’d on high, Full and alone, their mighty harmony; While woke each passion from its cell profound, And nations started at th’ electric sound?

Lord of th’ ascendant! what avails it now, Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? What though thy name, through distant empires heard, Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word? Was it for this thy still unwearied eye Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, To make the secrets of all ages thine, And commune with majestic thoughts that shine O’er Time’s long shadowy pathway?--hath thy mind Sever’d its lone dominions from mankind, For this to woo their homage! Thou hast sought All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, Won every wreath--but that which will not die, Nor aught neglected--save eternity!

And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, When burst th’ o’erwhelming vials on thy path? Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, O spirit! sceptred by the sons of men, With an immortal’s courage, to sustain The transient agonies of earthly pain? --One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved When the loud fury of the billow raved; But him thou knew’st not--and the light he lent Hath vanish’d from its ruin’d tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from--vainly to forget! --Lift the dread veil no further! Hide, oh hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide! The dagger, grasp’d in death--the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp’d with rage and agony; The soul’s dark traces left in many a line Graved on his mein, who died--“and made no sign!” Approach not, gaze not--lest thy fever’d brain Too deep that image of despair retain. Angels of slumber! o’er the midnight hour Let not such visions claim unhallow’d power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th’ Avenger’s arm, forget th’ Atoner’s love!

O Thou! th’ unseen, th’ all-seeing!--Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth’s empires on their march, are but a day; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber’d!--Thou, With whom all time is one eternal now, Who know’st no past nor future--Thou whose breath Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death! Look on us! guide us!--wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set--and we are lost in night; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool’s brink, A treacherous song allure us--and we sink!

Oh! by His love, who, veiling Godhead’s light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And heaven and earth disdain’d not to ally By that dread union--Man with Deity; Immortal tears o’er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead; Save, or we perish! Let Thy word control The earthquakes of that universe--the soul; Pervade the depths of passion; speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, “Here shall thy waves be stay’d;” in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason’s sphere maintain. Thou, by whom suns are balanced! thus secure In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine.

And oh! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour: When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling[141]--when we see Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope’s retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge-- When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature’s conflict look with pitying eye; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the “small still voice,” and whisper--Peace![142]

For oh! ’tis awful! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell’d, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union form’d and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which ’twere sweet In glory’s arms exultingly to meet-- A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero’s mien, As, undismay’d amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall! --Hush, fond enthusiast! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands: they retire From life’s throng’d path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect’s little world of cares, Descends in silence--while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone! Such is man’s doom; and, ere an hour be flown, --Start not, thou trifler!--such may be thine own.

But, as life’s current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock’d before, We fain would stifle--but it sleeps no more! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song: Yet still Death’s image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o’er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard?--a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm’d by midnight foes!

Oh! vainly Reason’s scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e’er the captive, half unchain’d, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain’d. In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, And say--“What wouldst thou? Shall the fix’d decree, Made for creation, be reversed for thee?” Poor, feeble aid! Proud Stoic! ask not why-- It is enough that nature shrinks to die. Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, Is her dread penalty, and must be paid! Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined And mystic questions of the parting mind, Half check’d, half utter’d: tell her what shall burst, In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, When freed from mortal films--what viewless world Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl’d-- What awful and unbodied beings guide Her timid flight through regions yet untried; Say if at once, her final doom to hear, Before her God the trembler must appear, Or wait that day of terror, when the sea Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee?

Hast thou no answer? Then deride no more The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore The unknown, the unseen, the future--though the heart, As at unearthly sounds, before them start; Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, They have their source in immortality! Whence, then, shall strength, which reason’s aid denies, An equal to the mortal conflict rise? When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where’er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes--oh whence shall aid Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay’d? Whence, but from thee, Messiah!--thou hast drain’d The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain’d; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror--all became thine own!

But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th’ Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power? No, Son of God! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, From man averted--and thy path on high Pass’d through the straight of fiercest agony: For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice!

But wake! be glad, ye nations! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. Break forth in joy, ye ransom’d! saith your God; Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star.

He rose! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, He rose, he triumph’d! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr’s frame When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth’s most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call’d to the hope of glory, shall depart!

And say, cold Sophist! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left? But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter despised by thee, Should we not wither at the Chastener’s look, Should we not sink beneath our God’s rebuke, When o’er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass’d, And the stem power who seeks the noblest prey Hath call’d our fairest and our best away? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix’d--frozen--silent--all mortality? But for the promise, “All shall yet be well,” Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel Beneath such clouds as darken’d when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land; And thou,[143] just lent thy gladden’d isles to bless, Then snatch’d from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation’s blessings on thy head, O England’s flower! wert gather’d to the dead? But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart Faith’s lofty lesson didst thyself impart! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom o’er thy lifeless child Yearn’d with vain longing--still thy patient eye To its last light beam’d holy constancy! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies--thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint--and settled in repose; While bow’d thy royal head to Him whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim’d thee for his own, And spread such terror o’er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel when her ark was lost!

“It is the will of God!”--yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought--“It is the will of God!” Who shall arraign th’ Eternal’s dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee? Oh! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow’d by freedom and enshrined in song! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E’en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there.

For lo! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height,[144] And o’er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon’d, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory! By this hath England conquer’d. Field and flood Have own’d her sovereignty: alone she stood, When chains o’er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God--and shall she now Forget before th’ Omnipotent to bow? From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No! sever’d land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers!

Still, where thy hamlet vales, O chosen isle! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o’ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant’s records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, When starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion’s voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land’s warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion’s bards, in inspiration’s days, When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah’s harp convey’d; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth’s lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, And fondly say--“My child, for thee He died!”

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

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

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

[137] Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph.

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

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

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

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

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

[143] The Princess Charlotte.

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

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

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION,

AN UNFINISHED POEM.

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

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

XII.

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

XIII.

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

XIV.

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

XV.

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

XVI.

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

XVII.

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

XVIII.

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

XIX.

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

XX.

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

XXI.

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

XXII.

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

XXIII.

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

XXIV.

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

XXV.

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

XXVI.

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

XXVII.

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

XXVIII.

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

[145] Serab, mirage.

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

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

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

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

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

ITALIAN LITERATURE.[147]

THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI.

FROM SISMONDI’s “LITTERATURE DU MIDI.”

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

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

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

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

“Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, Rest thou in deep and undisturb’d repose; Till at the last great day, from slumber’s bed, Heaven’s trumpet-summons shall awake the dead.

“Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, And soft the breeze’s wing, till that dread hour; Nor let the wanderer passing o’er thee, breathe Words of keen insult to the dust beneath.

“Sleep thou in peace! Beyond the funeral pyre, There live no flames of vengeance or of ire; And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore Where mercy’s home hath been from days of yore.”

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, Then turn’d to follow its celestial guide; But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, A lingering step, and oft reverted eye-- As when a child’s reluctant feet obey Its mother’s voice, and slowly leave its play.

Night o’er the earth her dewy veil had cast, When from th’ Eternal City’s towers they pass’d, And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, Lo! where a cherub-form sublimely tower’d, But dreadful in his glory! Sternly lower’d Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem’d Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam’d On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, Seen in the dread, o’erwhelming visions given To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire Seem’d his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire; And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, A comet’s glare, presaging woe and blood. He waved his sword--its red, terrific light With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night; While his left hand sustain’d a shield so vast, Far o’er the Vatican beneath was cast Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom O’er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar; And while, all trembling at the whirlwind’s roar, Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, They sleep unheeding; while the storm on high Breaks not their calm and proud security.

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI.

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies Look’d fraught with omens, as to harmonise With his pale aspect. Through the forest round Not a leaf whisper’d--and the only sound That broke the stillness was a streamlet’s moan Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, As if a storm within the woodland bowers Were gathering. On they moved--and lo! the towers Of a far city! Nearer now they drew; And all reveal’d, expanding on their view, The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes-- Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose!

In the dark mantle of a cloud array’d, Viewless and hush’d, the angel and the shade Enter’d that evil city. Onward pass’d The heavenly being first, with brow o’ercast And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw That alter’d aspect, and, in breathless awe, Mark’d the strange silence round. The deep-toned swell Of life’s full tide was hush’d; the sacred bell, The clamorous anvil, mute; all sounds were fled Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, Inquiring glances, rumours whisper’d low, Questions half-utter’d, jealous looks that keep A fearful watch around, and sadness deep That weighs upon the heart; and voices, heard At intervals, in many a broken word-- Voices of mothers, trembling as they press’d Th’ unconscious infant closer to their breast; Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, On their own thresholds striving to detain Their fierce impatient lords; but weak and vain Affection’s gentle bonds, in that dread hour Of fate and fury--Love hath lost his power! For evil spirits are abroad, the air Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, Fired by that thirst for victims which of old Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll’d, Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey The deepest crime that e’er hath dimm’d the day. Blood, human blood, hath stain’d their vests and hair, On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, Scattering red showers around them! Flaming brands And serpent scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high The steel, th’ envenom’d bowl; and, hurrying by, With touch of fire contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds! restrain’d no more, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas Heard at the dead of midnight; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder! Then what feelings press’d, O wretched Basville! on thy guilty breast; What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death’s awful banner to the winds unfold! To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high-- The dark impatience of the murderer’s eye, Eager for crime! And he, the great, the good, Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood Dragg’d to a felon’s death! Yet still his mien, Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene; And his step falters not. O hearts unmoved! Where have you borne your monarch?--He who loved-- Loved you so well! Behold! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil; The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o’erspread; While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest.

* * * * *

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile The regal victim came; and raised the while His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e’en th’ assassins’ hearts a moment shook Before the grandeur of that kingly look; And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew’d, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude.

* * * * *

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray’d till the bitterness of death was past-- E’en for his murderers pray’d, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction’s power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad-- “Hast thou forsaken me, my God! my God?”-- E’en thus the monarch stood; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes-- “To Thee my spirit I commend,” he cried; “And my lost people, Father! be their guide!”

* * * * *

But the sharp steel descends--the blow is given, And answer’d by a thunder-peal from heaven; Earth, stain’d with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones!

[148] The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Dictionnaire des Girouettes) on the general versatility of poets, seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application.--“Le cerveau d’un poète est d’une cire molle et flexible, où s’imprime naturellement tout ce qui le flatte, le séduit, et l’alimente. La muse du chant n’a pas de partie; c’est une étourdie sans conséquence, qui folâtre également et sur de riches gazons et sur d’arides bruyères. Un poète en délire chante indifféremment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me et Cromwell, Christine de Suède et Stanchon la Vielleuse.”

THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI.

The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that “fever at the core,” that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, however, though entirely domestic, is not for a moment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our imagination the calm and tempered majesty distinguishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and affliction impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy.

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated productions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many incommunicable attractions upon the melody of the original language.

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