Act V, Scene VII — Garden of a Convent.
Raimond is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants.
Raim. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die In the bright face of nature! Lift my helm, That I may look on heaven.
1st Att. (to 2d Attendant.) Lay him to rest On this green sunny bank, and I will call Some holy sister to his aid; but thou Return unto the field, for high-born men There need the peasant’s aid.
[Exit 2d Attendant.
(To Raim.) Here gentle hands Shall tend thee, warrior; for, in these retreats, They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care Of all that suffer. May’st thou live to bless them!
[Exit 1st Attendant.
Raim. Thus have I wish’d to die! ’Twas a proud strife! My father bless’d th’ unknown who rescued him, (Bless’d him, alas, because unknown!) and Guido, Beside him bravely struggling, call’d aloud, “Noble Sicilian, on!” Oh! had they deem’d ’Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn’d Mine aid, though ’twas deliverance; and their looks Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one, Whose eye ne’er turn’d on mine but its blue light Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, might the soul, Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish! --Is’t not her voice?
Constance enters speaking to a Nun, who turns into another path.
Con. Oh, happy they, kind sister! Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall With brave men side by side, when the roused heart Beats proudly to the last! There are high souls Whose hope was such a death, and ’tis denied!
[She approaches Raimond.
Young warrior, is there aught----Thou here, my Raimond! Thou here--and thus! Oh! is this joy or woe?
Raim. Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love! E’en on the grave’s dim verge. Yes! it is joy! My Constance! victors have been crown’d ere now, With the green shining laurel, when their brows Wore death’s own impress--and it may be thus E’en yet, with me! They freed me, when the foe Had half prevail’d, and I have proudly earn’d, With my heart’s dearest blood, the meed to die Within thine arms.
Con. Oh! speak not thus--to die! These wounds may yet be closed.
[She attempts to bind his wounds.
Look on me, love! Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien-- ’Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye Breaks e’en unwonted light, whose ardent ray Seems born to be immortal!
Raim. ’Tis e’en so! The parting soul doth gather all her fires Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams, And burning aspirations, to illume The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path Which lies before her; and encircled thus, Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares Are vain, and yet I bless them.
Con. Say not vain; The dying look not thus. We shall not part!
Raim. I have seen death ere now, and known him wear Full many a changeful aspect.
Con. Oh! but none Radiant as thine, my warrior! Thou wilt live! Look round thee! all is sunshine. Is not this A smiling world?
Raim. Ay, gentlest love! a world Of joyous beauty and magnificence, Almost too fair to leave! Yet must we tame Our ardent hearts to this! Oh, weep thou not! There is no home for liberty, or love, Beneath these festal skies! Be not deceived; My way lies far beyond! I shall be soon That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, Forgets not how to love!
Con. And must this be? Heaven, thou art merciful!--Oh! bid our souls Depart together!
Raim. Constance! there is strength Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved Nobly, for me: arouse it once again! Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet That which approaches, as a brave man yields With proud submission to a mightier foe. --It is upon me now!
Con. I will be calm. Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is A world (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there I shall be with thee soon!
Procida and Anselmo enter. Procida, on seeing Raimond, starts back.
Ans. Lift up thy head, Brave youth, excitingly! for lo! thine hour Of glory comes! Oh! doth it come too late? E’en now the false Alberti hath confess’d That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom’d To be th’ atonement.
Raim. ’Tis enough! Rejoice, Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name O’er which thou may’st weep proudly! [He sinks back. To thy breast Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart Hath touch’d my veins.
Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond? Alas! thine eye grows dim--its wandering glance Is full of dreams.
Raim. Haste, haste, and tell my father I was no traitor!
Pro. (rushing forward.) To thy father’s heart Return, forgiving all thy wrongs--return! Speak to me, Raimond!--thou wert ever kind, And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee My lips e’er ask’d.--Speak to me once, my boy, My pride, my hope! And it is with thee thus? Look on me yet!--Oh! must this woe be borne?
Raim. Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet For a crown’d conqueror!--Hark! the trumpet’s voice! [_A sound of triumphant music is heard gradually approaching._ Is’t not a thrilling call? What drowsy spell Benumbs me thus?--Hence! I am free again! Now swell your festal strains--the field is won! Sing to me glorious dreams. [He dies.
Ans. The strife is past; There fled a noble spirit!
Con. Hush! he sleeps-- Disturb him not!
Ans. Alas! this is no sleep From which the eye doth radiantly unclose: Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o’er!
[The music continues approaching. Guido enters with Citizens and Soldiers.
Gui. The shrines are deck’d, the festive torches blaze-- Where is our brave deliverer? We are come To crown Palermo’s victor!
Ans. Ye come too late. The voice of human praise doth send no echo Into the world of spirits. [The music ceases.
Pro. (after a pause.) Is this dust I look on--Raimond? ’Tis but a sleep!--a smile On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake! Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day! My son, my injured son!
Con. (starting.) Art thou his father! I know thee now.--Hence! with thy dark stern eye And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now! Away! he will not answer but to me-- For none like me hath loved him! He is mine! Ye shall not rend him from me.
Pro. Oh! he knew Thy love, poor maid! Shrink from me now no more! He knew thy heart--but who shall tell him now The depth, th’ intenseness, and the agony, Of my suppress’d affection? I have learn’d All his high worth in time to deck his grave. Is there not power in the strong spirit’s woe To force an answer from the viewless world Of the departed? Raimond!--speak!--forgive! Raimond! my victor, my deliverer! hear! --Why, what a world is this! Truth ever bursts On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns Th’ unconscious dead. There comes an hour to break The mightiest hearts!--My son! my son! is this A day of triumph! Ay, for thee alone!
[He throws himself upon the body of Raimond. Curtain falls.
ANNOTATIONS ON THE “VESPERS OF PALERMO.”
“The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue: and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy.
“It may not be so generally remembered, that the same historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of finished elegance.”--Professor Norton in North American Review, 1827.
* * * * *
It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, that Mrs Hemans composed The Vespers of Palermo, and that the MS. was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covent Garden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its fate were removed, and the result was as follows. In giving it here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are carried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the pale of our literary chronology:--
“After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties,” writes her sister, “the fate of the tragedy, so long in abeyance, was now drawing to a crisis. Every thing connected with its approaching representation was calculated to raise the highest hopes of success. ‘All is going on,’ writes Mrs Hemans on the 27th November, ‘as well as I could possibly desire. Only a short time will yet elapse before the ordeal is over. I received a message yesterday from Mr Kemble, informing me of the unanimous opinion of the green room conclave in favour of the piece, and exhorting me to “be of good courage.” Murray has given me two hundred guineas for the copyright of the “tragedy, drama, poem, composition, or book,” as it is called in the articles which I signed yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of Procida--why or wherefore I know not; and out of several others which I proposed to them, The Vespers of Palermo has been finally chosen.’
“Under these apparently favourable auspices, the piece was produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr Young, Mr C. Kemble, Mr Yates, Mrs Bartley, and Miss F. H. Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news of its reception could reach St Asaph. Not only Mrs Hemans’s own family, but all her more immediate friends and neighbours, were wrought up to a pitch of intense expectation. Various newspapers were ordered expressly for the occasion, and the post-office was besieged at twelve o’clock at night, by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager to be the first heralds of the triumph so undoubtingly anticipated. The boys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable state of excitement, and were all lying awake ‘to hear about mamma’s play;’ and perhaps her bitterest moment of mortification was, when she went up to their bedsides, which she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the ground, and that the performance had ended in all but a failure. The reports in the newspapers were strangely contradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly illiberal: but all which were written in anything like an unbiassed tone, concurred entirely with the private accounts, not merely of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers, in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency of the actress who personated Constance, and who absolutely seemed to be under the influence of some infatuating spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on scenes the most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all, dying gratuitously at the close of the piece. The acting of Young and Kemble in the two Procidi, was universally pronounced to have been beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions showed a determination to do all possible justice to the author. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, applause decidedly predominated: still the marks of disapprobation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the part of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. Mrs Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh experiment should be made. ‘Mr Kemble,’ writes she to a friend, ‘will not hear of The Vespers being driven off the stage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is now unwell, shall be sufficiently recovered to learn her part; but I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fiery ordeal through which I have passed, from such another trial. Mr Kemble attributes the failure, without the slightest hesitation, to what he delicately calls “a singularity of intonation in one of the actresses.” I have also heard from Mr Milman, Mr J. T. Coleridge, and several others, with whom there is but one opinion as to the cause of the disaster.’
“Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or with greater readiness to turn for consolation to the kindness and sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. It would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mr Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment.
‘Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823.
“‘My dear Sir,--It is difficult to part with the hopes of three years, without some painful feelings; but your kind letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to describe. I will not say that it revives my hopes of success, because I think it better that I should fix my mind to prevent those hopes from gaining any ascendency; but it sets in so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointment has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends from whom I have heard on this occasion, express but one opinion. As to Miss Kelly’s acting, and its fatal effect on the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will be impossible to counteract the unfavourable impression which this must have produced, and I almost wish, as far as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt may not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on the subject. I have not heard from Mr Kemble; but I have written both to him and to Mr Young, to express my grateful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the piece. As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by the extreme severity with which I have been treated in the morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am sure I should not have attached the slightest value to their praise; but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement for my temerity--for a female who shrinks from such things has certainly no business to write tragedies.
“‘For your support and assistance, as well as that of my other friends, I cannot be too grateful; nor can I ever consider any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given me the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the recollection of so much long-tried kindness.--Ever believe me, my dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged
“‘F. Hemans.’
“Notwithstanding the determination of the managers again to bring forward The Vespers, a sort of fatality seemed to attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continually arising to prevent the luckless Constance from obtaining an efficient representative on the London stage. Under these circumstances, Mr Kemble at length confessed that he could not recommend the reproduction of the piece; and Mrs Hemans acquiesced in the decision, with feelings which partook rather of relief than of disappointment. She never ceased to speak in the warmest terms of Mr Kemble’s liberal and gentlemanly conduct, both before and after the appearance of the piece, and of his surpassing exertions at the time of its representation.
“It was with no small degree of surprise that, in the course of the following February, she learned, through the medium of a letter from Mrs Joanna Baillie,[192] that the tragedy was shortly to be represented at the Edinburgh theatre--Mrs Henry Siddons undertaking the part of Constance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and the following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one of the zealous friends who had been instrumental in this arrangement, will prove how well their kindly intentions were fulfilled:
“‘The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our most sanguine expectations, and was announced for repetition on Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The actors seem to have done wonders, and every one appeared to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own exertions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger Procida. The first recognition between father and son, was acted by them to such perfection, that one of the most hearty and unanimous plaudits followed that ever was heard.
“‘Every reappearance of the gentle Constance won the spectators more and more. The scene in the judgment-hall carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handkerchiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs Siddons’s searching the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as if to find Raimond’s father was to save him, was perfect. She flew round the circle--went, as if distracted, close up to judge after judge--paused before Procida, and fell prostrate at his feet. The effect was magical, and was manifested by three repeated bursts of applause.’
“A neatly turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though not declared, to be the production of Sir Walter Scott, was recited by Mrs H. Siddons. When deference to a female was there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause ensued; but when generosity to a stranger was bespoken, the house absolutely rang with huzzas.”
“‘I knew how much you would rejoice,’ wrote Mrs Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ‘in the issue of my Edinburgh trial; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and I think, amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckon a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it has put me in possession. I had written to thank him for the kindness he had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an answer; but it came, and you would be delighted with its frank and unaffected kindliness. He acknowledges the epilogue, “stuffed,” as he says it was, “with parish jokes, and bad puns;” and courteously says, that his country folks have done more credit to themselves than to me, by their reception of The Vespers.’
“To another uncompromising champion she wrote:--‘I must beg you will “bear our faculties meekly:” you really seem to be rather in an intoxicated state; and if we indulge ourselves in this way, I am afraid we shall have something to sober us. I dare say I must expect some sharp criticism from Edinburgh ere all this is over; but any thing which deserves the name of criticism I can bear. I believe I could point out more faults in The Vespers myself than any one has done yet.’”--Memoir, pp. 69-76.
[192] Though Mrs Hemans had never the advantage of being personally known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional interchange of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up between them, was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges she possessed. It was always delightful to her when she could love the character, as well as admire the talents, of a celebrated author; and never, surely, was there an example better fitted to call forth the willing tribute of veneration, both towards the woman and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs Baillie, Mrs Hemans thus apologised for indulging in a strain of egotism, which the nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify,--“The kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over all your writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend.”
It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how graciously that “kindly warmth of heart” would be extended to those of her children, who are more fortunate than herself, in enjoying the personal intercourse she would have prized so highly.
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD.
“Among many nations was there no King like him.”--Nehemiah.
“Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?”--Samuel.
Another warning sound! The funeral bell, Startling the cities of the isle once more With measured tones of melancholy swell, Strikes on th’ awaken’d heart from shore to shore. He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, The chambers of our palaces hath trod; And the long-suffering spirit of the just, Pure from its ruins, hath return’d to God! Yet may not England o’er her father weep: Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.
Vain voice of Reason, hush!--they yet must flow, The unrestrain’d, involuntary tears; A thousand feelings sanctify the woe, Roused by the glorious shades of vanish’d years. Tell us no more ’tis not the time for grief, Now that the exile of the soul is past, And Death, blest messenger of heaven’s relief, Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last; For him, eternity hath tenfold day: We feel, we know, ’tis thus--yet nature will have way.
What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, Sadd’ning the scene where once it nobly reign’d, A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, Stamp’d with its fiery record, he remain’d; Around that shatter’d tree still fondly clung Th’ undying tendrils of our love, which drew Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung Luxuriant thence, to Glory’s ruin true; While England hung her trophies on the stem, That desolately stood, unconscious e’en of them.
Of them unconscious! Oh, mysterious doom! Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies? His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb, The realm’s high soul to loftiest energies! His was the spirit o’er the isles which threw The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought In every bosom, powerful to renew Each dying spark of pure and generous thought; The star of tempests! beaming on the mast,[193] The seaman’s torch of Hope, midst perils deepening fast.
Then from th’ unslumbering influence of his worth, Strength, as of inspiration, fill’d the land; A young but quenchless flame went brightly forth, Kindled by him--who saw it not expand! Such was the will of heaven. The gifted seer, Who with his God had communed, face to face, And from the house of bondage and of fear, In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race; He through the desert and the waste their guide, Saw dimly from afar the promised land--and died.
O full of days and virtues! on thy head Centred the woes of many a bitter lot; Fathers have sorrow’d o’er their beauteous dead, Eyes, quench’d in night, the sunbeam have forgot; Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years, And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length; But Pain for thee had fill’d a cup of tears, Where every anguish mingled all its strength; By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, And shadows deep around fell from th’ Eternal’s hand.
Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied; But what to thee the splendour of its beams? The ice-rock glows not midst the summer’s pride! Nations leap’d up to joy--as streams that burst, At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain, And o’er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed, Roll in exulting melody again; And bright o’er earth the long majestic line Of England’s triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts--but thine.
Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil That o’er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee, When sceptred chieftains throng’d with palms to hail The crowning isle, th’ anointed of the sea! Within thy palaces the lords of earth Met to rejoice--rich pageants glitter’d by, And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, The old magnificence of chivalry. They reach’d not thee--amidst them, yet alone, Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.
Yet there was mercy still! If joy no more Within that blasted circle might intrude, Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass o’er The silent limits of its solitude! If all unheard the bridal song awoke Our hearts’ full echoes, as it swell’d on high; Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke On the glad strain, with dread solemnity! If the land’s rose unheeded wore its bloom, Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.
And she who, tried through all the stormy past-- Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour-- Watch’d o’er thee, firm and faithful to the last, Sustain’d, inspired, by strong affection’s power; If to thy soul her voice no music bore-- If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught No light from looks, that fondly would explore Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought; Oh! thou wert spared the pang, that would have thrill’d Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still’d.
Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood’s prime, Youth with its glory--in its fulness, age-- All, at the gates of their eternal clime Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage; The land wore ashes for its perish’d flowers, The grave’s imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers, The one that wept not in the tearful isle! As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain, Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.
And who can tell what visions might be thine? The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure! Still o’er that wave the stars of heaven might shine Where earthly image would no more endure! Though many a step, of once familiar sound, Came as a stranger’s o’er thy closing ear, And voices breathed forgotten tones around, Which that paternal heart once thrill’d to hear: The mind hath senses of its own, and powers To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.
Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known Be dark or wild, creations of remorse; Unstain’d by thee, the blameless past had thrown No fearful shadows o’er the future’s course: For thee no cloud, from memory’s dread abyss, Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant’s eye; And, closing up each avenue of bliss, Murmur their summons, to “despair and die!” No! e’en though joy depart, though reason cease, Still virtue’s ruin’d home is redolent of peace.
They might be with thee still--the loved, the tried, The fair, the lost--they might be with thee still! More softly seen, in radiance purified From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill. Long after earth received them, and the note Of the last requiem o’er their dust was pour’d, As passing sunbeams o’er thy soul might float Those forms, from us withdrawn--to thee restored! Spirits of holiness, in light reveal’d, To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal’d.
Came they with tidings from the worlds above, Those viewless regions where the weary rest? Sever’d from earth, estranged from mortal love, Was thy mysterious converse with the blest? Or shone their visionary presence bright With human beauty?--did their smiles renew Those days of sacred and serene delight, When fairest beings in thy pathway grew? Oh! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne’er forsakes.
These may be fantasies--and this alone, Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure; That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, Rest, in thy God immortally secure! Enough for tranquil faith; released from all The woes that graved heaven’s lessons on thy brow, No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall, Haply thine eye is on thy people now; Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief’s tribute to the dead.
But if th’ ascending, disembodied mind, Borne on the wings of morning to the skies, May cast one glance of tenderness behind On scenes once hallow’d by its mortal ties, How much hast thou to gaze on! All that lay By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal’d-- The might, the majesty, the proud array Of England’s march o’er many a noble field-- All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, Shine like some glorious land view’d from an Alpine height.
Away, presumptuous thought! Departed saint! To thy freed vision what can earth display Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint, Seen from the birth-place of celestial day? Oh! pale and weak the sun’s reflected rays, E’en in their fervour of meridian heat, To him who in the sanctuary may gaze On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat! And thou may’st view, from thy divine abode, The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.
And yet we mourn thee! Yes, thy place is void Within our hearts! there veil’d thine image dwelt, But cherish’d still; and o’er that tie destroy’d, Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt. Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, Thousands were born, who now in dust repose; And many a head, with years and sorrows gray, Wore youth’s bright tresses when thy star arose; And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, Hath fill’d our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.
Earthquakes have rock’d the nations: things revered, Th’ ancestral fabrics of the world, went down In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear’d His lonely pyramid of dread renown. But when the fires that long had slumber’d, pent Deep in men’s bosoms, with volcanic force, Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, And swept each holy barrier from their course, Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood, Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.
Be they eternal!--be thy children found Still to their country’s altars true like thee! And while “the name of Briton” is a sound Of rallying music to the brave and free, With the high feelings at the word which swell, To make the breast a shrine for Freedom’s flame, Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so well, Who left so pure, its heritage of fame! Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror’s dust, Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.
All else shall pass away!--the thrones of kings, The very traces of their tombs depart; But number not with perishable things The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, Heir-looms from race to race! And oh! in days When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, When our sons learn “as household words” thy praise, Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest! And many a name of that imperial line, Father and patriot! blend, in England’s songs, with thine!
[193] The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a ship during tempests; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.--See Dampier’s Voyages.
[“The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty: unlike courtly themes in general, this is one of the deepest and most lasting interest. Buried as the King had long been in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joys of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, or the piercing sorrow which we have felt on some other public losses; but the heart must be cold indeed that could, on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of that venerable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a more than common sympathy. There was something in his character so truly national--his very errors were of so amiable a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his nature was so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his splendid court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a husband, so good a father, so safe an example--he so thoroughly understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated the virtues, even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects--and, with all this, the sorrows from heaven rained down upon his head in so ‘pitiless and pelting a storm:’ all these--his high qualities and unparalleled sufferings--form such a subject for poetry, as nothing, we should imagine, but its difficulty and the expectation attending it, would prevent from being seized upon by the greatest poets of the day. We will not say that Mrs Hemans has filled the whole canvass as it might have been filled, but unquestionably her poem is beyond all comparison with any which we have seen on the subject; it is full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads us up through all the dismal colourings of the foreground to that bright and consoling prospect which should close every Christian’s reflections on such a matter. An analysis of so short a poem is wholly unnecessary, and we have already transgressed our limits; we will, therefore, give but one extract of that soothing nature alluded to, and release our readers:--
‘Yet was there mercy still! If joy no more,’ etc.
“It is time to close this article.[194] Our readers will have seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much interested by our subject. Who or what Mrs Hemans is, we know not: we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity--
----‘Tristia vitæ Solatur cantu,’----
If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she seems, from the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a higher and a surer balsam than the praises of men, or even the ‘sacred muse’ herself can impart. Still there is a pleasure, an innocent and an honest pleasure, even to a wounded spirit, in fame fairly earned; and such fame as may wait upon our decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow. In our opinion, all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and language; her later poems are of higher promise, they are vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic.”--Quarterly Review, vol. xxiv.]
[194] This critique, from the pen of the venerable and distinguished Editor, William Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,”--“Tales and Historic Scenes in Verse,”--“Translations from Camoens,” etc.,--“The Sceptic,” and “Stanzas to the Memory of the late King.”
TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES.
SECOND SERIES.
[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under the same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author’s literary progress, we have ventured not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrowther would say, “for uniformity’s sake.”
THE MAREMMA.
[“Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so dangerous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accusation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the health of this young lady. In a few months she died. Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fighting on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino; the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the House of Este; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him with these words:--
Recorditi di me; che son la Pia, Sienna mi fe, disfecerni Maremma, Salsi colui che inanellata pria Disposando m’ avea con la sua gemma.’” Purgatorio, cant. v.
--Edinburgh Review, No. lvii.]
There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse, Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, And nature lavishes her warmest hues; But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath-- Away! her charms are but the pomp of Death!
He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, Where the cool shade its freshness round thee throws; His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose; And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh But woo thee still to slumber and to die.
Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there, Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, But stealing o’er thee in the scented air, And veil’d in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; How may we deem, amidst their deep array, That heaven and earth but flatter to betray?
Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure! Can it be That these but charm us with destructive wiles? Where shall we turn, O Nature, if in thee Danger is mask’d in beauty--death in smiles? Oh! still the Circe of that fatal shore, Where she, the Sun’s bright daughter, dwelt of yore!
There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, And viewless blights o’er many a landscape sheds, Gay with the riches of the south, in vain; O’er fairy bowers and palaces of state Passing unseen, to leave them desolate.
And pillar’d halls, whose airy colonnades Were form’d to echo music’s choral tone, Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, Peopled by sculpture’s graceful forms alone; And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, Neglected temples, and forsaken groves.
And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty gleaming, Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming Of old Arcadia’s woodland deities. Wild visions!--there no sylvan powers convene: Death reigns the genius of th’ Elysian scene.
Ye, too, illustrious hills of Rome! that bear Traces of mightier beings on your brow, O’er you that subtle spirit of the air Extends the desert of his empire now; Broods o’er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, And makes the Cæsars’ ruin’d halls his home.
Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. His crown’d and chosen victims: o’er their lot Hath fond affection wept--each blighted flower In turn was loved and mourn’d, and is forgot. But one who perish’d, left a tale of woe, Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow.
A voice of music, from Sienna’s walls, Is floating joyous on the summer air; And there are banquets in her stately halls, And graceful revels of the gay and fair, And brilliant wreaths the altar have array’d, Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid.
To that young bride each grace hath Nature given Which glows on Art’s divinest dream: her eye Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven-- Her cheek a tinge of morning’s richest dye; Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form Still breathes and charms, in Vinci’s colours warm.[195]
But is she blest?--for sometimes o’er her smile A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast; And in her liquid glance there seems awhile To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past; Yet soon it flies--a cloud that leaves no trace, On the sky’s azure, of its dwelling-place.
Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise Remembrance of some early love or woe, Faded, yet scarce forgotten--in her eyes Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow, Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, Where still some pining thought comes darkly o’er our mirth.
The world before her smiles--its changeful gaze She hath not proved as yet; her path seems gay With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise Is still the joyous herald of her way; And beauty’s light around her dwells, to throw O’er every scene its own resplendent glow.
Such is the young Bianca--graced with all That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give; Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall Such dreams as ne’er life’s early bloom survive; And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought.
And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith Is brave and noble--child of high descent, He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, Mid slaughter’d heaps, the warrior’s monument; And proudly marshall’d his carroccio’s[196] way Amidst the wildest wreck of war’s array.
And his the chivalrous commanding mien, Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly grace; Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, Of fiery passions, darting o’er his face, And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye-- But e’en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes die.
And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse; And veil the workings of each darker feeling, Deep in his soul concentrating its force; But yet he loves--Oh! who hath loved, nor known Affection’s power exalt the bosom all its own?
The days roll on--and still Bianca’s lot Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot To wake her soul from life’s enchanted dream; And, if her brow a moment’s sadness wear, It sheds but grace more intellectual there.
A few short years, and all is changed; her fate Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o’ercast. Have jealous doubts transform’d to wrath and hate, The love whose glow expression’s power surpass’d? Lo! on Pietra’s brow a sullen gloom Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom.
Oh! can he meet that eye, of light serene, Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, And view that bright intelligence of mien Form’d to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign? --How shall he e’er confide in aught on earth again?
In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze. Transient, yet fill’d with meaning, stern and wild, Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, Then turns away, and fixes on her child So dark a glance as thrills a mother’s mind With some vague fear scarce own’d, and undefined.
There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave Of the blue deep which bathes Italia’s shore, Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow’d o’er, And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood, Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.
Fair is that house of solitude--and fair The green Maremma, far around it spread, A sun-bright waste of beauty; yet an air Of brooding sadness o’er the scene is shed, No human footstep tracks the lone domain, The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.
And silent are the marble halls that rise ’Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves: All sleep in sunshine, ’neath cerulean skies, And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves; Yet every trace of man reveals alone, That there life once hath flourish’d--and is gone.
There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, The summer air, deceit in every sigh, Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing, Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by; And strains of mirth and melody have flow’d Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.
And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear Bianca with her child. His alter’d eye And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, While his dark spirit seals their doom--to die; And the deep bodings of his victim’s heart Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part.
It is the summer’s glorious prime--and blending Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, That lovely shore of solitude and light.
Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, Deck’d with young flowers the rich Maremma glows, Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! ’tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower! The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, Which, o’er thee breathing with insidious power, Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale; And fatal in its softness, day by day, Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.
But sink not yet; for there are darker woes, Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading-- Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading! Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot: ’Tis agony--but soon to be forgot!
What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, O’er Infancy’s fair cheek the blight of death? To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o’ercast The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!
Such pangs were thine, young mother! Thou didst bend O’er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head; And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, And watch his patient, supplicating eye Fix’d upon thee--on thee!--who couldst no aid supply!
There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe Through those dark hours: to thee the wind’s low sigh, And the faint murmur of the ocean’s flow, Came like some spirit whispering--“He must die!” And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast, His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.
’Tis past--that fearful trial!--he is gone! But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep; The hour of nature’s charter’d peace comes on, And thou shalt share thine infant’s holy sleep. A few short sufferings yet--and death shall be As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.
But ask not--hope not--one relenting thought From him who doom’d thee thus to waste away, Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance fraught, Broods in dark triumph o’er thy slow decay; And coldly, sternly, silently can trace The gradual withering of each youthful grace.
And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise As an accusing angel--and thy tomb, A martyr’s shrine, be hallow’d in his eyes! Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.
Lift thy meek eyes to heaven--for all on earth, Young sufferer! fades before thee. Thou art lone: Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, Thine hour of death is all Affliction’s own! It is our task to suffer--and our fate To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.
The season’s glory fades--the vintage lay Through joyous Italy resounds no more; But mortal loveliness hath pass’d away, Fairer than aught in summer’s glowing store. Beauty and youth are gone--behold them such As death hath made them with his blighting touch!
The summer’s breath came o’er them--and they died! Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, Call’d forth young nature in her festal pride, But bore to them their summons from the earth! Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, And wake to life and light all flowers--but these.
No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave; But o’er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave-- Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!
[195] An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci’s picture of his wife Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitation of nature ever exhibited in painting.
[196] A sort of consecrated war-chariot.
A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL.
[The Secret Tribunal,[197] which attained such formidable power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is mentioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremendous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, without exception, if they had committed any offence cognisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceedings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in motion, who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought admission into the society; there were Free Judges even amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every prince had some of their Order in his council. When a member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree; but if circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the transactions of the Sages or Seers (as they called themselves) were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exertions for its suppression, in which they were at length successful.
The following account of this extraordinary association is given by Madame de Staël:--“Des juges mystérieux, inconnus l’un à l’autre, toujours masqués, et se rassemblant pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient seulement sur le poignard qu’ils enfoncoient dans le sein du coupable ce mot terrible: Tribunal Secret. Ils prévenoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les fenêtres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur! Alors l’infortuné savoit que par-tout, dans l’étranger, dans son concitoyen, dans son parent même, il pouvoit trouver son meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, tout étoit rempli par la présence invisible de cette conscience armée qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment cette terrible institution pouvoit être nécessaire, dans un temps où chaque homme étoit fort contre tous, au lieu que tous doivent être forts contre chacun. Il falloit que la justice surprit le criminel avant qu’il pût s’en défendre; mais cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein même d’un ami, frappoit d’une invincible terreur.”--L’Allemagne, vol. ii.]
[197] See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer.
Night veil’d the mountains of the vine, And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, And, mingling with the pinewood’s roar, Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, While glen and cavern, to their moans Gave answer with a thousand tones: Then, as the voice of storms appall’d The peasant of the Odenwald,[198] Shuddering he deem’d, that, far on high, ’Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, Riding the blast with phantom speed, With cry of hound and tramp of steed, While his fierce train, as on they flew, Their horns in savage chorus blew, Till rock, and tower, and convent round, Rang to the shrill unearthly sound.
Vain dreams! far other footsteps traced The forest paths, in secret haste; Far other sounds were on the night, Though lost amidst the tempest’s might, That fill’d the echoing earth and sky With its own awful harmony. There stood a lone and ruin’d fane, Far in the Odenwald’s domain, Midst wood and rock, a deep recess Of still and shadowy loneliness. Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown, The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone, The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile, As it swept along the roofless aisle, For the forest boughs and the stormy sky Were all that minster’s canopy.
Many a broken image lay In the mossy mantle of decay, And partial light the moonbeams darted O’er trophies of the long-departed; For there the chiefs of other days, The mighty, slumber’d, with their praise: ’Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven A tribute to their bier had given, Long since a sound but the moaning blast Above their voiceless home had pass’d. --So slept the proud, and with them all The records of their fame and fall; Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, Adorn’d the dwelling of their rest, And emblems of the Holy Land Were carved by some forgotten hand. But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced; And the scatter’d leaves of the northern pine Half hid the palm of Palestine. So slept the glorious--lowly laid, As the peasant in his native shade; Some hermit’s tale, some shepherd’s rhyme, All that high deeds could win from time!
What footsteps move, with measured tread, Amid those chambers of the dead? What silent, shadowy beings glide Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, Peopling the wild and solemn scene With forms well suited to its mien? Wanderer, away! let none intrude On their mysterious solitude! Lo! these are they, that awful band, The secret Watchers of the land, They that, unknown and uncontroll’d, Their dark and dread tribunal hold. They meet not in the monarch’s dome, They meet not in the chieftain’s home; But where, unbounded o’er their heads, All heaven magnificently spreads, And from its depths of cloudless blue The eternal stars their deeds may view! Where’er the flowers of the mountain sod By roving foot are seldom trod; Where’er the pathless forest waves, Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves; Where’er wild legends mark a spot, By mortals shunn’d, but unforgot, There, circled by the shades of night, They judge of crimes that shrink from light; And guilt, that deems its secret known To the One unslumbering eye alone, Yet hears their name with a sudden start, As an icy touch had chill’d its heart, For the shadow of th’ avenger’s hand Rests dark and heavy on the land.
There rose a voice from the ruin’s gloom, And woke the echoes of the tomb, As if the noble hearts beneath Sent forth deep answers to its breath.
“When the midnight stars are burning, And the dead to earth returning; When the spirits of the blest Rise upon the good man’s rest; When each whisper of the gale Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale; In the shadow of the hour That o’er the soul hath deepest power, Why thus meet we, but to call For judgment on the criminal? Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, And point th’ avenger’s holy steel? A fearful oath has bound our souls, A fearful power our arm controls! There is an ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die; There is an eye whose beam pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades: That ear hath heard our awful vow, That searching eye is on us now! Let him whose heart is unprofaned, Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain’d-- Let him, whose thoughts no record keep Of crimes in silence buried deep, Here, in the face of heaven, accuse The guilty whom its wrath pursues!”
’Twas hush’d--that voice of thrilling sound! And a dead silence reign’d around. Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form Tower’d like a phantom in the storm; Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, With its dark folds his face to shroud, Through pillar’d arches on he pass’d, With stately step, and paused at last, Where, on the altar’s mouldering stone, The fitful moonbeam brightly shone; Then on the fearful stillness broke Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke:
“Before that eye whose glance pervades All depths, all deserts, and all shades; Heard by that ear awake on high E’en to thought’s whispers ere they die-- With all a mortal’s awe I stand, Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. To heaven I lift that hand, and call For judgment on the criminal; The earth is dyed with bloodshed’s hues-- It cries for vengeance. I accuse!”
“Name thou the guilty! say for whom Thou claim’st th’ inevitable doom!
“Albert of Lindheim--to the skies The voice of blood against him cries; A brother’s blood--his hand is dyed With the deep stain of fratricide. One hour, one moment, hath reveal’d What years in darkness had conceal’d, But all in vain--the gulf of time Refused to close upon his crime; And guilt that slept on flowers shall know The earthquake was but hush’d below! --Here, where amidst the noble dead, Awed by their fame, he dare not tread; Where, left by him to dark decay, Their trophies moulder fast away, Around us and beneath us lie The relics of his ancestry-- The chiefs of Lindheim’s ancient race, Each in his last low dwelling-place. But one is absent--o’er his grave The palmy shades of Syria wave; Far distant from his native Rhine, He died unmourn’d, in Palestine! The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, To perish by a brother’s hand! Peace to his soul! though o’er his bed No dirge be pour’d, no tear be shed, Though all he loved his name forget, They live who shall avenge him yet!”
“Accuser! how to thee alone Became the fearful secret known?”
“There is an hour when vain remorse First wakes in her eternal force; When pardon may not be retrieved, When conscience will not be deceived. He that beheld the victim bleed, Beheld, and aided in the deed-- When earthly fears had lost their power Reveal’d the tale in such an hour, Unfolding, with his latest breath, All that gave keener pangs to death.”
“By Him, th’ All-seeing and Unseen, Who is for ever, and hath been, And by th’ Atoner’s cross adored, And by th’ avenger’s holy sword, By truth eternal and divine, Accuser! wilt thou swear to thine?” --“The cross upon my heart is prest, I hold the dagger to my breast; If false the tale whose truth I swear, Be mine the murderer’s doom to bear!”
Then sternly rose the dread reply-- “His days are number’d--he must die! There is no shadow of the night So deep as to conceal his flight; Earth doth not hold so lone a waste But there his footsteps shall be traced; Devotion hath no shrine so blest That there in safety he may rest. Where’er he treads, let Vengeance there Around him spread her secret snare! In the busy haunts of men, In the still and shadowy glen, When the social board is crown’d, When the wine-cup sparkles round; When his couch of sleep is prest, And a dream his spirit’s guest; When his bosom knows no fear, Let the dagger still be near, Till, sudden as the lightning’s dart, Silent and swift it reach his heart! One warning voice, one fearful word, Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, Then vainly may the guilty fly, Unseen, unaided,--he must die! Let those he loves prepare his tomb, Let friendship lure him to his doom! Perish his deeds, his name, his race, Without a record or a trace! Away! be watchful, swift, and free, To wreak th’ invisible’s decree. ’Tis pass’d--th’ avenger claims his prey: On to the chase of death--away!”
And all was still. The sweeping blast Caught not a whisper as it pass’d; The shadowy forms were seen no more, The tombs deserted as before; And the wide forest waved immense In dark and lone magnificence. In Lindheim’s towers the feast had closed The song was hush’d, the bard reposed; Sleep settled on the weary guest, And the castle’s lord retired to rest. To rest! The captive doom’d to die May slumber, when his hour is nigh; The seaman, when the billows foam, Rock’d on the mast, may dream of home; The warrior, on the battle’s eve, May win from care a short reprieve: But earth and heaven alike deny Their peace to guilt’s o’erwearied eye; And night, that brings to grief a calm, To toil a pause, to pain a balm, Hath spells terrific in her course, Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse-- Voices, that long from earth had fled, And steps and echoes from the dead; And many a dream whose forms arise Like a darker world’s realities! Call them not vain illusions--born, But for the wise and brave to scorn! Heaven, that the penal doom defers, Hath yet its thousand ministers, To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, In shade, in silence, and alone, Concentrating in one brief hour Ages of retribution’s power! --If thou wouldst know the lot of those, Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, Ah! seek them not where pleasure’s throng Are listening to the voice of song; Seek them not where the banquet glows, And the red vineyard’s nectar flows: There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, The eye of feverish joy may speak, And smiles, the ready mask of pride, The canker-worm within may hide. Heed not those signs! they but delude; Follow, and mark their solitude!
The song is hush’d, the feast is done, And Lindheim’s lord remains alone-- Alone in silence and unrest, With the dread secret of his breast; Alone with anguish and with fear, --There needs not an avenger here! Behold him!--Why that sudden start? Thou hear’st the beating of thy heart! Thou hear’st the night-wind’s hollow sigh, Thou hear’st the rustling tapestry! No sound but these may near thee be; Sleep! all things earthly sleep--but thee.
No! there are murmurs on the air, And a voice is heard that cries--“Despair!” And he who trembles fain would deem ’Twas the whisper of a waking dream. Was it but this? Again, ’tis there: Again is heard--“Despair! Despair!” ’Tis past--its tones have slowly died In echoes on the mountain side; Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. He knew their fearful meaning well, And shrinking from the midnight gloom, As from the shadow of the tomb, Yet shuddering, turn’d in pale dismay, When broke the dawn’s first kindling ray, And sought, amidst the forest wild, Some shade where sunbeam never smiled.
Yes! hide thee, guilt! The laughing morn Wakes in a heaven of splendour born! The storms that shook the mountain crest Have sought their viewless world of rest. High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, Soars the young eagle in the blaze, Exulting, as he wings his way, To revel in the fount of day; And brightly past his banks of vine, In glory, flows the monarch Rhine; And joyous peals the vintage song His wild luxuriant shores along, As peasant bands, from rock and dell, Their strains of choral transport swell; And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, Aspiring to the realm of storms, And woods around, and waves below, Catch the red Orient’s deepening glow, That lends each tower, and convent spire, A tinge of its ethereal fire.
Swell high the song of festal hours! Deck ye the shrine with living flowers! Let music o’er the waters breathe! Let beauty twine the bridal wreath! While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, Whose cheek with love’s own hue is bright, The fair-hair’d maid of Lindheim’s hall, Wakes to her nuptial festival. Oh! who hath seen, in dreams that soar To worlds the soul would fain explore, When, for her own blest country pining, Its beauty o’er her thought is shining, Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye Was all one beam of ecstasy! Whose glorious brow no traces wore Of guilt, or sorrow known before! Whose smile, undimm’d by aught of earth, A sunbeam of immortal birth, Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, Where love and joy are both undying! E’en thus--a vision of delight, A beam to gladden mortal sight, A flower whose head no storm had bow’d, Whose leaves ne’er droop’d beneath a cloud,-- Thus, by the world unstain’d, untried, Seem’d that beloved and lovely bride; A being all too soft and fair One breath of earthly woe to bear! Yet lives there many a lofty mind, In light and fragile form enshrined; And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye Hide strength to suffer and to die! Judge not of woman’s heart in hours That strew her path with summer flowers, When joy’s full cup is mantling high, When flattery’s blandishments are nigh; Judge her not then! within her breast Are energies unseen, that rest! They wait their call--and grief alone May make the soul’s deep secrets known. Yes! let her smile midst pleasure’s train, Leading the reckless and the vain! Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, Besprinkled with the martyr’s blood; Her voice the patriot’s heart hath steel’d, Her spirit glow’d on battle-field; Her courage freed from dungeon’s gloom The captive brooding o’er his doom; Her faith the fallen monarch saved, Her love the tyrant’s fury braved; No scene of danger or despair, But she hath won her triumph there!
Away! nor cloud the festal morn With thoughts of boding sadness born! Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, Fair daughter of a noble line! Young Ella! from thy tower, whose height Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, Watching, while soft the morning air Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, Yon bark, that o’er the calm blue tide Bears thy loved warrior to his bride-- Him, whose high deeds romantic praise Hath hallow’d with a thousand lays.
He came--that youthful chief,--he came That favour’d lord of love and fame! His step was hurried--as if one Who seeks a voice within to shun; His cheek was varying, and express’d The conflict of a troubled breast; His eye was anxious--doubt, and dread, And a stem grief, might there be read: Yet all that mark’d his alter’d mien Seem’d struggling to be still unseen. --With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, Young Ella met the brow austere, And the wild look, which seem’d to fly The timid welcome of her eye. Was that a lover’s gaze, which chill’d The soul, its awful sadness thrill’d? A lover’s brow, so darkly fraught With all the heaviest gloom of thought? She trembled--ne’er to grief inured, By its dread lessons ne’er matured, Unused to meet a glance of less Than all a parent’s tenderness, Shuddering she felt, through every sense, The deathlike faintness of suspense.
High o’er the windings of the flood, On Lindheim’s terraced rocks they stood, Whence the free sight afar might stray O’er that imperial river’s way, Which, rushing from its Alpine source, Makes one long triumph of its course, Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, Midst Nature’s noblest pageantry. But they, o’er that majestic scene, With clouded brow and anxious mien, In silence gazed!--for Ella’s heart Fear’d its own terrors to impart; And he, who vainly strove to hide His pangs, with all a warrior’s pride, Seem’d gathering courage to unfold Some fearful tale, that must be told.
At length his mien, his voice, obtain’d A calm, that seem’d by conflicts gain’d, As thus he spoke--“Yes! gaze a while On the bright scenes that round thee smile; For, if thy love be firm and true, Soon must thou bid their charms adieu! A fate hangs o’er us, whose decree Must bear me far from them or thee; Our path is one of snares and fear, I lose thee, if I linger here! Droop not, beloved! thy home shall rise As fair, beneath far-distant skies; As fondly tenderness and truth Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. But speak! and, when yon hallow’d shrine Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more To tread thine own loved mountain shore, But share and soothe, repining not, The bitterness of exile’s lot?”
“Ulric! thou know’st how dearly loved The scenes where first my childhood roved; The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme Above our own majestic stream, The halls where first my heart beat high To the proud songs of chivalry. All, all are dear--yet these are ties Affection well may sacrifice; Loved though they be, where’er thou art, There is the country of my heart! Yet is there one, who, reft of me, Were lonely as a blasted tree; One, who still hoped my hand should close His eyes, in Nature’s last repose; Eve gathers round him--on his brow Already rests the wintry snow; His form is bent, his features wear The deepening lines of age and care; His faded eye hath lost its fire;-- Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire? Yet tell me all--thy woes impart, My Ulric! to a faithful heart, Which sooner far--oh! doubt not this-- Would share thy pangs, than others’ bliss!”
“Ella, what wouldst thou?--’tis a tale Will make that cheek as marble pale! Yet what avails it to conceal All thou too soon must know and feel? It must, it must be told--prepare, And nerve that gentle heart to bear. But I--oh, was it then for me The herald of thy woes to be! Thy soul’s bright calmness to destroy, And wake thee first from dreams of joy? Forgive!--I would not ruder tone Should make the fearful tidings known, I would not that unpitying eyes Should coldly watch thine agonies! Better ’twere mine--that task severe, To cloud thy breast with grief and fear.
“Hast thou not heard, in legends old, Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, Of those who meet in cave or glen, Far from the busy walks of men; Those who mysterious vigils keep, When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, To judge of crimes, like Him on high, In stillness and in secrecy? Th’ unknown avengers, whose decree ’Tis fruitless to resist or flee? Whose name hath cast a spell of power O’er peasant’s cot and chieftain’s tower? Thy sire--oh, Ella! hope is fled! Think of him, mourn him, as the dead! Their sentence, theirs, hath seal’d his doom, And thou may’st weep as o’er his tomb! Yes, weep!--relieve thy heart oppress’d, Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast! Thy cheek is cold--thy tearless eye Seems fix’d in frozen vacancy. Oh, gaze not thus!--thy silence break: Speak! if ’tis but in anguish, speak!”
She spoke at length, in accents low, Of wild and half-indignant woe: --“He doom’d to perish! he decreed By their avenging arm to bleed! He, the renown’d in holy fight, The Paynim’s scourge, the Christian’s might! Ulric! what mean’st thou?--not a thought Of that high mind with guilt is fraught! Say, for which glorious trophy won, Which deed of martial prowess done, Which battle-field, in days gone by, Gain’d by his valour, must he die? Away! ’tis not his lofty name Their sentence hath consign’d to shame-- ’Tis not his life they seek. Recall Thy words, or say he shall not fall!”
Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief Gave pleading softness to her grief: “And wilt thou not, by all the ties Of our affianced love,” she cries, “By all my soul hath fix’d on thee, Of cherish’d hope for years to be, Wilt thou not aid him? wilt not thou Shield his gray head from danger now? And didst thou not, in childhood’s morn, That saw our young affection born, Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, Sharing his parent smile with me? Kind, gentle Ulric! best beloved! Now be thy faith in danger proved! Though snares and terrors round him wait, Thou wilt not leave him to his fate! Turn not away in cold disdain! --Shall thine own Ella plead in vain? How art thou changed! and must I bear That frown, that stern, averted air? What mean they?”
“Maiden, need’st thou ask? These features wear no specious mask. Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye With characters of mystery? This--this is anguish! Can it be! And plead’st thou for my sire to me? Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, He must not meet my sight--and live! Well may’st thou shudder! Of the band Who watch in secret o’er the land, Whose thousand swords ’tis vain to shun, Th’ unknown, th’ unslumbering--I am one! My arm defend him! What were then Each vow that binds the souls of men, Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal’d By rites that may not be reveal’d? --A breeze’s breath, an echo’s tone, A passing sound, forgot when gone! Nay, shrink not from me--I would fly, That he by other hands may die! What! think’st thou I would live to trace Abhorrence in that angel face? Beside thee should the lover stand, The father’s life-blood on his brand? No! I have bade my home adieu, For other scenes mine eyes must view. Look on me, love! Now all is known, O Ella! must I fly alone?”
But she was changed. Scarce heaved breath; She stood like one prepared for death, And wept no more; then, casting down From her fair brows the nuptial crown, As joy’s last vision from her heart, Cried, with sad firmness, “We must part! ’Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail They may not brook one stormy gale, Survive--too dear as still thou art-- Each hope they imaged;--we must part! One struggle yet--and all is o’er: We love--and may we meet no more! Oh! little know’st thou of the power Affection lends in danger’s hour, To deem that fate should thus divide My footsteps from a father’s side! Speed thou to other shores--I go To share his wanderings and his woe. Where’er his path of thorns may lead, Whate’er his doom, by heaven decreed, If there be guardian powers above To nerve the heart of filial love, If courage may be won by prayer, Or strength by duty--I can bear! Farewell!--though in that sound be years Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, Though the soul vibrate to its knell Of joys departed--yet, farewell!
Was this the maid who seem’d, erewhile, Born but to meet life’s vernal smile? A being, almost on the wing, As an embodied breeze of spring? A child of beauty and of bliss, Sent from some purer sphere to this-- Not, in her exile, to sustain The trial of one earthly pain; But, as a sunbeam, on to move, Wakening all hearts to joy and love? That airy form, with footsteps free, And radiant glance--could this be she? From her fair cheek the rose was gone, Her eye’s blue sparkle thence had flown; Of all its vivid glow bereft, Each playful charm her lip had left. But what were these? on that young face, Far nobler beauty fill’d their place! ’Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, Though all the bolts of heaven descend; Not the fierce grandeur of despair, That half exults its fate to dare; Nor that wild energy which leads Th’ enthusiast to fanatic deeds: Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued, Was fix’d in silent fortitude; Not in its haughty strength elate, But calmly, mournfully sedate. ’Twas strange, yet lovely to behold That spirit in so fair a mould, As if a rose-tree’s tender form, Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm.
One look she cast, where firmness strove With the deep pangs of parting love; One tear a moment in her eye Dimm’d the pure light of constancy; And pressing, as to still her heart, She turn’d in silence to depart. But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, Then started from his trance of thought:
“Stay thee! oh, stay!--It must not be-- All, all were well resign’d for thee! Stay! till my soul each vow disown, But those which make me thine alone! If there be guilt--there is no shrine More holy than that heart of thine: There be my crime absolved--I take The cup of shame for thy dear sake. Of shame!--oh no! to virtue true, Where thou art, there is glory too! Go now! and to thy sire impart, He hath a shield in Ulric’s heart, And thou a home! Remain, or flee, In life, in death--I follow thee!”
“There shall not rest one cloud of shame, O Ulric! on thy lofty name; There shall not one accusing word Against thy spotless faith be heard! Thy path is where the brave rush on, Thy course must be where palms are won: Where banners wave, and falchions glare, Son of the mighty! be thou there! Think on the glorious names that shine Along thy sire’s majestic line; Oh, last of that illustrious race! Thou wert not born to meet disgrace! Well, well I know each grief, each pain, Thy spirit nobly could sustain; E’en I unshrinking see them near, And what hast thou to do with fear? But when have warriors calmly borne The cold and bitter smile of scorn? ’Tis not for thee! thy soul hath force To cope with all things--but remorse; And this my brightest thought shall be, Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. Go! break thou not one solemn vow; Closed be the fearful conflict now; Go! but forget not how my heart Still at thy name will proudly start, When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well!” --And thus they parted. Why recall The scene of anguish known to all? The burst of tears, the blush of pride, That fain those fruitless tear’s would hide; The lingering look, the last embrace, Oh! what avails it to retrace? They parted--in that bitter word A thousand tones of grief are heard, Whose deeply-seated echoes rest In the fair cells of every breast. Who hath not known, who shall not know, That keen yet most familiar woe? Where’er affection’s home is found, It meets her on the holy ground; The cloud of every summer hour, The canker-worm of every flower. “Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, That mortal agony of love?
The autumn moon slept bright and still On fading wood and purple hill; The vintager had hush’d his lay, The fisher shunn’d the blaze of day, And silence, o’er each green recess, Brooded in misty sultriness. But soon a low and measured sound Broke on the deep repose around; From Lindheim’s tower a glancing oar Bade the stream ripple to the shore. Sweet was that sound of waves which parted The fond, the true, the noble-hearted; And smoothly seem’d the bark to glide, And brightly flow’d the reckless tide, Though, mingling with its current, fell The last warm tears of love’s farewell.
[198] The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoining the territories of Darmstadt.