Chapter XI: Part II (2)

[“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.