Chapter XIV: Act I: Scene II (2)

This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the _Aristodemo_ of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an impressive character to the piece, yet those workings of passion and tenderness--without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism unnatural--have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly suppressed.

The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are full of majestic eloquence; and the whole piece seems to be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascendency give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the annals of the ancient republics.

The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, which Scipio had utterly demolished.

Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night
Hath spread her favouring shadows o’er thy path:
And thou, be strong, my country! for thy son
Gracchus is with thee! All is hush’d around,
And in deep slumber; from the cares of day
The worn plebeians rest. Oh! good and true,
And only Romans! your repose is sweet,
For toil hath given it zest; ’tis calm and pure,
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile,
My brother’s murderers, the patricians, hold
Inebriate vigils o’er their festal boards,
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me
To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem
Of the unlook’d-for and tremendous foe
So near at hand!--It is enough. I tread
In safety my paternal threshold.--Yes!
This is my own! O mother! O my wife!
My child!--I come to dry your tears. I come
Strengthen’d by three dread furies:--One is wrath,
Fired by my country’s wrongs; and one deep love,
For those, my bosom’s inmates; and the third--
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother’s blood!

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate character and unprincipled designs he is represented as unacquainted. From the opening speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it appears that he is just returned from the perpetration of some crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the second act.

The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, by the obscure allusions to some act of signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the course of the ensuing discussion.

_Ful._ This is no time for grief and feeble tears,
But for high deeds.

_Caius._ And we will make it such.
But prove we first our strength. Declare, what friends
(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain
True to our cause?

_Ful._ Few, few, but valiant hearts!

* * * * *

Oh! what a change is here! There was a time
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law
To nations and their rulers; in thy presence
The senate trembled, and the citizens
Flock’d round thee in deep reverence. Then a word,
A look from Caius--a salute, a smile,
Fill’d them with pride. Each sought to be the friend,
The client, ay, the very slave, of him,
The people’s idol; and beholding them
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself,
Didst blush to see their vileness! But thy fortune
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt
Into dim vapour; and the earthly god,
So worshipp’d once, from his forsaken shrines
Down to the dust is hurl’d.

_Caius._ And what of this?
There is no power in fortune to deprive
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart
As meets the storm exultingly--a heart
Whose stem delight it is to strive with fate,
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible
But because man is vile. A coward first
Made her a deity.

* * * * *

But say, what thoughts
Are foster’d by the people? Have they lost
The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name
Of Gracchus in their hearts--reveal the truth--
Already number’d with forgotten things?

_Ful._ A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now there,
Borne on light pinion--such the people’s love!
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults
Are of their miseries; and their feebleness
Is to their woes proportion’d. Haply still
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine.
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute;
And the deep paleness of their timid mien,
And eyes in fix’d despondence bent on earth,
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name,
Alone accuse them. They are hush’d--for now
Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich,
And the patrician Romans. Yes! and well
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth,
For Rome is widow’d! Distant wars engage
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led,
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart
Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people,
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought,
But yet are silent.

_Caius._ I will make them heard.
Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came
Prepared for all; and as I track’d the deep
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew
Familiar in its musings. With a voice
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell’d; the waves
Mutter’d around; heaven flash’d in lightning forth,
And the pale steersman trembled: I the while
Stood on the tossing and bewilder’d bark,
Retired and shrouded in my mantle’s folds,
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb’d
In a far deeper storm! Around my heart,
Gathering in secret then, my spirit’s powers
Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts
My country rose,--and I foresaw the snares,
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate,
And my false friends, awaiting my return.

* * * * *

Fulvius! I wept; but they were tears of rage!
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought
Of my wrong’d country, and of him, that brother
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly cried
“Vengeance!”--nor found it yet.

_Ful._ It is fulfill’d.

_Caius._ And how?

_Ful._ Thou shalt be told.

_Caius._ Explain thy words.

_Ful._ Then know--(incautious that I am!)

_Caius._ Why thus
Falters thy voice? Why speak’st thou not?

_Ful._ Forgive!
E’en friendship sometimes hath its secrets.

_Caius._ No!
True friendship never!

Caius afterwards inquires what part his brother-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their enterprises.

His high renown--
The glorious deeds, whereby was earn’d his name
Of second Africanus; and the blind,
Deep reverence paid him by the people’s hearts,
Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still--
All this disturbs me: hardly will be won
Our day of victory, if by him withstood.

_Ful._ Yet won it _shall_ be. If but this thou fear’st,
Then be at peace.

_Caius._ I understand thee not

_Ful._ Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste
Our time and words. Soon, will the morning break,
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return;
I fly to cheer them with the tidings.

_Caius._ Stay!

_Ful._ And wherefore?

_Caius._ To reveal thy meaning.

_Ful._ Peace!
I hear the sound of steps.

This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an inquiry after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of _nature_. Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem to be laid down for the delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their _official_ garb, and has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature, without effacing the impress which distinguished “the men of iron,” from the nations who “stood still before them.”

The first act concludes with the parting of Caius and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion--Cornelia having accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty.

Of liberty
What speak’st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no shame--
No virtue--and thy boast is, to be free!
Oh! zeal for liberty! eternal mask
Assumed by every crime!

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is announced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a rumour of his having perished by assassination. The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up.

_Caius._ Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius rush,
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart!

(_Fulvius enters._)

Thou comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend!
Scipio lies murder’d on his bed of death!--
Who slew him?

_Ful._ Ask’st thou me?

_Caius._ Thee! thee, who late
Didst in such words discourse of him as now
Assure me thou ’rt his murderer. Traitor, speak!

_Ful._ If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart,
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!
More grateful praise and warmer thanks might well
Reward the generous courage which hath freed
Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe.

_Caius._ Then he was slain by thee?

_Ful._ Ungrateful friend!
Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces
Thy honour. Freedom’s wavering light is dim;
Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate;
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death
Of infamy, another seeks _thy_ fall;
And when one noble, one determined stroke
To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks
The people’s vengeance, gives thee life and fame
And pacifies thy brother’s angry shade,
Is it a cause for wailing? Am I call’d
For _this_ a murderer? Go!--I say once more,
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest!

_Caius._ I know thee now, barbarian! Would’st thou serve
My cause with crimes?

_Ful._ And those of that proud man
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are _they_
To be forgotten? Hath oblivion then
Shrouded the stern destroyer’s ruthless work,
The famine of Numantia? Such a deed
As on our name the world’s deep curses drew!
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray’d,
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs
Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot?
Go, ask of Carthage!--bid her wasted shores
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount
The terrible achievements! At the cries,
The groans, th’ unutterable pangs of those,
The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom’d
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword,
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth
In horror doth not open! They were foes,
They were barbarians, but unarm’d, subdued,
Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law
Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak,
To tame the lofty! But in other lands,
Why should I seek for records of his crimes,
If there the suffering people ask in vain
A little earth to lay their bones in peace?
If the decree which yielded to their claims
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal
Thy brother’s blood was shed--if this remain
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he
That mock’d its power?--Who to all Rome declared
Thy brother’s death was just, was needful?--Who
But Scipio? And remember thou the words
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e’en then,
Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart
They have been deeply treasured. He must die,
(Thus did’st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need
That he should perish! I have done the deed;
And call’st thou _me_ his murderer? If the blow
Was guilt, then _thou_ art guilty. From thy lips
The sentence came--the crime is thine alone.
I, thy devoted friend, did but obey
Thy mandate.

_Caius._ Thou my friend! I am not one
To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught
With fate and death, awake to scatter those
Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood,
Bring chains!--degrading Freedom’s lofty self
Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not,
Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine!
I wish’d him slain!--’tis so--but by the axe
Of high and public justice--that whose stroke
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced
Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble!

_Ful._ Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee:
Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty,
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not
To utter more.

_Caius._ And what hast thou to say?

_Ful._ That which I now suppress.

_Caius._ How! are there yet,
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d?

_Ful._ I know not.

_Caius._ Thou know’st not?--Horror chills my curdling veins;
I dare not ask thee further.

_Ful._ Thou dost well.

_Caius._ What saidst thou?

_Ful._ Nothing.

_Caius._ On my heart the words
Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light
Bursts o’er my soul!--Hast thou accomplices?

_Ful._ Insensate! ask me not.

_Caius._ I must be told.

_Ful._ Away!--thou wilt repent.

_Caius._ No more of this, for I _will_ know.

_Ful._ Thou wilt?
Ask then thy sister.

_Caius._ (_alone_.) Ask my sister! What!
Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain
Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name
Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus
Consign’d to infamy!--to infamy?
The very hair doth rise upon my head,
Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains
From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do?
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones
Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry,
“Away!--and pause not--slay thy guilty sister!”
Voice of lost honour, of a noble line
Disgraced, I will obey thee!--terribly
Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased.

PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS.

Whoever has attentively studied the works of the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, must have been struck with those allusions to the glory and the fall, the renown and the degradation, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voice of her bards has still been heard to prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recollections from the glorious past, as have resounded through the land, notwithstanding the loudest tumults of those discords which have made her--

“Long, long, a bloody stage
For petty kinglings tame,
Their miserable game
Of puny war to wage.”

There is something very affecting in these vain, though exalted aspirations after that independence which the Italians, as a nation, seem destined never to regain. The strains in which their high-toned feelings on this subject are recorded, produce on our minds the same effect with the song of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught, in our imagination, with recollections of the green woodland, the free air, and unbounded sky. We soon grow weary of the perpetual _violets and zephyrs_, whose cloying sweetness pervades the sonnets and canzoni of the minor Italian poets, till we are ready to “die in aromatic pain;” nor is our interest much more excited even by the everlasting _laurel_ which inspires the enamoured Petrarch with so ingenious a variety of _concetti_, as might reasonably cause it to be doubted whether the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are the real object of the bard’s affection; but the moment a patriotic chord is struck, our feelings are awakened, and we find it easy to sympathise with the emotions of a modern Roman, surrounded by the ruins of the Capitol; a Venetian when contemplating the proud trophies won by his ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine amongst the tombs of the mighty dead, in the church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, _now_ the time to plead, with any effect, the cause of Italy; yet cannot we consider that nation as altogether degraded, whose literature, from the dawn of its majestic immortality, has been consecrated to the nurture of every generous principle and ennobling recollection; and whose “choice and master spirits,” under the most adverse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the “ten thousand tyrants” of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the indignant though unavailing regrets of those who, to use the words of Alfieri, are “slaves, yet still _indignant_ slaves,”[149] have been feelingly portrayed.

The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

When from the mountain’s brow the gathering shades
Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell:
Day beams o’er other lands, if here she fades,
Nor bids the universe at once farewell.
But thou, I cry, my country! what a night
Spreads o’er thy glories one dark sweeping pall!
Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour’s might
And wisdom’s voice--what now remains of all?
And see’st thou not th’ ascending flame of war
Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar?
Is not thy misery’s evidence complete?
But if endurance can thy fall delay,
Still, still endure, devoted one! and say,
If it be victory thus but to retard defeat.

CARLO MARIA MAGGI.

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep,
And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from sleep
Startle the next! one peril broods o’er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,
Forgetting valour, sinking in despair,
At strangers’ feet!--our land is all too fair;
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition’s speed.
In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye,
For pardon sue; ’tis not her agony,
Her death alone may now appease her foes.
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun!
But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone,
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!

[149] “Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi.”--Alfieri.

ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.

Italia! oh, no more Italia now!
Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear:
She was a queen with glory mantled--thou,
A slave, degraded, and compell’d to bear,
Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of care
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies;
And shadows, born of terror and despair--
Shadows of death have dimm’d thy glorious eyes.
Italia! oh, Italia now no more!
For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow;
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour
Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woe
Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while
Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.

She that cast down the empires of the world,
And, in her proud triumphal course through Rome,
Dragg’d them, from freedom and dominion hurl’d,
Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o’ercome:
I see her now, dismantled of her state,
Spoil’d of her sceptre, crouching to the ground
Beneath a hostile car--and lo! the weight
Of fetters, her imperial neck around!
Oh! that a stranger’s envious hands had wrought
This desolation! for I then would say,
“Vengeance, Italia!”--in the burning thought
Losing my grief: but ’tis th’ ignoble sway
Of vice hath bow’d thee! Discord, slothful ease,
_Theirs_ is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.

THE SHORE OF AFRICA.

Pilgrim! whose steps those desert sands explore,
Where verdure never spreads its bright array;
Know, ’twas on this inhospitable shore
From Pompey’s heart the life-blood ebb’d away.
Twas here betray’d he fell, neglected lay;
Nor found _his_ relics a sepulchral stone,
Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day,
O’er Tiber’s wave supreme in glory shone!
Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth,
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth
Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die;
But if ’tis Roman blood that fills thy veins,
Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains,
And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.

JEU-D’ESPRIT ON THE WORD “BARB.”

[“It was either during the present or a future visit to the same friends,[150] that the _jeu-d’esprit_ was produced which Mrs Hemans used to call her ‘sheet of forgeries’ on the use of the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time afterwards.”--_Memoir_, p. 43.]

[150] The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool.

The warrior donn’d his well-worn garb,
And proudly waved his crest,
He mounted on his jet-black barb,
And put his lance in rest.
Percy’s _Reliques_.

Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay,
Spurr’d his brown _barb_, and rode full swiftly on his way.
Spenser.

Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard?
The soul of battle is awake within me!
The fate of ages and of empires hangs
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms?
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed!
Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me?
Haste with my _barb_, or, by the holy saints,
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow!
Massinger.

No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the graceful flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of ladies’ eyes--he of the dazzling breastplate and swanlike plume--sprang impatiently from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble _barb_ presented to him by the Emperor of Aspramontania.

Sir Philip Sidney’s _Arcadia_.

See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule
The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest--
Fate on his sword is throned--and his white barb,
As a proud courser of Apollo’s chariot,
Seems breathing fire. Potter’s _Æschylus_.

Oh! bonnie look’d my ain true knight,
His _barb_ so proudly reining;
I watch’d him till my tearfu’ sight
Grew amaist dim wi’ straining. _Border Minstrelsy._

Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery _barb_, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He’s the very pink and mirror of accomplishment.

Shakspeare.

Fair star of beauty’s heaven! to call thee mine,
All other joys I joyously would yield;
My knightly crest, my bounding _barb_ resign,
For the poor shepherd’s crook and daisied field;
For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove,
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love!

Earl of Surrey’s _Poems_.

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown
Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more
Or joyous dance, or music’s thrilling tone,
Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore,
Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet,
Borne on impetuous _barbs_ to bleed at beauty’s feet.

Shakspeare’s _Sonnets_.

As a warrior clad
In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
But mounted on a _barb_ as white
As the fresh new-born light,--
So the black night too soon
Came riding on the bright and silver moon,
Whose radiant heavenly ark
Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem
E’en more than doubly dark,
Mourning, all widow’d of her glorious beam.

Cowley.

THE FEVER DREAM.

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs Hemans’s livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had given rise to many pleasantries--being an imaginary voyage to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy, John Evelyn.]

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please,
Some account of the converse you held on high seas
With Evelyn, the excellent author of “Sylva,”
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa.
I think that old Neptune was visited ne’er
In so well-rigg’d a ship, by so well-matched a pair.
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any
Companion more pleasant, since you’re fond of botany,
And _his_ horticultural talents are known,
Just as well as Canova’s for fashioning stone.

Of the vessel you sail’d in, I just will remark
That I ne’er heard before of so curious a bark.
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe,
I have read very often, as doubtless have you;
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason;
Of the ship moor’d by Trajan in Nemi’s deep basin;
Of the galley (in Plutarch you’ll find the description)
Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian;
Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”)
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama,
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China,
(I’m astonish’d no shocking disaster befel,)
In that swift-sailing first-rate--a cocoa-nut shell!

I hope, my dear H., that you touch’d at Loo Choo,
That abode of a people so gentle and true,
Who with arms and with money have nothing to do.
How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears
Of running _in_ debt, or of running _on_ spears!
Oh dear! what an Eden!--a land without money!
It excels e’en the region of milk and of honey,
Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call’d “Lalla Rookh.”

But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would e’er be
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi,
Of whose travels--related in elegant phrases--
I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises,
And have copied (you know I let nothing escape)
His striking account of the frozen North Cape.
I think ’twas in his works I read long ago
(I’ve not the best memory for dates, as you know,)
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored,
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board)
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero,
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero.
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out,
And in streams, just like lava, meander’d about,
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together.
When my _first_ for a moment had harden’d my _last_,
My _second_ burst out, and all melted as fast;
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on,
But I quite forget which of the elements won.

But a truce with all joking--I hope you’ll excuse me,
Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,
To which answers from you all my wishes will crown;
For you know I’m so fond of the land of Corinne
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily,
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy;
From your shipmate John Evelyn’s amusing old tour,
To Forsyth’s _one_ volume, and Eustace’s _four_,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances.
--Pray describe me from Venice, (don’t think it a bore,)
The literal state of the famed Bucentaur,
And whether the horses, that once were the sun’s,
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze;
For some travellers say one thing, and some say another,
And I can’t find out which, they all make such a pother.
Oh! another thing, too, which I’d nearly forgot,
_Are_ the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not?
These are matters of moment, you’ll surely allow,
For Venice must interest all--even now.

These points being settled, I ask for no more hence,
But should wish for a few observations from Florence.
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti
Are finish’d; if not ’tis a shame for the city
To let _one_ for ages--was e’er such a thing?--
Its entablature want, and the other its wing.
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter,
And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her)
Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a _wood_-pigeon,
Which makes people _gulls_ in the name of Religion?
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa
Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a _Cosa_
About which I’m anxious--as also to know
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago,
Came back (above all, don’t forget this to mention)
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.

Since I wrote the above, I by chance have found out,
That the horses _are_ bright yellow brass beyond doubt;
So I’ll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing,
Do you think they are truly Lysippus’s doing?
--When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will,
If the Acqua Toffana’s in fashion there still;
For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity,
’Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity.
I should like to have also, and not written shabbily,
Your opinion about the _Piscina mirabile_;
And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro’s,
Is decided by you to be really Maro’s.

DARTMOOR.

A PRIZE POEM.

[In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best poem on “Dartmoor;” and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs Hemans for the composition which follows.

She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success:--

“What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was announced to them yesterday.... The Bishop’s kind communication put us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary’s letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which, although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success, which, from so distinguished a writer as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of _Paris_,) cannot but be highly gratifying.”]

“Come, bright Improvement! on the car of Time,
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime.
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore,
Trace every wave, and culture every shore.” Campbell.

“May ne’er
That true succession fail of English hearts,
That can perceive, not less than heretofore
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive,
... the charm
Of pious sentiment, diffused afar,
And human charity, and social love.” Wordsworth.

Amidst the peopled and the regal isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of power;
Hath Desolation rear’d herself a throne,
And mark’d a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore;
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent
When empires totter’d, and the earth was rent;
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still’d life’s busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush’d with power in daring pride’s excess,
Stamp’d on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given,
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains rude,
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,
As a dark cloud on summer’s clear blue sky,
A mourner, circled with festivity!
For all beyond is life!--the rolling sea,
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E’en on mysterious Afric’s boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,
In gloom and silence fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,
And naught of life be near, his camel’s tread
Is o’er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear’d by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands--
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory’s footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass’d,
Not without record; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away
The proud creations rear’d to brave decay.
But _thou_, lone region! whose unnoticed name
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Who shall unfold thine annals?--who shall tell
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell,
In those far ages which have left no trace,
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race?
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days
Of kings and chiefs who pass’d without their praise,
Thou mightst have rear’d the valiant and the free,
In history’s page there is no tale of thee.

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild,
Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled,[151]
But hallow’d by that instinct which reveres
Things fraught with characters of elder years.
And such are these. Long centuries are flown,
Bow’d many a crest, and shatter’d many a throne,
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust,
With what they hide--their shrined and treasured dust.
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold
Earth’s glorious works fast mingling with her mould;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
Th’ eternity of nature, with the forms
Of the crown’d hills beyond, the dwellings of the storms.

Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep,
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season’s breath?
Where is the voice to tell _their_ tale who rest,
Thus rudely pillow’d, on the desert’s breast?
Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been
A sound of battle midst the silent scene
Where now the flocks repose?--did the scythed car
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?

It may be thus:--the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow’s barb remains to tell[152]
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior’s pride,
The chieftain’s power--they had no bard, and died.[153]
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere,
The eternal stars of night have witness’d here.
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,[154]
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone,
Propp’d on its granite pillars, whence the rains
And pure bright dews have laved the crimson stains
Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore,
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore,
And many a crested oak, which now lies low,
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe--
Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade,
On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play’d,
And spells were breathed, that fill’d the deepening gloom
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb.
Or, haply, torches waving through the night
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,[155]
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams
Threw o’er the desert’s hundred hills and streams,
A savage grandeur; while the starry skies
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies,
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the North.

But wilder sounds were there: th’ imploring cry
That woke the forest’s echo in reply,
But not the heart’s! Unmoved the wizard train
Stood round their human victim, and in vain
His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance
Look’d up, appealing to the blue expanse,
Where in their calm immortal beauty shone
Heaven’s cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter moan,
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay,
Till, drop by drop, life’s current ebb’d away;
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red,
And the pale moon gleam’d paler on the dead.
Have such things been, and here?--where stillness dwells
Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells,
Thus undisturb’d? Oh! long the gulf of time
Hath closed in darkness o’er those days of crime,
And earth no vestige of their path retains,
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains
With records of man’s conflicts and his doom,
His spirit and his dust--the altar and the tomb.

But ages roll’d away: and England stood
With her proud banner streaming o’er the flood;
And with a lofty calmness in her eye,
And regal in collected majesty,
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze
Bore sounds of triumph o’er her own blue seas;
And other lands, redeem’d and joyous, drank
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank
On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers wave
Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave.

’Twas then the captives of Britannia’s war[156]
Here for their lovely southern climes afar
In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng
Dragg’d at ambition’s chariot-wheels so long
To die--because a despot could not clasp
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp!

Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient thrones
And temples of the world--the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes--
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams
Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain-streams,
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain
And festal melody of Loire or Seine;
And of those mothers who had watch’d and wept,
When on the field the unshelter’d conscript slept,
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there
Of sterner spirits, harden’d by despair;
Who, in their dark imaginings, again
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim’s shriek, as music’s breath,
And lived o’er scenes, the festivals of death!

And there was mirth, too!--strange and savage mirth,
More fearful far than all the woes of earth!
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring
From minds for which there is no sacred thing;
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee--
The lightning’s flash upon its blasted tree!

But still, howe’er the soul’s disguise were worn,
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn,
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show,
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it--woe.

Yet, was this all? Amidst the dungeon-gloom,
The void, the stillness of the captive’s doom,
Were there no deeper thoughts? And that dark power
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour,
The mighty debt through years of crime delay’d,
But, as the grave’s, inevitably paid;
Came _he_ not thither, in his burning force,
The lord, the tamer of dark souls--Remorse?

Yes! as the night calls forth from sea and sky,
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony,
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day
In light and sound are hurrying on their way:
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart,
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start,
Call’d up by solitude, each nerve to thrill
With accents heard not, save when all is still!

The voice, inaudible when havoc’s strain
Crush’d the red vintage of devoted Spain;
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung,
And the broad light of conflagration sprung
From the south’s marble cities; hush’d midst cries
That told the heavens of mortal agonies;
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last
In concentrated thunders of the past!

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder’d mind,
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen,
Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men;
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent
The earthquake power of each wild element,
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high
One impulse more of desperate energy;
Might--when the billow’s awful rush was o’er
Which toss’d its wreck upon the storm-beat shore,
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried,
Search’d by remorse, by anguish purified--
Have fix’d, at length, its troubled hopes and fears
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears;
And, in that hour of triumph or despair,
Whose secrets all must learn--but none declare,
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence,
Have turn’d to Him whose bow is in the cloud,
Around life’s limits gathering as a shroud--
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows,
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose!

Who visited that deathbed? Who can tell
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell,
And learn immortal lessons? Who beheld
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell’d--
The agony of prayer--the bursting tears--
The dark remembrances of guilty years,
Crowding upon the spirit in their might?
He, through the storm who look’d, and there was light!

That scene is closed!--that wild, tumultuous breast,
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest!
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife,
Who woke those passions to delirious life;
And days, prepared a brighter course to run,
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun!

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth
O’er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north,
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath,
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death;
While the glad voices of a thousand streams,
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams!

But Peace hath nobler changes! O’er the mind,
The warm and living spirit of mankind,
_Her_ influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart,
To life and hope from desolation start!
She with a look dissolves the captive’s chain,
Peopling with beauty widow’d homes again;
Around the mother, in her closing years,
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears
Of the dim past but winning purer light,
To make the present more serenely bright.

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to clime,
In silence gliding with the stream of time,
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze
With healing on its wings, o’er isles and seas.
And as Heaven’s breath call’d forth, with genial power,
From the dry wand the almond’s living flower,
So doth its deep-felt charm in secret move
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love;
While round its pathway nature softly glows,
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose.

Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice!
And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper’s song
E’er lightly sped the summer hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; hope’s bright eye
Beams o’er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,
And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom’d spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close
Of labour’s day, the herald of repose,
Which gathers hearts in peace; while social mirth
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth;
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales,
And merry England’s voice floats up from all her vales.
Yet are there sweeter sounds; and thou shalt hear
Such as to Heaven’s immortal host are dear.
Oh! if there still be melody on earth
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth,
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode,
And the air trembled with the breath of God;
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky[157]
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy,
When holy strains, from life’s pure fount which sprung,
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue.

And such shall be _thy_ music, when the cells,
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells,
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought,
In silence broods o’er many a fearful thought,)
Resound to pity’s voice; and childhood thence,
Ere the cold blight hath reach’d its innocence,
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled,
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead,
Shall at the call press forward, to be made
A glorious offering, meet for Him who said,
“Mercy, not sacrifice!” and, when of old
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll’d,
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare
The heart’s deep folds, to read its homage there!

When some crown’d conqueror, o’er a trampled world
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl’d,
And, like those visitations which deform
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm
His pathway to dominion’s lonely sphere,
Silence behind--before him, flight and fear!
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels,
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels,
And earth is moulded but by one proud will,
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still;
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay,
The earthquake homage on its baleful way?
Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains
O’er burning cities and forsaken plains?
And shall no harmony of softer close
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows,
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave,
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave?

Oh! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes
Have search’d the depths of life’s realities,
Than the red battle, or the trophied car,
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far;
There are more noble strains than those which swell
The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell!

Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days
Beneath the palms of Judah! ye whose lays
With torrent rapture, from their source on high,
Burst in the strength of immortality!
Oh! not alone, those haunted groves among,
Of conquering hosts, of empires crush’d, ye sung,
But of that spirit destined to explore,
With the bright day-spring, every distant shore,
To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed,
To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed;
With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon’s gloom.
And pour eternal starlight o’er the tomb.

And bless’d and hallow’d be its haunts! for there
Hath man’s high soul been rescued from despair!
There hath th’ immortal spark for heaven been nursed;
There from the rock the springs of life have burst
Quenchless and pure! and holy thoughts, that rise
Warm from the source of human sympathies--
Where’er its path of radiance may be traced,
Shall find their temple in the silent waste.

[151] “In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with stones, which in many instances appear to have been collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stone-barrows of Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall.”--See Cooke’s _Topographical Survey of Devonshire_.

[152] Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor.

[153]

“Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longâ
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro.”--Horace.

“They had no poet, and they died.”--Pope’s _Translation_.

[154] On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table-stone, and form a kind of large irregular tripod.

[155] In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.

[156] The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon, were confined in a depot on Dartmoor.

[157] In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate the children of convicts.

WELSH MELODIES.

THE HARP OF WALES.

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY.

Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again
As when the foaming Hirlas[158] horn was crown’d,
And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain,
And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round:
Wake with the spirit and the power of yore!
Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!

Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came
O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars:
Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame;
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores:
All gave their ashes to the wind and sea--
Ring out, thou harp! he could not silence thee.

Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d,
His banners floated on Eryri’s gales;[159]
But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast,
E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales!
_Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free;
They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.

Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall,
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board,
The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall--
Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord!
Call back that spirit to the days of peace,
Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!

[158] Hirlas, from _hir_, long, and _glas_, blue or azure.

[159] Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains.

DRUID CHORUS ON THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS.

By the dread and viewless powers
Whom the storms and seas obey,
From the Dark Isle’s[160] mystic bowers,
Romans! o’er the deep away!
Think ye, ’tis but nature’s gloom
O’er our shadowy coast which broods?
By the altar and the tomb,
Shun these haunted solitudes!

Know ye Mona’s awful spells?
She the rolling orbs can stay!
She the mighty grave compels
Back to yield its fetter’d prey!
Fear ye not the lightning stroke?
Mark ye not the fiery sky?
Hence!--around our central oak
Gods are gathering--Romans, fly!

[160] _Ynys Dywyll_, or the Dark Island--an ancient name for Anglesey.

THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN.[161]

Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing
In sunlight and beauty on ocean’s calm breast?
What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing,
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest?

Oh! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages,
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith;
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and sages,
For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death.

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory,
Who steer’d for those distant green spots on the wave?
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story,
In the fields of their country they found not a grave.

Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze gathers
From the flowers of each vale immortality’s breath;
But their steps shall be ne’er on the hills of their fathers--
For the guide to those realms of the blessèd is death.