Chapter XX: Act V: Scene I.--A Prison dimly lighted (1)

Raimond _sleeping_. Procida _enters_.

_Pro._ (_gazing upon him earnestly._) Can he
Then sleep? Th’ overshadowing night hath wrapt
Earth at her stated hours; the stars have set
Their burning watch; and all things hold their course
Of wakefulness and rest; yet hath not sleep
Sat on mine eyelids since--but this avails not!
And thus _he_ slumbers! “Why, this mien doth seem
As if its soul were but one lofty thought
Of an immortal destiny!”--his brow
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond! wake!
Thy rest is deep.

_Raim._ (_starting up._) My father! Wherefore here?
I am prepared to die, yet would I not
Fall by _thy_ hand.

_Pro._ ’Twas not for _this_ I came.

_Raim._ Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty brow
Why burns the troubled flush?

_Pro._ Perchance ’tis shame.
Yes, it may well be shame!--for I have striven
With nature’s feebleness, and been o’erpower’d.
--Howe’er it be, ’tis not for _thee_ to gaze,
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains.
Arise, and follow me; but let thy step
Fall without sound on earth: I have prepared
The means for thy escape.

_Raim._ What! _thou!_ the austere,
The inflexible Procida! hast _thou_ done this,
Deeming me guilty still!

_Pro._ Upbraid me not!
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds
By Roman fathers done,--but I am weak.
Therefore, again I say, arise! and haste,
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be
To realms beyond the deep; so let us part
In silence, and for ever.

_Raim._ Let _him_ fly
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men;
--I can sleep calmly here.

_Pro._ Art thou in love
With death and infamy, that so thy choice
Is made, lost boy! when freedom courts thy grasp?

_Raim._ Father! to set th’ irrevocable seal
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me,
There needs but flight. What should I bear from this,
My native land?--A blighted name, to rise
And part me, with its dark remembrances,
For ever from the sunshine! O’er my soul
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny
Float in dim beauty through the gloom; but here
On earth, my hopes are closed.

_Pro._ _Thy_ hopes are closed!
And what were they to mine?--Thou wilt not fly!
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn
How proudly guilt can talk! Let fathers rear
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds
Foster their young: when these can mount alone,
Dissolving nature’s bonds, why should it not
Be so with us?

_Raim._ O father! now I feel
What high prerogatives belong to Death.
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence,
To which I leave my cause. “His solemn veil
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues,
And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever
Give shelter to our faults.” When I am gone,
The mists of passion which have dimm’d my name
Will melt like day-dreams; and my memory then
Will be--not what it should have been--for I
Must pass without my fame--but yet unstain’d
As a clear morning dewdrop. Oh! the grave
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary’s,
And they should be my own!

_Pro._ Now, by just Heaven,
I will not thus be tortured!--Were my heart
But of thy guilt or innocence assured,
I could be calm again. “But in this wild
Suspense--this conflict and vicissitude
Of opposite feelings and convictions----What!
Hath it been mine to temper and to bend
All spirits to my purpose? have I raised
With a severe and passionless energy,
From the dread mingling of their elements,
Storms which have rock’d the earth?--and shall I now
Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn
And plaything of the winds?” Look on me, boy!
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep
Its heart’s dark secret close.--O pitying Heaven!
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle,
And tell me which is truth.

_Raim._ I will not plead.
I will not call th’ Omnipotent to attest
My innocence. No, father! in thy heart
I know my birthright shall be soon restored;
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed
The great absolver.

_Pro._ O my son! my son!
We will not part in wrath! The sternest hearts,
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses,
Hide something still, round which their tendrils cling
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me!
The all which taught me that my soul was cast
In nature’s mould. And I must now hold on
My desolate course alone! Why, be it thus!
He that doth guide a nation’s star, should dwell
High o’er the clouds, in regal solitude,
Sufficient to himself.

_Raim._ Yet, on the summit,
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee,
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath,
Yet might have soar’d as high!

_Pro._ No, fear thou not!
Thou’lt be remember’d long. The canker-worm
O’ th’ heart is ne’er forgotten.

_Raim._ “Oh! not thus--
I would not _thus_ be thought of.”

_Pro._ Let me deem
Again that thou art base!--for thy bright looks,
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth,
Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers
Follow’d the parricide. Farewell, farewell!
I have no tears. Oh! thus thy mother look’d,
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile,
All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed
She gave thee to my arms.

_Raim._ Now death has lost
His sting, since thou believ’st me innocent!

_Pro._ (_wildly._) _Thou_ innocent!--Am I thy murderer, then?
Away! I tell thee thou hast made my name
A scorn to men! No! I will _not_ forgive thee;
A traitor! What! the blood of Procida
Filling a traitor’s veins? Let the earth drink it.
_Thou_ wouldst receive our foes!--but they shall meet
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul!

_Raim._ Father! yet hear me!

_Pro._ No! thou’rt skill’d to make
E’en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus?

[_Going to leave the prison, he turns back for a moment._

If there be aught--if aught--for which thou need’st
Forgiveness--not of me, but that dread Power
From whom no heart is veil’d--delay thou not
Thy prayer,--time hurries on.

_Raim._ I am prepared.

_Pro._ ’Tis well.

[_Exit_ Procida.

_Raim._ Men talk of torture!--Can they wreak
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame,
Half the mind bears--and lives? My spirit feels
Bewilder’d; on its powers this twilight gloom
Hangs like a weight of earth.--It should be morn;
Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven’s bright sun
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon,
Telling of hope and mercy!

[_Exit into an inner cell._

Scene II.--_A Street of Palermo._

_Many Citizens assembled._

_1st Cit._ The morning breaks; his time is almost come:
Will he be led this way?

_2d Cit._ Ay, so ’tis said
To die before that gate through which he purposed
The foe should enter in!

_3d Cit._ ’Twas a vile plot!
And yet I would my hands were pure as his
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the sounds
I’ the air last night!

_2d Cit._ Since the great work of slaughter,
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours
Which should be silent?

_3d Cit._ Oh! the fearful mingling,
The terrible mimicry of human voices,
In every sound, which to the heart doth speak
Of woe and death.

_2d Cit._ Ay, there was woman’s shrill
And piercing cry; and the low feeble wail
Of dying infants; and the half-suppress’d
Deep groan of man in his last agonies!
And, now and then, there swell’d upon the breeze
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far
Than all the rest.

_1st Cit._ Of our own fate, perchance,
These awful midnight wailings may be deem’d
An ominous prophecy. Should France regain
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have
Stern reckoners to account with.--Hark!

[_The sound of trumpets heard at a distance._

_2d Cit._ ’Twas but
A rushing of the breeze.

_3d Cit._ E’en now, ’tis said,
The hostile bands approach.

[_The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer._

_2d Cit._ Again! that sound
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells--
They come, they come!

Procida _enters_.

_Pro._ The foe is at your gates;
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset.
Why are ye loitering here?

_Cit._ My lord, we came--

_Pro._ Think ye I know not wherefore?--’twas to see
A fellow-being die! Ay, ’tis a sight
Man loves to look on; and the tenderest hearts
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene.
For _this_ ye came. What! is our nature fierce,
Or is there that in mortal agony
From which the soul, exulting in its strength,
Doth learn immortal lessons? Hence, and arm!
Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen
Enough of death--for this must be a day
Of battle! ’Tis the hour which troubled souls
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings
Which bear them up! Arm! arm! ’tis for your homes,
And all that lends them loveliness--Away!

[_Exeunt._

Scene III.--_Prison of_ Raimond.

Raimond, Anselmo.

_Raim._ And Constance then is safe! Heaven bless thee, father!
Good angels bear such comfort.

_Ans._ I have found
A safe asylum for thine honour’d love,
Where she may dwell until serener days,
With Saint Rosalia’s gentlest daughters--those
Whose hallow’d office is to tend the bed
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul
With their soft hymns: and therefore are they call’d
“Sisters of Mercy.”

_Raim._ Oh! that name, my Constance!
Befits thee well. E’en in our happiest days,
There was a depth of tender pensiveness
Far in thine eyes’ dark azure, speaking ever
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace?

_Ans._ Alas! what should I say?

_Raim._ Why did I ask,
Knowing the deep and full devotedness
Of her young heart’s affections? Oh! the thought
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams,
Which should have been so tranquil!--and her soul,
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love,
Even unto death will sicken.

_Ans._ All that faith
Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes;
And still, whate’er betide, the light of heaven
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son!
Is thy young spirit master’d, and prepared
For nature’s fearful and mysterious change?

_Raim._ Ay, father! of my brief remaining task
The least part is to die! And yet the cup
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips,
Crown’d with that sparkling bubble, whose proud name
Is--glory! Oh! my soul, from boyhood’s morn,
Hath nursed such mighty dreams! It was my hope
To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds
Into the far hereafter; there to be
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb,
Murmuring--Awake!--Arise! But this is past!
Erewhile, and it had seem’d enough of shame
To sleep _forgotten_ in the dust; but now--
Oh, God!--the undying record of my grave
Will be--Here sleeps a traitor!--One, whose crime,
Was--to deem brave men might find nobler weapons
Than the cold murderer’s dagger!

_Ans._ Oh! my son,
Subdue these troubled thoughts! Thou wouldst not change
Thy lot for theirs, o’er whose dark dreams will hang
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain’d soul
Doth conjure from the dead!

_Raim._ Thou’rt right. I would not.
Yet ’tis a weary task to school the heart,
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit
Into that still and passive fortitude,
Which is but learn’d from suffering. Would the hour
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand!

_Ans._ It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard
--But no--the rush, the trampling, and the stir
Of this great city, arming in her haste,
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath reach’d
Our gates, and all Palermo’s youth, and all
Her warrior men, are marshall’d, and gone forth,
In that high hope which makes realities,
To the red field. Thy father leads them on.

_Raim._ (_starting up._)
They are gone forth! my father leads them on!
All--all Palermo’s youth! No! _one_ is left,
Shut out from glory’s race! They are gone forth!
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad--
It burns upon the air! The joyous winds
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam
Of battle’s roaring billows! On my sight
The vision bursts--it maddens! ’tis the flash,
The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze
Of helmets in the sun! The very steed
With his majestic rider glorying shares
The hour’s stern joy, and waves his floating mane
As a triumphant banner! Such things are
Even now--and I am here!

_Ans._ Alas, be calm!
To the same grave ye press,--thou that dost pine
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule
The fortunes of the fight.

_Raim._ Ay! _Thou_ canst feel
The calm thou wouldst impart; for unto thee
All men alike, the warrior and the slave,
Seem, as thou say’st, but pilgrims, pressing on
To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same:
_Their_ graves who fall in this day’s fight will be
As altars to their country, visited
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths,
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead:
Will mine be such?

Vittoria _rushes in wildly, as if pursued_.

_Vit._ Anselmo! art thou found!
Haste, haste, or all is lost! Perchance thy voice,
Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross,
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives,
Or shame them back to die.

_Ans._ The fugitives!
What words are these? The sons of Sicily
Fly not before the foe?

_Vit._ That I should say
It is too true!

_Ans._ And thou--thou bleedest, lady!

_Vit._ Peace! heed not me when Sicily is lost!
I stood upon the walls, and watch’d our bands,
As, with their ancient royal banner spread,
Onward they march’d. The combat was begun,
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men
Had seal’d their freedom with their blood--when, lo!
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals
To join th’ invader’s host.

_Raim._ His country’s curse
Rest on the slave for ever!

_Vit._ Then distrust,
E’en of their noble leaders, and dismay,
That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands
Came like a deadly blight. They fled!--Oh shame!
E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams
Pursued their wingèd steps!

_Raim._ Thou hast not named
Their chief--Di Procida--he doth not fly?

_Vit._ No! like a kingly lion in the toils,
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives:
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,
With Guido and Montalba, by his side,
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field.

_Raim._ And I am _here_! Shall there be power, O God!
In the roused energies of fierce despair,
To burst my heart--and not to rend my chains?
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt
To set the strong man free!

_Vit._ (_after gazing upon him earnestly._)
Why, ’twere a deed
Worthy the fane and blessing of all time,
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida!
Thou art no traitor!--from thy kindled brow
Looks out thy lofty soul! Arise! go forth!
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste;
Unbind him! Let my spirit still prevail,
Ere I depart--for the strong hand of death
Is on me now. [_She sinks back against a pillar._

_Ans._ Oh, heaven! the life-blood streams
Fast from thy heart--thy troubled eyes grow dim.
Who hath done this?

_Vit._ Before the gates I stood,
And in the name of him, the loved and lost,
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe,
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home,
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me.

_Ans._ Yet, oh yet,
It may not be too late. Help, help!

_Vit._ (_to Raimond._) Away!
Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty!

_Attendants enter._

Haste, be those fetters riven! Unbar the gates,
And set the captive free!
(_The Attendants seem to hesitate._) Know ye not _her_
Who should have worn your country’s diadem?

_Att._ O lady! we obey.

[_They take off_ Raimond’s _chains. He springs up exultingly._

_Raim._ Is this no dream?
Mount, eagle! thou art free! Shall I then die
Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds,
But on the field of banners, where the brave
Are striving for an immortality?
It is e’en so! Now for bright arms of proof,
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e’en yet
My father may be saved!

_Vit._ Away, be strong!
And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm,
Be--_Conradin_.
[_He rushes out._
Oh! for one hour of life,
To hear that name blent with th’ exulting shout
Of victory! It will not be! A mightier power
Doth summon me away.

_Ans._ To purer worlds
Raise thy last thoughts in hope.

_Vit._ Yes! _he_ is there,
All glorious in his beauty!--Conradin!
Death parted us, and death shall reunite!
He will not stay--it is all darkness now!
Night gathers o’er my spirit.

[_She dies._

_Ans._ She is gone!
It is an awful hour which stills the heart
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven!

[_He kneels beside her._

Scene IV.--_Before the Gates of Palermo._

_Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates._

_Voices_, (_without._) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis for Anjou!
Provençals, on!

_Sicilians._ Fly, fly, or all is lost!

Raimond _appears in the gateway armed, and carrying a banner_.

_Raim._ Back, back, I say! ye men of Sicily!
All is not lost! Oh! shame! A few brave hearts
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts
Against the rush of thousands, and sustain’d,
And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man,
Still to be call’d so, hath achieved such deeds
As heaven and earth have marvell’d at; and souls,
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come,
Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus
Freedom from race to race! Back! or prepare
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very shrines,
To bleed and die in vain! Turn!--follow me!
“Conradin, Conradin!”--for Sicily
His spirit fights! Remember “Conradin!”
[_They begin to rally round him._
Ay, this is well!--Now, follow me, and charge!

[_The Provençals rush in, but are repulsed by the Sicilians.
_--_Exeunt._

Scene V.--_Part of the Field of Battle._

Montalba _enters wounded, and supported by_ Raimond, _whose face is concealed by his helmet_.

_Raim._ Here rest thee, warrior.

_Mon._ Rest! ay, death is rest,
And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to _thee_,
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian!
These lips are all unused to soothing words,
Or I should bless the valour which hath won,
For my last hour, the proud free solitude
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name?

_Raim._ ’Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba.
Gaze--read it thus!
[_He lifts the visor of his helmet._

_Mon._ Raimond di Procida!

_Raim._ Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate:
But fare thee well! Heaven’s peace be with thy soul!
I must away. One glorious effort more,
And this proud field is won. [_Exit_ Raimond.

_Mon._ Am I thus humbled?
How my heart sinks within me! But ’tis Death
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued
My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome!
That youth--’twas in his pride he rescued me!
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved
His fearless scorn. Ha! ha! but he shall fail
To melt me into womanish feebleness.
_There_ I still baffle him--the grave shall seal
My lips for ever--mortal shall not hear
Montalba say--“_forgive!_”
[_He dies._

Scene VI.--_Another part of the Field._

Procida, Guido, _and other Sicilians_.

_Pro._ The day is ours; but he, the brave unknown,
Who turn’d the tide of battle--he whose path
Was victory--who hath seen him?

Alberti _is brought in wounded and fettered_.

_Alb._ Procida!

_Pro._ Be silent, traitor! Bear him from my sight,
Unto your deepest dungeons.

_Alb._ In the grave
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word
Ere my voice fail--thy son----

_Pro._ Speak, speak!

_Alb._ Thy son
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait’rous plot
Was mine alone. [_He is led away._

_Pro._ Attest it, earth and heaven!
My son is guiltless! Hear it, Sicily!
The blood of Procida is noble still!
My son! He lives, he lives! His voice shall speak
Forgiveness to his sire! His name shall cast
Its brightness o’er my soul!

_Gui._ O day of joy!
The brother of my heart is worthy still
The lofty name he bears!

Anselmo _enters_.

_Pro._ Anselmo, welcome!
In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son
Is guiltless.

_Ans._ And victorious! By his arm
All hath been rescued.

_Pro._ How!--the unknown----

_Ans._ Was he!
Thy noble Raimond!--by Vittoria’s hand
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour
When all was flight and terror.

_Pro._ Now my cup
Of joy too brightly mantles! Let me press
My warrior to a father’s heart--and die;
For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not?
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy!

_Ans._ Temper this proud delight.

_Pro._ What means that look?
He hath not fallen?

_Ans._ He lives.

_Pro._ Away, away!
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour
Atone for all his wrongs! [_Exeunt._

Scene VII.--_Garden of a Convent._

Raimond _is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants_.

_Raim._ Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die
In the bright face of nature! Lift my helm,
That I may look on heaven.

_1st Att._ (_to 2d Attendant._) Lay him to rest
On this green sunny bank, and I will call
Some holy sister to his aid; but thou
Return unto the field, for high-born men
There need the peasant’s aid.

[_Exit 2d Attendant._

(_To Raim._) Here gentle hands
Shall tend thee, warrior; for, in these retreats,
_They_ dwell, whose vows devote them to the care
Of all that suffer. May’st thou live to bless them!

[_Exit 1st Attendant._

_Raim._ Thus have I wish’d to die! ’Twas a proud strife!
My father bless’d th’ unknown who rescued him,
(Bless’d him, alas, because unknown!) and Guido,
Beside him bravely struggling, call’d aloud,
“Noble Sicilian, on!” Oh! had they deem’d
’Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn’d
Mine aid, though ’twas deliverance; and their looks
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one,
Whose eye ne’er turn’d on mine but its blue light
Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist
Raised by deep tenderness! Oh, might the soul,
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish!
--Is’t not her voice?

Constance _enters speaking to a Nun, who turns into another path_.

_Con._ Oh, happy they, kind sister!
Whom thus ye tend; for it is theirs to fall
With brave men side by side, when the roused heart
Beats proudly to the last! There are high souls
Whose hope was such a death, and ’tis denied!

[_She approaches_ Raimond.

Young warrior, is there aught----_Thou_ here, my Raimond!
_Thou_ here--and thus! Oh! is this joy or woe?

_Raim._ Joy, be it joy! my own, my blessed love!
E’en on the grave’s dim verge. Yes! it _is_ joy!
My Constance! victors have been crown’d ere now,
With the green shining laurel, when their brows
Wore death’s own impress--and it may be thus
E’en yet, with me! They freed me, when the foe
Had half prevail’d, and I have proudly earn’d,
With my heart’s dearest blood, the meed to die
Within thine arms.

_Con._ Oh! speak not thus--to die!
These wounds may yet be closed.

[_She attempts to bind his wounds._

Look on me, love!
Why, there is _more_ than life in thy glad mien--
’Tis full of hope! and from thy kindled eye
Breaks e’en unwonted light, whose ardent ray
Seems born to be immortal!

_Raim._ ’Tis e’en so!
The parting soul doth gather all her fires
Around her; all her glorious hopes, and dreams,
And burning aspirations, to illume
The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path
Which lies before her; and encircled thus,
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares
Are vain, and yet I bless them.

_Con._ Say not vain;
The dying look not thus. We shall not part!

_Raim._ I have seen death ere now, and known him wear
Full many a changeful aspect.

_Con._ Oh! but none
Radiant as thine, my warrior! Thou wilt live!
Look round thee! all is sunshine. Is not this
A smiling world?

_Raim._ Ay, gentlest love! a world
Of joyous beauty and magnificence,
Almost too fair to leave! Yet must we tame
Our ardent hearts to this! Oh, weep thou not!
There is no home for liberty, or love,
Beneath these festal skies! Be not deceived;
My way lies far beyond! I shall be soon
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust,
Forgets not how to love!

_Con._ And must this be?
Heaven, thou art merciful!--Oh! bid our souls
Depart together!

_Raim._ Constance! there is strength
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved
Nobly, for me: arouse it once again!
Thy grief unmans me--and I fain would meet
That which approaches, as a brave man yields
With proud submission to a mightier foe.
--It is upon me now!

_Con._ I will be calm.
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond,
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs,
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is
A world (ay, let us seek it!) where no blight
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there
I shall be with thee soon!

Procida _and_ Anselmo _enter_. Procida, _on seeing_ Raimond,
_starts back_.

_Ans._ Lift up thy head,
Brave youth, excitingly! for lo! thine hour
Of glory comes! Oh! doth it come too late?
E’en now the false Alberti hath confess’d
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom’d
To be th’ atonement.

_Raim._ ’Tis enough! Rejoice,
Rejoice, my Constance! for I leave a name
O’er which thou may’st weep proudly!
[_He sinks back._
To thy breast
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart
Hath touch’d my veins.

_Con._ And must thou leave me, Raimond?
Alas! thine eye grows dim--its wandering glance
Is full of dreams.

_Raim._ Haste, haste, and tell my father
I was no traitor!

_Pro._ (_rushing forward._) To thy father’s heart
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs--return!
Speak to me, Raimond!--thou wert ever kind,
And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past
Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee
My lips e’er ask’d.--Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope! And it is with thee thus?
Look on me yet!--Oh! must this woe be borne?

_Raim._ Off with this weight of chains! it is not meet
For a crown’d conqueror!--Hark! the trumpet’s voice!
[_A sound of triumphant music is
heard gradually approaching._
Is’t not a thrilling call? What drowsy spell
Benumbs me thus?--Hence! I am free again!
Now swell your festal strains--the field is won!
Sing to me glorious dreams. [_He dies._

_Ans._ The strife is past;
There fled a noble spirit!

_Con._ Hush! he sleeps--
Disturb him not!

_Ans._ Alas! this is no sleep
From which the eye doth radiantly unclose:
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o’er!

[_The music continues approaching._
Guido _enters with Citizens and Soldiers_.

_Gui._ The shrines are deck’d, the festive torches blaze--
Where is our brave deliverer? We are come
To crown Palermo’s victor!

_Ans._ Ye come too late.
The voice of human praise doth send no echo
Into the world of spirits. [_The music ceases._

_Pro._ (_after a pause._) Is this dust
I look on--Raimond? ’Tis but a sleep!--a smile
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake!
Oh, God! and this was his triumphant day!
My son, my injured son!

_Con._ (_starting._) Art _thou_ his father!
I know thee now.--Hence! with thy dark stern eye
And thy cold heart! Thou canst not wake him now!
Away! he will not answer but to me--
For none like me hath loved him! He is mine!
Ye shall not rend him from me.

_Pro._ Oh! he _knew_
Thy love, poor maid! Shrink from me now no more!
He knew _thy_ heart--but who shall tell him now
The depth, th’ intenseness, and the agony,
Of my suppress’d affection? I have learn’d
All his high worth in time to deck his grave.
Is there not power in the strong spirit’s woe
To force an answer from the viewless world
Of the departed? Raimond!--speak!--forgive!
Raimond! my victor, my deliverer! hear!
--Why, what a world is this! Truth ever bursts
On the dark soul too late: and glory crowns
Th’ unconscious dead. There comes an hour to break
The mightiest hearts!--My son! my son! is this
A day of triumph! Ay, for thee alone!

[_He throws himself upon the body of_ Raimond.
_Curtain falls._

ANNOTATIONS ON THE “VESPERS OF PALERMO.”

“_The Vespers of Palermo_ was the earliest of the dramatic productions of our author. The period in which the scene is laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue: and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of its best parts have already found their way into an excellent selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the interest of tragedy.

“It may not be so generally remembered, that the same historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, about the same time that the English one was written, and by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitate not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans, for invention and interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of finished elegance.”--Professor Norton _in North American Review_, 1827.

* * * * *

It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, that Mrs Hemans composed _The Vespers of Palermo_, and that the MS. was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covent Garden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its fate were removed, and the result was as follows. In giving it here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are carried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the pale of our literary chronology:--

“After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties,” writes her sister, “the fate of the tragedy, so long in abeyance, was now drawing to a crisis. Every thing connected with its approaching representation was calculated to raise the highest hopes of success. ‘All is going on,’ writes Mrs Hemans on the 27th November, ‘as well as I could possibly desire. Only a short time will yet elapse before the ordeal is over. I received a message yesterday from Mr Kemble, informing me of the unanimous opinion of the green room conclave in favour of the piece, and exhorting me to “be of good courage.” Murray has given me two hundred guineas for the copyright of the “tragedy, drama, poem, composition, or book,” as it is called in the articles which I signed yesterday. The managers made exceptions to the name of _Procida_--why or wherefore I know not; and out of several others which I proposed to them, _The Vespers of Palermo_ has been finally chosen.’

“Under these apparently favourable auspices, the piece was produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 12, 1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr Young, Mr C. Kemble, Mr Yates, Mrs Bartley, and Miss F. H. Kelly. Two days had to elapse before the news of its reception could reach St Asaph. Not only Mrs Hemans’s own family, but all her more immediate friends and neighbours, were wrought up to a pitch of intense expectation. Various newspapers were ordered expressly for the occasion, and the post-office was besieged at twelve o’clock at night, by some of the more zealous of her friends, eager to be the first heralds of the triumph so undoubtingly anticipated. The boys had worked themselves up into an uncontrollable state of excitement, and were all lying awake ‘to hear about mamma’s play;’ and perhaps her bitterest moment of mortification was, when she went up to their bedsides, which she nerved herself to do almost immediately, to announce that all their bright visions were dashed to the ground, and that the performance had ended in all but a failure. The reports in the newspapers were strangely contradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly illiberal: but all which were written in anything like an unbiassed tone, concurred entirely with the private accounts, not merely of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced observers, in attributing this most unexpected result to the inefficiency of the actress who personated Constance, and who absolutely seemed to be under the influence of some infatuating spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on scenes the most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all, _dying gratuitously_ at the close of the piece. The acting of Young and Kemble in the two Procidi, was universally pronounced to have been beyond all praise, and their sustained exertions showed a determination to do all possible justice to the author. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, applause decidedly predominated: still the marks of disapprobation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the part of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. Mrs Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh experiment should be made. ‘Mr Kemble,’ writes she to a friend, ‘will not hear of _The Vespers_ being driven off the stage. It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is now unwell, shall be sufficiently recovered to learn her part; but I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fiery ordeal through which I have passed, from such another trial. Mr Kemble attributes the failure, without the slightest hesitation, to what he delicately calls “a singularity of intonation in one of the actresses.” I have also heard from Mr Milman, Mr J. T. Coleridge, and several others, with whom there is but one opinion as to the cause of the disaster.’

“Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or with greater readiness to turn for consolation to the kindness and sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. It would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mr Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment.

‘Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823.

“‘My dear Sir,--It is difficult to part with the hopes of three years, without some painful feelings; but your kind letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to describe. I will not say that it revives my hopes of success, because I think it better that I should fix my mind to prevent those hopes from gaining any ascendency; but it sets in so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointment has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends from whom I have heard on this occasion, express but one opinion. As to Miss Kelly’s acting, and its fatal effect on the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will be impossible to counteract the unfavourable impression which this must have produced, and I almost wish, as far as relates to my own private feelings, that the attempt may not be made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on the subject. I have not heard from Mr Kemble; but I have written both to him and to Mr Young, to express my grateful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the piece. As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by the extreme severity with which I have been treated in the morning papers. I know not why this should be, for I am sure I should not have attached the slightest value to their praise; but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement for my temerity--for a female who shrinks from such things has certainly no business to write tragedies.

“‘For your support and assistance, as well as that of my other friends, I cannot be too grateful; nor can I ever consider any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given me the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the recollection of so much long-tried kindness.--Ever believe me, my dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged

“‘F. Hemans.’

“Notwithstanding the determination of the managers again to bring forward _The Vespers_, a sort of fatality seemed to attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continually arising to prevent the luckless Constance from obtaining an efficient representative on the London stage. Under these circumstances, Mr Kemble at length confessed that he could not recommend the reproduction of the piece; and Mrs Hemans acquiesced in the decision, with feelings which partook rather of relief than of disappointment. She never ceased to speak in the warmest terms of Mr Kemble’s liberal and gentlemanly conduct, both before and after the appearance of the piece, and of his surpassing exertions at the time of its representation.

“It was with no small degree of surprise that, in the course of the following February, she learned, through the medium of a letter from Mrs Joanna Baillie,[192] that the tragedy was shortly to be represented at the Edinburgh theatre--Mrs Henry Siddons undertaking the part of Constance. The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and the following particulars of its reception, transmitted by one of the zealous friends who had been instrumental in this arrangement, will prove how well their kindly intentions were fulfilled:

“‘The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our most sanguine expectations, and was announced for repetition on Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The actors seem to have done wonders, and every one appeared to strain every nerve, as if all depended on his own exertions. Vandenhoff was the elder, and Calcraft the younger Procida. The first recognition between father and son, was acted by them to such perfection, that one of the most hearty and unanimous plaudits followed that ever was heard.

“‘Every reappearance of the gentle Constance won the spectators more and more. The scene in the judgment-hall carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handkerchiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs Siddons’s searching the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as if to find Raimond’s father was to save him, was perfect. She flew round the circle--went, as if distracted, close up to judge after judge--paused before Procida, and fell prostrate at his feet. The effect was magical, and was manifested by three repeated bursts of applause.’

“A neatly turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though not declared, to be the production of Sir Walter Scott, was recited by Mrs H. Siddons. When deference to a _female_ was there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause ensued; but when generosity to a _stranger_ was bespoken, the house absolutely rang with huzzas.”

“‘I knew how much you would rejoice,’ wrote Mrs Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ‘in the issue of my Edinburgh trial; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and I think, amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckon a letter from Sir Walter Scott, of which it has put me in possession. I had written to thank him for the kindness he had shown with regard to the play, and hardly expected an answer; but it came, and you would be delighted with its frank and unaffected kindliness. He acknowledges the epilogue, “stuffed,” as he says it was, “with parish jokes, and bad puns;” and courteously says, that his country folks have done more credit to themselves than to me, by their reception of _The Vespers_.’

“To another uncompromising champion she wrote:--‘I must beg you will “bear our faculties meekly:” you really seem to be rather in an intoxicated state; and if we indulge ourselves in this way, I am afraid we shall have something to sober us. I dare say I must expect some sharp criticism from Edinburgh ere all this is over; but any thing which deserves the name of _criticism_ I can bear. I believe I could point out more faults in _The Vespers_ myself than any one has done yet.’”--_Memoir_, pp. 69-76.

[192] Though Mrs Hemans had never the advantage of being personally known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional interchange of letters which, from this time forward, was kept up between them, was regarded as one of the most valuable privileges she possessed. It was always delightful to her when she could love the character, as well as admire the talents, of a celebrated author; and never, surely, was there an example better fitted to call forth the willing tribute of veneration, both towards the woman and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs Baillie, Mrs Hemans thus apologised for indulging in a strain of egotism, which the nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify,--“The kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over all your writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make me feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend.”

It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how graciously that “kindly warmth of heart” would be extended to those of her children, who are more fortunate than herself, in enjoying the personal intercourse she would have prized so highly.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD.

“Among many nations was there no King like him.”--Nehemiah.

“Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel?”--Samuel.

Another warning sound! The funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melancholy swell,
Strikes on th’ awaken’d heart from shore to shore.
He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod;
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,
Pure from its ruins, hath return’d to God!
Yet may not England o’er her father weep:
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.

Vain voice of Reason, hush!--they yet must flow,
The unrestrain’d, involuntary tears;
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,
Roused by the glorious shades of vanish’d years.
Tell us no more ’tis not the time for grief,
Now that the exile of the soul is past,
And Death, blest messenger of heaven’s relief,
Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;
For him, eternity hath tenfold day:
We feel, we know, ’tis thus--yet nature will have way.

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak,
Sadd’ning the scene where once it nobly reign’d,
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke,
Stamp’d with its fiery record, he remain’d;
Around that shatter’d tree still fondly clung
Th’ undying tendrils of our love, which drew
Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung
Luxuriant thence, to Glory’s ruin true;
While England hung her trophies on the stem,
That desolately stood, unconscious e’en of them.

Of _them_ unconscious! Oh, mysterious doom!
Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies?
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb,
The realm’s high soul to loftiest energies!
His was the spirit o’er the isles which threw
The mantle of its fortitude; and wrought
In every bosom, powerful to renew
Each dying spark of pure and generous thought;
The star of tempests! beaming on the mast,[193]
The seaman’s torch of Hope, midst perils deepening fast.

Then from th’ unslumbering influence of his worth,
Strength, as of inspiration, fill’d the land;
A young but quenchless flame went brightly forth,
Kindled by him--who saw it not expand!
Such was the will of heaven. The gifted seer,
Who with his God had communed, face to face,
And from the house of bondage and of fear,
In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race;
He through the desert and the waste their guide,
Saw dimly from afar the promised land--and died.

O full of days and virtues! on thy head
Centred the woes of many a bitter lot;
Fathers have sorrow’d o’er their beauteous dead,
Eyes, quench’d in night, the sunbeam have forgot;
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years,
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at length;
But Pain for thee had fill’d a cup of tears,
Where every anguish mingled all its strength;
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand,
And shadows deep around fell from th’ Eternal’s hand.

Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams
Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied;
But what to _thee_ the splendour of its beams?
The ice-rock glows not midst the summer’s pride!
Nations leap’d up to joy--as streams that burst,
At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain,
And o’er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed,
Roll in exulting melody again;
And bright o’er earth the long majestic line
Of England’s triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts--but thine.

Oh! what a dazzling vision, by the veil
That o’er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee,
When sceptred chieftains throng’d with palms to hail
The crowning isle, th’ anointed of the sea!
Within thy palaces the lords of earth
Met to rejoice--rich pageants glitter’d by,
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth,
The old magnificence of chivalry.
They reach’d not thee--amidst them, yet alone,
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy throne.

Yet there was mercy still! If joy no more
Within that blasted circle might intrude,
Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass o’er
The silent limits of its solitude!
If all unheard the bridal song awoke
Our hearts’ full echoes, as it swell’d on high;
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke
On the glad strain, with dread solemnity!
If the land’s rose unheeded wore its bloom,
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb.

And she who, tried through all the stormy past--
Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour--
Watch’d o’er thee, firm and faithful to the last,
Sustain’d, inspired, by strong affection’s power;
If to thy soul her voice no music bore--
If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught
No light from looks, that fondly would explore
Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought;
Oh! thou wert spared the pang, that would have thrill’d
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious bosom still’d.

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood’s prime,
Youth with its glory--in its fulness, age--
All, at the gates of their eternal clime
Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage;
The land wore ashes for its perish’d flowers,
The grave’s imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile
Didst walk unconscious through thy royal towers,
The one that wept not in the tearful isle!
As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain,
Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners and the slain.

And who can tell what visions might be thine?
The stream of thought, though broken, still was pure!
Still o’er that wave the stars of heaven might shine
Where earthly image would no more endure!
Though many a step, of once familiar sound,
Came as a stranger’s o’er thy closing ear,
And voices breathed forgotten tones around,
Which that paternal heart once thrill’d to hear:
The mind hath senses of its own, and powers
To people boundless worlds, in its most wandering hours.

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known
Be dark or wild, creations of remorse;
Unstain’d by thee, the blameless past had thrown
No fearful shadows o’er the future’s course:
For thee no cloud, from memory’s dread abyss,
Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant’s eye;
And, closing up each avenue of bliss,
Murmur their summons, to “despair and die!”
No! e’en though joy depart, though reason cease,
Still virtue’s ruin’d home is redolent of peace.

They might be with thee still--the loved, the tried,
The fair, the lost--they might be with thee still!
More softly seen, in radiance purified
From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill.
Long after earth received them, and the note
Of the last requiem o’er their dust was pour’d,
As passing sunbeams o’er thy soul might float
Those forms, from us withdrawn--to thee restored!
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal’d,
To commune with a mind whose source of tears was seal’d.

Came they with tidings from the worlds above,
Those viewless regions where the weary rest?
Sever’d from earth, estranged from mortal love,
Was thy mysterious converse with the blest?
Or shone their visionary presence bright
With human beauty?--did their smiles renew
Those days of sacred and serene delight,
When fairest beings in thy pathway grew?
Oh! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes,
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne’er forsakes.

These may be fantasies--and this alone,
Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure;
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own,
Rest, in thy God immortally secure!
Enough for tranquil faith; released from all
The woes that graved heaven’s lessons on thy brow,
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall,
Haply thine eye is on thy people now;
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed,
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief’s tribute to the dead.

But if th’ ascending, disembodied mind,
Borne on the wings of morning to the skies,
May cast one glance of tenderness behind
On scenes once hallow’d by its mortal ties,
How much hast thou to gaze on! All that lay
By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal’d--
The might, the majesty, the proud array
Of England’s march o’er many a noble field--
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light,
Shine like some glorious land view’d from an Alpine height.

Away, presumptuous thought! Departed saint!
To thy freed vision what can earth display
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint,
Seen from the birth-place of celestial day?
Oh! pale and weak the sun’s reflected rays,
E’en in their fervour of meridian heat,
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze
On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat!
And thou may’st view, from thy divine abode,
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God.

And yet we mourn thee! Yes, thy place is void
Within our hearts! there veil’d thine image dwelt,
But cherish’d still; and o’er that tie destroy’d,
Though faith rejoice, fond nature still must melt.
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway,
Thousands were born, who now in dust repose;
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray,
Wore youth’s bright tresses when thy star arose;
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn,
Hath fill’d our sphere with light, now to its source withdrawn.

Earthquakes have rock’d the nations: things revered,
Th’ ancestral fabrics of the world, went down
In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear’d
His lonely pyramid of dread renown.
But when the fires that long had slumber’d, pent
Deep in men’s bosoms, with volcanic force,
Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent,
And swept each holy barrier from their course,
Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood,
Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks stood.

Be they eternal!--be thy children found
Still to their country’s altars true like thee!
And while “the name of Briton” is a sound
Of rallying music to the brave and free,
With the high feelings at the word which swell,
To make the breast a shrine for Freedom’s flame,
Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so well,
Who left so pure, its heritage of fame!
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror’s dust,
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the just.

All else shall pass away!--the thrones of kings,
The very traces of their _tombs_ depart;
But number not with perishable things
The holy records Virtue leaves the heart,
Heir-looms from race to race! And oh! in days
When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest,
When our sons learn “as household words” thy praise,
Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest!
And many a name of that imperial line,
Father and patriot! blend, in England’s songs, with thine!

[193] The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears about a ship during tempests; if seen upon the main-mast, is considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather.--See Dampier’s _Voyages_.