5 POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS MURRAY AND GIBE, EDINBURGH, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE. v7l(U THE POEMS OF FELICIA HEMANS. COMPLETE COPYRIGHT EDITION. WILLIAM P. NIMMO, LONDON : 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND ; AND EDINBURGH. 1875- CONTENTS JUVENILE POEMS. Page On my Mother's Birthday. Written at the age of eight 1 A Prayer. Written at the age of nine . . ib. Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven . ib. Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven . . 2 To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at the age of eleven . . . . ib. Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve t'6. Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen . . 3 Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen . t'6. Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen . . t'6. England and Spain ; or, Valour and Patriotism. Written at the age of fourteen ... 4 THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c. The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend 10 To my Mother . . . . . .11 To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, after the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore and the battle of Corunna . . ib. To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal 12 Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith . t'6. The Ruin and its Flowers . . . .13 Christmas Carol . . . . . .14 The Domestic Affections . . . .15 To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway . . 19 Epitaph on Jlr W , a celebrated Mineralogist . 20 Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist t'6. Prologue to The Poor Gentleman. As intended to be performed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment at Clonmel ..... 21 THE RESTORATION OP THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY . . . . .22 MODERN GREECE . . . . .28 Critical Annotations . 42 TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS AND OTHER POETS. Sonnet 70 ...... 43 Sonnet 282. From Psalm 137 .... ib. Part of Eclogue 15 . . . .44 Sonnet 271 ...... 44 Sonnet 186 . . . . .t'6. Sonnet 108 . . . . .44 Sonnet 23. To a Lady who died at Sea . .45 Sonnet 19 ...... ib. " Que estranho caso de amor!" . . ib. Sonnet 58 . . . . . . ib. Sonnet 173 ...... ib. Sonnet 80 ...... 46 Sonnet 239. From Psalm 137 ... t'6. Sonnet 128 t'6. " Polomeu apartamento " .... ib. Sonnet 205 ...... 47 Sonnet 133 ...... t'6. Sonnet 181 ...... t'6. Sonnet 278 t'6. "Mi nueve y dulce querella" .... t'6. METASTASIO. " Dunque si sfoga in pianto " . t'6. " Al furor d'avversa Sorte " . . 48 " Quella onda che ruina " . . . ib. " Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie " . . ib. " Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spir.e" . t'6. " Parlagli d'un periglio " . . .t'6. " Sprezza il furor del ven to " . . ib. " Sol pu6 dir che sia contento " . . t'6. " Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle! " . . 4!) VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. " Italia ! Italia! O tu cui di6 la sorte "..... il>. PASTORINI. "Genovamia! se con asciutto ciglio " t6. LOPE DE VEGA. " Estese el cortesano " . . t'6. FRANCISCO MANUEL. On ascending a Hill leading to a Convent ..... t'6. DELLA CASA. Venice . . . .50 IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. " L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso" . . . t'6. QUEVEDO. Rome buried in her own Ruins . . t'6. EL CO.VDE JUAN DE TARSis. " Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos " .... t'6. TORQUATO TASSO. " Negli anni acerbi tuoi, pur- purea rosa "..... t'6. BERNARDO TASSO. " Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole " . . . . .51 PETRARCH. "Chivuolvederquantunquepu&iiatura" ib. " Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde" . t'6. PIETRO BEMBO. " O Muerte ! que stieles ser " t'6. FRANCESCO LORENZINI. "O Zefiretto, che movendo vai" ...... ib GESNER. Morning Song . . .52 German Song. " Madchen, lernet Amor kennin" . it. CHAULIEU. " Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau" . ib. 20475 " CONTENTS. GARCILASO DB VEOA. " Coved de vuestra alegre primavera" ..... LORENZO DE MEDICI. Violets PIXDEMONTE. On the Hebe of Canova MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore Dirge of a Child ..... Invocation ...... To the Memory of General Sir E D P K M To the Memory of Sir H Y E LL S, who fell in the battle of Waterloo .... Guerilla Song. Founded o'n the story related of the Spanish patriot Mina . . The Aged Indian, ..... Evening amongst the Alps .... Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverlcy " The Crusaders' War-Song .... The Death of Clanronald .... To the Eye ...... The Hero's Death, ..... Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BRUCE. Advertisement by the Author, &c. TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. The Abencerrage . . . . . The Widow of Crescentius . ' The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra . Alaric in Italy ...... The Wife of Asdrubal Heliodorus in the Temple .... Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi's "llipub- liques Italiennes ..... The Troubadour and Richard Cceur-de-Lion . The Death of Conradin .... Critical Annotations THE SCEPTIC . Critical Annotations Page 52 53 ib. G7 101 103 105 106 113 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION . . .114 ITALIAN LITERATURE. The Basvigliana of Monti .... 118 The Alcestis of Alfieri . . . . .121 II Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandro Manzoni ...... 125 Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti . . 133 PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POETS. Vincenzo da Filicaja ..... 138 Carlo Maria Maggi ..... t6. Alessandro Marchetti . . . . . ff>. Alessandro Pegolotti ..... ft. Francesco Maria de Conti. The Shore of Africa ib. Jeu-d'Esprit on the word ' The Fever-Dream Barb 1 139 ib. DARTMOOR WELSH MELODIES. Paj? The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas . . 145 Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans . ib. The Green Isles of Ocean . . . .146 The Sea-Song of Gafran .... ib. The Hirlas Horn . . . . .t'6. The Hall of Cynddylan . . . .147 The Lament of Llywarch Hen . . . ib. Grufydd's Feast . . . . .148 The Cambrian in America .... ib. Taliesin's Prophecy . . . ib. Owen Glyndwr's War-Song .... 149 Prince Madoc's Farewell .... ib. Caswallon's Triumph ..... 150 Howel's Song ...... ib. The Mountain Fires . . . . . ib. EryriWen ...... 151 Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I. ib. The Dying Bad's Prophecy .... 152 The Fair Isle. For the melody called the "Welsh Ground " ..... ib. The Rock of Cader Idris .... ib. THE VESPERS OP PALERMO . . .153 Critical Annotations .... 188 Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third . . 187 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. The Maremma ...... 191 A Tale of the Secret Tribunal . . .194 The Caravan in the Deserts .... 210 Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage . . 212 A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment . 213 Belshazzar's Feast ..... 219 The Last Constantino ..... 221 Annotations on the Last Constantino . . 234 The League of the Alps ; or, the Meeting of the Field of GrUtli ,7, SONGS OF THE CID. The Cid's Departure into Exile The Cid's Deathbed The Cid's Funeral Procession The Cid's Rising GREEK SONGS. The Storm of Delphi The Bowl of Liberty The Voice of Scio The Spartans' March The Urn and Sword The Myrtle Bough 238 16. 239 241 241 242 243 ib. 244 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. On a Flower from the Field of GrUtli . . 244 On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil . . . 245 The Chieftain's Son . . . . .t'6. A Fragment ..... fft. England's Dead . . . . . 246 CONTENTS. Page the Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eistedd- vod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in Lon- don, May 22, 1822 . . . .246 The Voice of Spring ..... 247 Elysium ...... 249 The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue . . 250 The Tombs of Platasa . . . . .251 The View from Castri . . . . .16. The Festal Hour . . . . .252 Song of the Battle of Morgarten . . . 253 Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and his army in Africa. Translated from the Spanish ofUerrera . . . . .254 SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL . . . .256 THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA . . . .262 Advertisement by the Author, . . . ib. Critical Annotations .... 292 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote . . 293 Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 294 The Cross of the South .... ib. The Sleeper of Marathon .... 295 To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday . . . i&. Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same . ib. To the Same, on the Death of her Mother . . 296 From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega . . ib. From the Italian of Sannazaro . . . ib. Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama. Translated from Camoens . . . 297 A Dirge 298 TRANSLATION'S FROM HORACE. To Venus . . . . . . 298 To his Attendant . . . . .16. To Delius ...... 299 To the Fountain of Bandusia . . ib. To Faunus ... . . ib. DE CHATILLON ; OR, THE CRUSADERS . . 300 Critical Annotations .... 315 THE FOREST SANCTUARY . . . .316 Critical Annotations .... 336 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. Moorish Bridal-Song ..... 338 The Bird's Release . . . ib. The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend . 339 Valkyriur Song ..... 340 The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition . 341 Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle 342 The Messenger Bird ..... 343 Answer to The-Messenger Bird, by an" American Quaker Lady .... note, ib. The Stranger in Louisiana . ... .16. The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition . . 344 The Bended Bow ..... 345 He never smiled again ..... 346 Coeur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father . . ib. The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree . . 347 The Wild Huntsman ... 348 Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of La Motte Fouque 1 .... 343 The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 349 Ancient Greek Son of Exile . . . . ib. Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue . . ib. Greek Parting Song ..... 351 The Suliote Mother ..... 352 The Farewell to the Dead .... 353 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I go, Sweet Friends ! . . . . . 354 Angel Visits ...... ib. Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels, on the Rhine . . . . . t&. To one of the Author's children on his Birthday . 355 On a Similar Occasion . . . . ib. Christ Stilling the Tempest .... ib. Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers . . 356 Monumental Inscription . . . . ib. The Sound of the Sea . . . . . ib. The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey's statue of Lady Louisa Russell .... 357 A Dirge ib. Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine . . . ib. English Soldier's Song of Memory. To the air of " Am Rhein! Am Rhein ! " . . . 358 Haunted Ground .... ib. The Child of the Forests. Written after reading the Memoirs of John Hunter . . . 359 Stanzas to the Memory of * * * . . . 360 The Vaudois Valleys . . . . . ib. Song of the Spanish Wanderer . . . 361 The Contadina. Written for a Picture . . ib. Troubadour Song ..... t!). The Treasures of the Deep .... ib. Bring Flowers ...... 362 The Crusader's Return ..... 363 Thekla's Song ; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From the German of Schiller' .... 364 The Revellers ...... ib. The Conqueror's Sleep ..... 365 Our Lady's Well ..... i&. The Parting of Summer .... 366 The Songs of our Fathers . . . . ib. The World in the Open Air . . . .367 Kindred Hearts . . . . . ib. The Traveller at the Source of the Nile . . 368 Casablanca ...... 369 The Dial of Flowers ..... 16. Our Daily Paths . . . . .370 The Cross in the -Wilderness . . . .371 Last Rites . . . . . .372 The Hebrew Mother . . . . ib. The Wreck . . . . . .373 The Trumpet . . . . . .374 Evening Prayer at a Girls' School . . ib. The Hour of Death . . . . .375 The Lost Pleiad ..... f6 The Cliffs of Dover . ... 376 The Graves of Martyrs . . . . ib. The Hour of Prayer ..... 377 The Voice of Home to the Prodigal . . ib. The Wakening ...... 378 The Breeze from Shore . ... ft. viii CONTENTS. Page Page The Dying Improvisatore .... 379 ,, .-.. , f cl "n 434 Music of Yesterday ..... ib. The Birds of Passage .... ib. The Forsaken Hearth ..... 380 The Graves of a Household . 435 The Dreamer ...... ib. Mozart's Requiem .... . ib. The Wings of the Dove .... 381 Tl ft Tmlr*p in T 1V1 436 Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 382 Christmas Carol .... 437 The Boon of Memory ..... ib. A Father Reading the Bible ib. Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon 383 The Meeting of the Brothers ib. The Last Wish .... . 438 RECORDS OF WOMAN. Fairy Favours .... . 439 Critical Annotations . 440 Arabella Stuart . 385 The Bride of the Greek Isle .... 388 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The Bride's Farewell ..... 389 The Switzer's Wife ..... 391 A Spirit's Return .... . 442 Properzia Rossi ..... 392 The Lady of Provence . . 446 Gertrude ; or, Fidelity till Death 394 The Coronation of Inez de Castro . 448 Imelda ...... ib. Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virgin 449 Edith. A Tale of the Woods ' 396 To a Departed Spirit .... ib. The Indian City ..... 398 The Chamois Hunter's Love . 450 The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 401 The Indian with his Dead Child ib. Indian Woman's Death-Song . . . 402 Song of Emigration .... . 451 Joan of Arc in Rheims .... 403 The King of Arragon's Lament for his Brother . 452 Pauline . . ' . 404 The Return ..... . 453 Juana ....... 405 The Vaudois Wife .... ib. The American Forest Girl .... 406 The Guerilla Leader's Vow . 454 Costanza ...... 407 Thekla at her Lover's Grave . 455 Madeline. A Domestic Tale .... 408 The Sisters of Scio .... ib. The Queen of Pmssia's Tomb .... 409 Bernardo del Carpio .... . 456 The Memorial Pillar . . . . . 410 The Tomb of Madame Langhans . 457 The Grave of a Poetess .... 411 The Exile's Dirge .... ib. The Dreaming Child .... . 458 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Charmed Picture .... ib. The Homes of England .... The Sicilian Captive ..... 412 ib. Parting Words ..... The Message to the Dead The Two Homes .... . 459 ib. . 460 Ivan the Czar ..... 413 The Soldier's Deathbed Carolan's Prophecy ..... The Lady of the Castle. From the " Portrait Gallery," 414 The Image in the Heart The Land of Dreams .... ib. . 402 an unfinished poem .... The Mourner for the Barmecides The Spanish Chapel ..... The Kaiser's Feast ..... 416 417 418 419 Woman on the Field of Battle The Deserted House .... The Stranger's Heart .... To a Remembered Picture . ib. . 463 . 464 ib. Tasso and his Sister ..... 420 Come Home ..... 465 Ulla ; or, The Adjuration .... 421 The Fountain of Oblivion ib. To Wordsworth ..... 422 A Monarch's Deathbed .... 423 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. To the Memory of Heber .... ib. The Adopted Child ..... ib. The Bridal-Day .... . 466 Invocation ...... 424 The Ancestral Song .... . 467 Korner and his Sister ..... ib. The Magic Glass .... . 468 The Death-Day of Korner .... 425 Corinne at the Capitol . . 469 An Hour of Romance . . ... 427 The Ruin ..... ib. A Voyager's Dream of Land .... ib. The Minster ..... . 470 The Effigies ...... 428 The Song of Night . 471 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England 429 The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon ib. ib. 472 The Departed ...... 430 The Parting Ship .... . 473 The Palm-Tree ..... ib. The Last Tree of the Forest ib. The Child's Last Sleep. Suggested by a Monument The Streams ..... . 474 of Chantrey's ..... 431 The Voice of the Wind . 475 The Sunbeam . . . . . . ib. The Vigil of Arms .... . 476 Breathings of Spring ..... 432 The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey . ib. The Illuminated Citv ..... ib. 477 The Spells of Home ..... 433 The Beings of the Mind . ffi. ib 478 CONTENTS, Page Tasso's Coronation ..... 479 The Better Land . . . &,. The Wounded Eagle . . . . .480 Sadness and Mirth . . . . . ii. The Nightingale's Death-Song . . . 481 The Diver . . . . . . ib. The Requiem of Genius .... 482 Triumphant Music ..... 483 Second-Sight ...... 16. The Sea-Bird flying inland . . . .484 The Sleeper ...... 6. The Mirror in the Deserted Hall . . . fb. To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poet 485 The Star of the Mine ..... 0>. Washington's Statue. Sent from England to America ib. A Thought of Home at Sea . . .486 To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law . . ib. To an Orphan ...... ib. Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother . . . 487 Where is the Sea? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile ib. To my own Portrait . . . . .16. No More . . . . . . 488 Passing Away ...... 489 The Angler ...... ib. Death and the Warrior .... 490 Song. For an air by Hummel . . ib. To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the Duke of Atholl, who died in the cause and lamented by the people of Greece . . ib. The Broken Chain . . . . .491 The Shadow of a Flower .... ib. Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull . . ib. The Bell at Sea 492 The Subterranean Stream .... ib. The Silent Multitude . . . . .493 The Antique Sepulclire . . . ib. Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants . . 494 The Memory of the Dead . . . ib. He walked with God ..... 495 The Rod of Aaron . . . . ib. The Voice of God . . . . ib. The Fountain of Marah . . . .496 The Penitent's Offering .... ib. The Sculptured Children .... ib. Woman and Fame ..... 497 A Thought of the Future . . . .498 The Voice of Music . . . . ib. The Angel's Greeting . . . . .499 A Farewell to Wales . . . . . iZ>. Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on re- ceiving from her some Flowers when confined by illness ..... t6. A Parting Song ..... 500 We return no more ..... tZi. To a Wandering Female Singer . . . 501 Lights and Sliades ..... t6. The Palmer ...... ib. The Child's First Grief .... 502 To the New-Born . . . . . ib. The Death-Song of Alcestis . . . ib. The Home of Love ..... 503 Books and Flowers ..... 504 For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels . 505 The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a pic- ture of Eastlake's . . 500 1'age The Child's Return from the Woodlands . . 506 The Faith of Love ..... o07 The Sister's Dream, ..... ib A Farewell to Abbotsford . . . . . 508 O'Connor's Child . . . . . tZ>. The Prayer for Life ..... 509 The Welcome' to Death .... ib. The Victor ...... 510 Lines written for the Album at Rosanna . . ib. The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene of a recent Shipwreck .... 511 The Haunted House . . . . . ib. The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps . . .512 To the Mountain-Winds .... 514 The Procession .'..... 515 The Broken Lute . . . . . ib. The Burial in the Desert . . . .516 To a Picture of the Madonna . . . .517 A Thought of the Rose . . . .518 Dreams of Heaven . . . . . ib. The Wish ...... 11 Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the county of Kilkenny . . . . ib. Epitaph ....... 520 Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco . . . ib. To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist . . ib. O ye Hours ! . . . . . ib. The Freed Bird . . . . .521 Marguerite of France . . . . . ib. The Wanderer . . . . . .523 The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland . ib. To Caroline . ... 524 The Flower of the Desert .... ib. Critical Annotations . . . . ib. HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. Introductory Verses ..... 528 The Rainbow . . . . . .529 The Sun ...... 16. The Rivers ...... ib. The Stars ...... 530 The Ocean ...... ib. The Thunderstorm . . . . . 531 The Birds ...... ib. The Skylark. Child's Morning Hymn . . 532 The Nightingale. Child's Evening Hymn . . ib. The Northern Spring . . . . .533 Paraphrase of Psalm 148 . . . ib. LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. NATIONAL LYRICS. The Themes of Song . . . . - 534 Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. To the air of " Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ! " . ib. A Song of Delos . . . . .535 Ancient Greek Chant of Victory . . . 536 Naples. A Song of the Syren . . . t&. The Fall of D'Assas. A Ballad of France . . 537 The Burial of William the Conqueror . . ib. SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. Near thee ! still near thee ! 538 Oh ! Droop thou not ... . ib. CONTENTS. SONGS OF SPAIN*. Ancient Battle-Song ... The Zegri Maid The Rio Verde Song Seek by the Silvery Darro Spanish Evening Hymn . Bird that art Singing on Ebro's Side ! Moorish Gathering-Song The Song of Mina's Soldiers . . Mother ! Oh, sing me to rest . There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles Tare 539 ib. ib. 540 ib. ib. ib. 541 16. 16. SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. And I too in Arcadia . 541 The Wandering Wind . . . . .542 Ye are not miss'd, fair Flowers ! . . t6. The Willow Song ib. Leave me not yet . . 543 The Orange Bough . . . . .16. The Stream set Free . . . . ib. The Summer's Call . . . . . ib. Oh ! Skylark, for thy Wing ! . . . .544 SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. Introduction ...... 545 The Brother's Dirge . . . . ib. The Alpine Horn ..... t6. ye Voices ! . . . . .t'6. 1 Dream of all things Free . . . .546 Far o'er the Sea . . . . . t&. The Invocation . ... t'6. The Song of Hope . . . . .16. MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. The Call to Battle 547 Mignon's Song. Translated from Goethe . . t'6. The Sisters. A Ballad . . . . .548 The Last Song of Sappho . . , .549 Dirge ....... ib. A. Song of the Rose . . . . .550 Night-Blowing Flowers .... 551 The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers . . t'6. Echo-Song ...... ib. The Muffled Drum . . . . .552 The Swan and the Skylark .... j'6. The Curfew-Song of England . . . .553 Genius Singing to Love .... 554 Music at a Deathbed . . . . ib. Marshal Schwerin's Grave .... 555 The Fallen Lime-Tree ..... fl>. The Bird at Sea . . . . . .556 The Dying Girl and Flowers . . . ib. The Ivy Song ...... 557 The Music of St Patrick's . . . . to. Keene ;*or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son 558 Far Away ...... The Lyre and Flower ..... 559 Sister ! since I met thee last . . . fb. The Lonely Bird . . . . .16. Dirge at Sea ...... t'6. Pilgrim's Song to the Evening Star . . . 560 The Meeting of the Ships . . . . i&. Come Away ...... ib. Fair Helen of Kirkconnel .... 561 Music from Shore . . . . . ib. rge Look on me with thy cloudless eyes . . .561 If thou hast crush 'd a flower .... 562 Brightly hast thou fled . . . . . '& The Bed of Heath ..... t6. Fairy Song ...... ib. What Woke the Buried Sound . . .563 Sing to me, Gondolier ! .... t'6. Look on me thus no more . . . ib. O'er the far blue Mountains . . . . t&. thou Breeze of Spring \ . . . . ib. Come to me, Dreams of Heaven ! 564 Good-Night ...... t'6. Let her Depart . . .16. How can that Love so deep, so lone . . . 565 Water-Lilies. A Fairy Song . . . t'6. The Broken Flower . . . . . t"6. 1 would we hod not met again . ib. Fairies' Recall ...... ib. The Rock beside the Sea . . . .566 O ye Voices gone !..... t'6. By a Mountain-Stream at rest . . i&. Is there some Spirit sighing . . . .t'6. The Name of England . . . . .567 Old Norway. A Mountain War-song . . ib. Come to me, Gentle Sleep ! . . . ib. SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. Preface 568 The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen Mary ...... ib. Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness . . 573 Cathedral Hymn ..... 574 Wood Walk and Hymn . . . .576 Prayer of the Lonely Student .... 577 The Traveller's Evening Song .... 579 Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests . t'6. Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard . . 581 The Child Reading the Bible . . .583 A Poet's Dying Hymn .... t'6. The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott . . 585 The Prayer in the Wilderness . . . 586 Prisoners' Evening Service. A Scene of the French Revolution . . . . .587 Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Per- secution ..... 588 Prayer at Sea after Victory .... 589 The Indian's Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moravian Missionary ..... 590 Evening Song of the Weary .... 592 The Day of Flowers . . . . . ib. Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return in the Olden Time . . . . .594 The Painter's Last Work .... 595 A Prayer of Affection . . . . . 596 Mother's Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child . . t6. Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody byFelton. .... 597 SONNETS. FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. Invocation ...... t& Invocation continued . . . . t&. The Song of Miriam . . . . .565 CONTENTS. Page Ruth 598 Tlie Vigil of Rizpah . . . ib. The Reply of the Shunamite Woman . . . ib. The Annunciation . . . . ib. The Song of the Virgin .... 599 The Penitent anointing Christ's Feet . . ib. Mary at the Feet of Christ . . . . ib. The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus . ib. The Memorial of Mary ..... 599 The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross . . ib. Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre . . . 600 Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection . ib. SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. The Sacred Harp . . . . .600 To a Family Bible . . . . ib. Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture ib. Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers . . 601 On a Remembered Picture of Christ an Ecce Homo by Leonardo da Vinci . . . . ib. The Children whom Jesus Blessed . . . ib. Mountain Sanctuaries . . . . . ib. The Lilies of the Field . . ib. The Birds of the Air . . . . .602 The Raising of the Widow's Son - . ib. The Olive Tree ...... ib. The Darkness of the Crucifixion . . . ib. Places of Worship . . . . . ib. *Old Church in an English Park . . .603 A Church in North Wales .... id. Louise Schepler ..... tb. To the Same ...... ib. : MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Two Monuments ..... 604 The Cottage Girl ..... ib. The Battle-Field . . . . .605 A Penitent's Return . . . . ib. A Thought of Paradise . . . .606 Let us Depart ...... ib. On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross painted by Velasquez . . . . . 607 Communings with Thought .... ib. The Water-Lily 608 The Song of Penitence. Unfinished . . .609 Troubadour Song . . . . . ib. The English Boy . . . . . ib. To the Blue Anemone ..... 610 SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. Scenes from " Tasso " ..... 611 Scenes from " Iphigenia." A Fragment . . 515 RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1S34. A Vernal Thought ..... To the Sky On Records of Immature Genius On Watching the Flight of a Skylark A Thought of the Sea . Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening . The River Clwyd in North Wales Orchard- Blossoms . . . . . To a Distant Scene ..... A Remembrance of Grasmere .... Thoughts connected with Trees The Same ...... On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood A Thought at Sunset ..... Images of Patriarchal Life .... Attraction of the East ..... To an Aged Friend ..... A Happy Hour . Foliage ...... A Prayer ...... Prayer continued . ' Memorial of a Conversation .... RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1831. The Return to Poetry .... To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his " Prigione " To the Same released ..... On a Scene in the Dargle .... On the Datura Arborea .... On Reading Coleridge's Epitaph . Design and Performance .... Hope of Future Communion with Nature Dreams of the Dead ..... The Poetry of the Psalms .... DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION The Huguenot's Farewell .... Antique Greek Lament .... THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. Intellectual Powers ..... Sickness like Night . . On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death . Remembrance of Nature .... Flight of the Spirit ..... Flowers ...... Recovery ...... Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few days before her death .... Paga 617 APPENDIX INDEX . INDEX TO FIRST LINES ib. 618 ib. ib. ib. 619 ib. ib. ib. ib. 620 ib. ib. ib. 620 621 ib. ib. ib. 622 622 ib. ib. 623 ib. ib. ib. ib. 624 ib. ib. 636 627 627 ib. ib. ib. ib. ib. ib. 630 642 647 CHRONOLOGY OF MRS HEMANS' LIFE AND WORKS 1793. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE, born at Liverpool, Sept 25. 1800, (set. 7.) Removes with family from Liverpool to Gwrych, near Abergele, Denbighshire. Shortly afterwards composes Lines on her Mother's Birthday. 1804, (11.) Spends winter in London. Writes thence letter in rhyme to brother and sister in Wales. 1808, (15.) Collection of poems printed in 4to. England and Spain written. Becomes acquainted with Captain Hemans. 1809, (16.) Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire. .Pursues her studies in French, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. Acquires the elements of German; and shows a taste for drawing and music. 1812, (19.) Domestic Affections and other poems published. Marries Captain Hemans. Takes up residence at Daventry, Northamptonshire. 1813, (20.) Son Arthur born. Returns to Bronwylfa. 1816, (23.) Publishes Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy ; also Modern Greece. 1818, (25.) Makes Translations from Camoens and others. Publishes Stanzas on the Death of Princess Charlotte, (Blackwood's Magazine, April.) 1819, (26.) Tales and Historic Scenes published. Gains prize for best poem on the Meeting of Wallace and Bruce. Captain Hemans takes up residence in Italy. Family consists of five sons. 1820, (27.) Publishes poem of Sceptic. Becomes ac- quainted with Bishop Heber and his brother Richard. Corresponds with Mr Gifford. Con- tributes papers on Foreign Literature to Edin- burgh Magazine. Publishes Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third. Visits Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool, (October.) 1821, (28.) Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by Royal Society of Literature. Corresponds with Rev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly. Writes Vespers of Palermo. Extends her German studies. Writes Welsh Melodies. CHRONOLOGY OF LIFE AND WORKS. 1822, (29.) Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written ; also dramatic fragment of Don Sebastian. 1823, (30.) Contributes to Thomas Campbell's New Monthly Magazine. Voice of Spring written, (March.) Siege of Valencia published, along with Last Constantino and Belshazzar's Feast. Vespers of Palermo performed at Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.) 1824, (31.) Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which unfortunately lost. Writes Lays of Many Lands. Removes with family from JBronwylfa to Rhyllon. 1825, (32.) Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, The Hour of Death, Graves of a Household, The Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her best lyrics written. 1826, (33.) The Forest Sanctuary published, together with Lays of Many Lands. Commences correspon- dence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S., who republishes her works there. 1827, (34.) Mrs Hemans loses her mother (llth January.) Writes Hymns for Childhood, which are first published in America. Corresponds with Joanna Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline Bowles, Mary Howitt, and M. J. Jewsbury. Writes Korner to his Sister, Homes of England, An Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many other lyrics. Health becomes impaired. 1828, (35.) Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, and collected Miscellanies, (May.) Contributes regularly to ElackicoocFs Magazine. Visits Waver- tree Lodge early in summer. Removes to village of Wavertree with family in September. 1829, (36.) Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering Female Singer, The Child's First Grief, The Better Land, and Miscellanies. Voyages to Scot- land, (June,) and visits Mr Henry MTCenzie, Rev. Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Captain Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other distin- guished literati. Returns to England, (Sept.) A Spirit's Return composed. 1830. (37.) Songs of the Affections published. Visits the Lakes and Mr Wordsworth. Domiciles during part of summer at Dove's Nest, near Ambleside. Revisits Scotland, (Aug.) Returns by Dublin and Holyhead to Wales. 1831. (38.) State of health delicate. Quits England for last time, (April,) and proceeds to Dublin. Visits the Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and Woodstock. Re- turns to Dublin, (Aug.) Writes various lyrics. 1832. (39,) Health continues greatly impaired. Writes Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs of Spain, and Songs of a Guardian Spirit. 1833. (40.) Feels recruited during spring. Writes Songs of Captivity, Songs for Summer Hours, and many of Scenes and Hymns of Life. Composes Sonnets Devotional and Memorial. Commences trans- lation of Scenes and Passages from German Authors, (December.) 1834. (41.) Hymns for Childhood published (March;) also National Lyrics and Songs for Music. Paper on Tasso, published in New Montldy Magazine, (May.) Writes Fragment of Paper on Iphigenia. Records of Spring 1834 written, (April, May, June.) Is seized with fever; during convalescence retires into county of Wicklow. Returns to Dublin in autumn, and has attack of ague. Composes Records of Autumn 1834. Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and Nov.) The Huguenot's Farewell and Antique Greek Lament, (Nov.) Thoughts during Sickness written, (Nov. and Dec.) Retires during conval- escence to Redesdale, a country-seat of the Arch- bishop of Dublin. 1835. (42.) Returns to Dublin, (March.) Debility gradually increases. Corresponds regarding Sir Robert Peel's appointment of her son Henry. Dictates Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.) Departs this life,(16th May.) Remains interred in vault beneath St Anne's Church, Dublin. THE POETICAL WOEKS OF MRS H E M A N S JUVENILE POEMS ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT. CLAD in all their brightest green, This day the verdant fields are seen ; The tuneful birds begin their lay, To celebrate thy natal day. The breeze is still, the sea is calm, And the whole scene combines to charm : The flowers revive, this Charming May, Because it is thy natal day. The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen ; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day. A PRAYER. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF XIN'E. GOD ! my Father and my Friend, Ever thy blessings to me send ; Let me have Virtue for my guide, And Wisdom always at my side. Thus cheerfully through life I'll go, Nor ever feel the sting of woe ; Contented with the humblest lot Happy, though in the meanest cot. ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. WRITTEN- AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN'. THE infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre : Source of all good ! oh, teach my voice to sing Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties spring; Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to Chaos, " let the earth arise.'' Author of the rich luxuriant year ! Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear : Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep, And e'en hast limited the mighty deep. Oh ! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise ! Ah, no ! the theme shall swell a cherub's note ; To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 'Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing Thee, God of mercy, heaven's immortal King ' Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire Oh ! fill my heart with elevated fire : With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. JUVENILE POEMS. Yes ! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And "fill my beating heart with sacred fire ! " And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, Raise me to join Eliza, 1 blest in Heaven. SHAKSPEARE. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. [One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old ; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become com- pletely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be ad- duced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm. Memoir of Mrs llemans by her Sister, p. 6, 7.] I LOVE to rove o'er history's page, Recall the hero and the sage ; Revive the actions of the dead, And memory of ages fled : Yet it yields me greater pleasure, To read the poet's pleasing measure. Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, The bosom's energies are fired ; We learn to shed the generous tear, O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier ; To love the merry moonlit scene, With fairy elves in valleys green ; Or, borne on fancy's heavenly wings, To listen while sweet Ariel sings. How sweet the " native woodnotes wild" Of him, the Muse's favourite child ! Of him whose magic lays impart Each various feeling to the heart ! TO MY BROTHER AXD SISTER IX THE COUNTRY. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN". [At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her father and mother ; and a similar sojourn was re- peated in the following year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in then- favourite rural haunts and amusements the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was estab- 1 A sister whom the author had lost. lished, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted arid decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme. Mem. p. 8, 9.] HAPPY soon we'll meet again, Free from sorrow, care, and pain ; Soon again we'll rise with dawn, To roam the verdant >dewy lawn ; Soon the budding leaves we'll hail, Or wander through the well-known vale ; Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers ; And sport away the light-wing'd hours. Soon we'll run the agile race ; Soon, dear playmates, we'll embrace ; Through the wheat-field or the grove, We'll hand in hand delighted rove ; Or, beneath some spreading oak, Ponder the instructive book ; Or view the ships that swiftly glide, Floating on the peaceful tide ; Or raise again the caroll'd lay ; Or join again in mirthful play; Or listen to the humming hees, As their murmurs swell the breeze ; Or seek the primrose where it springs ; Or chase the fly with painted wings ; Or talk beneath the arbour's shade ; Or mark the tender shooting blade : Or stray beside the babbling stream, When Luna sheds her placid beam ; Or gaze upon the glassy sea Happy, happy shall we be ! SONNET TO MY MOTHER. WRITTEN AT THE AGB OF TWELVE. , To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, I pour the genuine numbers free from art The lays inspired by gratitude and truth ; For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart Oh ! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, With fond endearments to impart relief : Be mine thy warm affection to repay With duteous love in thy declining hours ; My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers. Perennial roses, to adorn thy way : Still may thy grateful children round thee smile Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile. JUVENILE POEMS. SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest May hover round the virtuous man's repose ; And oft in visions animate his breast, And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace. Ah, tender thought ! that oft with sweet relief May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, And pensive pleasure with devotion blend ; While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, The airy lay of some departed saint. RURAL WALKS. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OP THIRTEEN. OH ! may I ever pass my happy hours In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers ; For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. And much I love to hail the vernal morn, When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn ; And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, To cull the tender rosebuds in my way ; And seek in every wild secluded dell, The weeping cowslip and the azure bell ; With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, To form the gay festoon of varied hue. And oft I seek the cultivated green, The fertile meadow, and the village scene ; Where rosy children sport around the cot, Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. And there I wander by the cheerful rill, That murmurs near the osiers and the mill ; To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, And listen to their pleasing festive lay. I love to loiter in the spreading grove, Or in the mountain scenery to rove; Where summits rise in awful grace around, With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown'd ; Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, " And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild : And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, Array'd in all the blending shades of Time. The airy upland and the woodland green, The valley, and romantic mountain scene ; The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane ; " And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, And every landscape, charms my youthful breast." SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. [In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of some self-constituted arbiter of public taste, 1 and the young poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils attendant upon the career of an author ; though it may here be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, thia was at once the first and last tune she was destined to meet with any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unex- pected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.] I LOVE to hail the mild and balmy hour When evening spreads around her twilight veil When dews descend on every languid flower, And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play ; To hear the waters murmur as they glide, To mark the fading smile of closing day. There let me linger, blest in visions dear, Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas; While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, Of airy music floating on the breeze. For still when evening sheds the genial dews, That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. 1 The criticism referred to, and which, considering the cir- cumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows: " We hear that these poems are the ' genuine productions of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thir- teen years,' and we do not feel inclined to question the intel- ligence ; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent reception from all those who have ' children dear,' yet, when a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to examine before we admit her claims to public attention. Many of Miss Browne's compositions are extremely jejune. However, though Miss Browne's poems contain some errone- ous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the ' Reflections in a ruined Castle,' and the poetic strain in which they are delivered. The lines to ' Patriotism ' contain good thoughts and forcible images ; and if the youthful author were to con- tent herself for some years with reading instead of writing, we should open any future work from her pen with an expec- tation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publi- cation ; though we must, at the same time, observe, that premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before the oak." Monthly Review, 1809. JUVENILE POEMS. ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR AND PATRIOTISM. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. " His sword the brave man draws, And asks no omen but his country's cause." POPE. [New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike tlienie-> ; and trumpets and banners now floated through the dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned para- mount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish campaign under Sir John Moore ; and a vivid imagination and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involun- tarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, or of her own especial hero, " The Cid Ruy Diaz," the Cam- peador. tinder the inspiration of these feelings, she composed a poem entitled " England and Spain," which was published and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of four- teen ; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it. Memoir, p. 10, 11.] Too long have Tyranny and Power combined To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind ; Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe, And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe ! O'er Europe's cultured realms, and climes afar, Triumphant Gaul has pour'd the tide of war : To her fair Austria veil'd the standard bright ; Ausonia's lovely plains have own'd her might ; While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield, Forsook her towering height on Jena's field ! gallant Frederic ! could thy parted shade Have seen thy country vanquish'd and betray'd, How had thy soul indignant mourn 'd her shame, Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish'd fame ! When Valour wept lamented BRUNSWICK'S doom, And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb ; When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave, Invoked his spirit to descend and save ; Then set her glories then expired her sun, And fraud achieved e'en more than conquest won ! O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay> Has desolation spread her ample sway ; Thy blast, Ruin ! on tremendous wings, Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings. Thus the wild hurricane's impetuous force With dark destruction marks its whelming course, Despoils the woodland's pomp, the blooming plain, Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train ! Rise, Freedom, rise ! and, breaking from thy trance, Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance ! With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, And call thy champions to defend thy laws ! How long shall tyrant power her throne main- tain? How long shall despots and usurpers reign ? Is honour's lofty soul for ever fled ! Is virtue lost ? is martial ardour dead ? Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell, No patriot WALLACE, no undaunted TELL ? Yes, Freedom ! yes ! thy sons, a noble band, Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand ; Once more, 'tis thine, invincible to wield The beamy spear and adamantine shield ! Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes ; Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer'd fires, Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires : And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, Lo ! Britain's generous host their aid supply, Resolved for thee to triumph or to die ; And Glory smiles to see Iberia's name Enroll'd with Albion's in the book of fame ! Illustrious names ! still, still united beam, Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme : So, when two radiant gems together shine, And in one wreath their lucid light combine ; Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays, Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. Descend, Genius ! from thy orb descend ! Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend ! As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, And swell a louder note, a nobler tone ; Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye ; Steal from the source of day empyreal fire, And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre ! Hail, Albion ! hail, thou land of freedom's birth! Pride of the main, and Phoenix of the earth ! Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 5 Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans brave, Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave ; In classic elegance and arts divine, To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine ; For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly, And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky, Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime To other worlds beyond the sphere of time ! Hail, Albion, hail ! to thee has fate denied Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan's pride, The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast, And all the wealth of Montezuma's coast : For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine, No glowing suns mature the blushing vine ; No light Arabian gales their wings expand, To waft Sabaean incense o'er the land ; Xo graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils ; Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, And far from thee the scented cassia blows : Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own ; From Lapland's shore to Afric's fervid reign, She bids thy ensigns float above the main ; Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale, And shows to other worlds her daring sail : Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee, Queen of the trident ! empress of the sea ! For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, And bade the zones resound with Britain's arms ! Calpe's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore, Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar ; The sacred waves of fertilising Nile Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle ; For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war Has roll'd o'er Vincent's cape and Trafalgar ! Victorious RODNEY spread thy thunder's sound, And NELSON fell, with fame immortal crown'd Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main ! The milder emblems of the virtues calm The poet's verdant bay, the sage's palm These in thy laurel's blooming foliage twine, And round thy brows a deathless wreath com- bine : Not Mincio's banks, nor Moles' classic tide, Are hallow'd more than Avon's haunted side ; Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber's stream. Bright in the annals of th' impartial page, Britannia's heroes live from age to age ! From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race, Her painted natives, foremost in the chase, Free from all cares for luxury or gain, Lords of the wood and inonarchs of the plain ; To these Augustan days, when social arts Refine and meliorate her manly hearts ; From doubtful Arthur hero of romance, King of the circled board, the spear, the lance To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, The gallant victors of Vimeira's field ; Still have her warriors borne th' unfading crown- And made the British flag the ensign of renown. Spirit of ALFRED ! patriot soul sublime .' Thou morning-star of error's darkest time ! Prince of the Lion-heart ! whose arm in fight, On Syria's plains repell'd Saladin's might ! EDWARD ! for bright heroic deeds revered, By Cressy's fame to Britain still endear'd ! Triumphant HENRY ! thou, whose valour proud, The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow'd ! Look down, look down, exalted shades ! and view Your Albion still to freedom's banner true ! Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, Supreme in glory, and of spotless name : And, as the pyramid indignant rears Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years ; See her secure in pride of virtue tower, While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power ! Lo ! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, Bold Victory hovers near, " with eyes of fire !" While Lusitania hails, with just applause, The brave defenders of her injured cause; Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, And swells th' exulting psean to the skies ! And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, Breathed to their cherish'd realms a sad farewell .' Who, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide, Still fondly linger'd on its deck, and sigh'd ; Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, And the blue distance melted into light The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia's hate To fly for refuge in a foreign state They, soon returning o'er the western main, Ere long may view their clime beloved again : And as the blazing pillar led the host Of faithful Israel o'er the desert coast, So may Britannia guide the noble band O'er the wild ocean to their native land. glorious isle ! sovereign of the waves ! Thine are the sons who " never will be slaves ! " JUVENILE POfMS. See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, And rend the laurels of insulting France; To brave Castile their potent aid supply, And wave, Freedom ! wave thy sword on high ! Is there no bard of heavenly power possess'd To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast ? Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, And call each wayward passion to obey? Is there no bard, imbued with hallow'd fire, To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre ; Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, The patriot's name to ages might consign ? Eise, Inspiration ! rise ! be this thy theme, And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam ! Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling string! Could she the bosom energies control, And pour impassion'd fervour o'er the soul ! Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven ! Ah, fruitless wish ! ah, prayer preferr'd in vain, For her the humblest of the woodland train ; Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise The hymn of liberty, the song of praise ! Iberian bands ! whose noble ardour glows To pour confusion on oppressive foes ; Intrepid spirits, hail ! 'tis yours to feel The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zeal ! Xot to secure dominion's boundless reign, Ye wave the flag of conquest o'er the slain; Xo cruel rapine leads you to the war, Nor mad ambition, whirl'd in crimson car. No, brave Castilians ! yours a nobler end, Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend ! For these, for these, your valiant legions rear The floating standard, and the lofty spear ! The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, Fired by the image of the maid adored ! His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid, The father's hand unsheaths the glittering blade ! For each, for all, for ev'ry sacred right, The daring patriot mingles in the fight ! And e'en if love or friendship fail to warm, His country's name alone can nerve his dauntless arm ! He bleeds ! he falls ! his death-bed is the field ! His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield ! His closing eyes the beam of valour speak, The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek ; Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, Then for his country breathes a prayer and dies ! Oh ! ever hallow'd be his verdant grave There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave ! Thou, lovely Spring ! bestow, to grace his tomb, Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom ; There let the tears of heaven descend in balm, There let the poet consecrate his palm ! Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground, And shades of sainted heroes watch around ! 'Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, Thy chief, Thebes ! at Mantinea fell ; Smiled undismay'd within the arms of death, While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath ! thou, the sovereign of the noble soul ! Thou source of energies beyond control ! Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, Whose sons unconquer'd fight, undauntedbleed, Inspiring Liberty ! thy worshipp'd name The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame ; Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, Where ne'er a flower expands, a zephyr blows ; Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign ; Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove The green savannas and the spicy grove ; Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gales, In citron-woods and aromatic vales : For oh ! fair Liberty, when thou art near, Elysium blossoms in the desert drear ! Where'er thy smile its magic power bestows, There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows ; The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, And every chord to swelling transport lives ; There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace ; With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms, And calls from stone expression's breathing forms. Thus, where the fruitful Xile o'erflows its bound, Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, Bid Ceres laugh o'er waste and sterile sands, And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. Immortal Freedom ! daughter of the skies ! To thee shall Britain's grateful incense rise. Ne'er, goddess ! ne'er forsake thy favourite isle, Still be thy Albion brighten'd with thy smile ! Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, While proudly triumph'd thine insulting foes ; ENGLAND AND SPAIN. Vet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light, Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight : Once more we see thy kindling soul return, Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn ; Lo ! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives, Lo ! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives ! Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band ! Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. Though myriads flashing in the eye of day Stream'd o'er the smiling land in long array, Though tyrant Asia pour'd imnumber'd foes, Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose ; For every state in sacred union stood, Strong to repel invasion's whelming flood ; Each heart was glowing in the general cause, Each hand prepared to guard their hallow'd laws; Athenian valour join'd Laconia's might, And but contended to be first in fight ; From rank to rank the warm contagion ran, And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. Then Persia's monarch moum'd his glories lost, As wild confusion wing'd his flying host; Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung ! Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record The high achievements of the conquering sword. Thus, brave Castilians ! thus may bright renown And fair success your valiant efforts crown ! Genius of chivalry ! whose early days Tradition still recounts in artless lays; Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls The floating banners and the lofty halls, The gallant feats thy festivals display 'd, The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade; Whose ancient pride Eomance delights to hail, In fabling numbers, or heroic tale : Those tunes are fled, when stern thy castles frown'd, Then- stately towers with feudal grandeur crown'd ; Those times are fled, when fair Iberia's clime Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime ; And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore, Live but in legends wild, and poet's lore. Lo ! where thy silent harp neglected lies, Light o'er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs; Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung, The choral voice of mirth and music rung; Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone, Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan : Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone, Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown; Genius of chivaky ! thy noble train, Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain ! Fair truth, array'd in robes of spotless white, Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light; Warm emulation, with aspiring aim, Still darting forward to the wreath of fame ; And purest love, that waves his torch divine, At awful honour's consecrated shrine; Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance; And generous courage, resting on his lance ; And loyalty, by perils unsubdued; Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude ; And patriot energy, with heart of flame- These, in Iberia's sons are yet the same ! These from remotest days their souls have fired, " Nerved every arm," and every breast inspired ! When Moorish bands their suffering land possess'd, And fierce oppression rear'd her giant crest, The wealthy caliphs on Cordova's throne In eastern gems and purple splendour shone ; Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied With stately Bagdat's oriental pride ; Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array'd, Where arts and luxury their charms display'd ; 'Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar's costly towers, Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers ; There all Arabian fiction e'er could tell Of potent genii or of wizard spell All that a poet's dream could picture bright, One sweet Elysium, charm'd the wondering sight ! Too fan 1 , too rich, for work of mortal hand, It seem'd an Eden from Armida's wand ! Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant state, When freedom waved on high the sword of fate ! When brave Ramiro bade the despots fear, Stern retribution frowning on his spear ; And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, O'erwhelm'd with shame, confess'd the Christian's might. In later times the gallant Cid arose, Burning with zeal against his country's foes ; His victor-arm Alphonso's throne maintain'd, His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain'd! And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, Inspiring theme of patriotic verse ! High in the temple of recording fame, Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name ! Victorious chief! whose valour still defied The arms of Gaul, and bow'd her crested pride; JUVENILE POEMS. With splendid trophies graced his sovereign's throne, And. bade Granada's realms his prowess own. Nor were his deeds thy only boast, Spam ! In mighty FERDINAND'S illustrious reign ; Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, Unfurl'd his flag before the eastern gale ; Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. Fair science guided o'er the liquid realm, Sweet hope, exulting, steer'd the daring helm ; While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye, Courageous enterprise still hover'd nigh : The hoary genius of th' Atlantic main Saw man invade his wide majestic reign His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, The throne, the world of awful solitude. And e'en when shipwreck seem'd to rear his form, And dark destruction menaced in the storm ; In every shape when giant-peril rose, To daunt his spirit and his course oppose ; O'er ev'ry heart when terror sway'd alone, And hope forsook each bosom but his own : Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell'd, His glorious track the gallant sailor held ; Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave, Or high in air then: snowy pinions wave. Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep, With dauntless prow explored th' untravcll'd deep ; Thus, at the helm, Ulysses' watchful sight View'd ev'ry star and planetary light. Sublime COLUMBUS ! when, at length descried, The long-sought land arose above the tide, How every heart with exultation glow'd, How from each eye the tear of transport flow'd ! Xot wilder joy the sons of Israel knew When Canaan's fertile plains appear';! in view. Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze, Then martial music floated o'er the seas ; Their waving streamers to the sun display'd, In all the pride of warlike pomp array'd. Advancing nearer still, the ardent band Hail'd the glad shore, and bless'd the stranger land ; Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair, With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air : Then crowded round its free and simple race, Amazement pictured wild on every face ; Who deem'd that beings of celestial birth, Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth. Then first another world, another sky, Beheld Iberia's banner blaze on high ! Still prouder glories beam on history's page, Imperial CHARLES ! to mark thy prosperous age Those golden days of arts and fancy bright, When Science pour'd her mild, refulgent light ; When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe Creative Sculpture claim'd the li ving wreath ; When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers, Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers ; When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine, The clouds that veil'd religion's hallow'd shrine Those golden days beheld Iberia tower High on the pyramid of fame and power ; Yain all the efforts of her numerous foes, Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. Thus on proud Lebanon's exalted brow, The cedar, frowning o'er the plains below, Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e'er to bend ! When Gallia pour'd to Pavia's trophied plain, Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train : When, after many a toil and danger past, The fatal morn of conflict rose at last ; That morning saw her glittering host combine, And form in close array the threat'ning line ; Fire hi each eye, and force in ev'ry arm, With hope exulting, and with ardour warm ; Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, Their armour flashing to the beam of day ; Their gen'rous chargers panting, spurn the ground, Roused by the trumpet's animating sound ; And heard in air their warlike music float, The martial pipe, the drum's inspiring note ! Pale set the sun the shades of evening fell, The mournful night- wind rung their funeral knell; And the same day beheld their warriors dead, Their sovereign captive,, and their glories fled ! Fled, like the lightning's evanescent fire, Bright, blazing, dreadful only to expire ! Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess'd her might, Iberia's planet shed meridian light ! Nor less, on famed St Quintin's deathful day, Castilian spirit bore the prize away Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, And trophies beaming high in glory's fane ! And lo ! her heroes, warm with kindred flame. Still prpudly emulate their fathers' fame ; Still with the soul of patriot-valour glow, Still rush impetuous to repel the foe ; Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, And bid oppressive Galh'a learn to fear ! ENGLAND AND SPAIN. Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour's crown, The living amaranths of bright renown ! Be theirs th' inspiring tribute of applause, Due to the champions of their country's cause ! Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, The joy when conscience whispers and approves ! When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high, To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty; When every hand is dauntless and prepared The sacred charter of mankind to guard ; When Britain's valiant sons their aid unite, Fervent and glowing still for freedom's right, Bid ancient enmities for ever cease, And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. WTien, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand? Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless ? Can victory fail to crown them with success ? Look down, Heaven ! the righteous cause maintain, Defend the injured, and avenge the slain ! Despot of France ! destroyer of mankind ! What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless mind ! Oh ! if at midnight round thy regal bed, When soothing visions fly thine aching head ; When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, And lull thy senses in his opiate balm ; Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, And murder'd victims bleed before thine eyes; Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, "Tyrant ! the hour, th' avenging hour is near ! " It is, it is ! thy star withdraws its ray Soon will its parting lustre fade away ; Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light, And veil thy splendours in eternal night ! Oh ! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul W T ith awful terrors and with dread control, Bidsthreat'ning forms, appalling, roundthee stand, And summons all her visionary band; Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, And whispers, peace and happiness are fled ; E'en at the time of silence and of rest, Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast ; Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale ] Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail ] And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke i Bereave a nation of its rights revered, Of all to morals sacred and endear'd? And shall they tamely liberty resign, The soul of life, the source of bliss divine ? Canst thou, supreme destroyer ! hope to bind, In chains of adamant, the noble mind ] Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear Go, stay the lightning in its wing'd career ! No, tyrant ! no ! thy utmost force is vain The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, Then bid thy legions all their power combine ! Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, E'en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation bum ! Ye sons of Albion ! first in danger's field, The sword of Britain and of truth to wield ! Still prompt the injured to defend and save, Appal the despot, and assist the brave ; Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, The cause of Justice and Castile to aid ! Ye sons of Albion ! by your country's name, Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame ; Oh ! by the shades of Cressy's martial dead, By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled ; By honours gain'd on Blenheim's fatal plain, By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain ; By the bright laurels WOLFE immortal won, Undaunted spirit ! valour's favourite son ! By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime, Eenown'd from zone to zone, from clime to clime; Ye British heroes ! may your trophies raise A deathless monument to future days ! Oh ! may your courage still triumphant rise, Exalt the "lion banner" to the skies ! Transcend the fairest names in history's page, The brightest actions of a former age ; The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, And bid oppression fall to rise no more ! Then soon returning to your native isle, May love and beauty hail you with their smile ; For you may conquest weave th' undying wreath, And fame and glory's voice the song of rapture breathe ! Ah ! when shall mad ambition cease to rage 1 Ah ! when shall war his demon-wrath assuage ] When, when, supplanting discord's iron reign, Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again ] Not till the despot's dread career is closed, And might restrain'd and tyranny deposed ! Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign ! Fair blue-eyed seraph ! balmy power divine ! Descend once more ! thy hallow'd blessings bring, Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing ! Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train, Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain: 10 JUVENILE POEMS. Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky ! Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye ; Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, Thy myrtle-sceptre o'er the globe extend : Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind, Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind ; Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire, To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. Descend once more ! to bid the world rejoice Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, Around thy shrine with purest incense throng, Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song ! Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland reed, The martial clarion and the drum succeed ; Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers, And music warble in Idalian bowers. Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath ; And golden Ceres bless the festive swain, Where the wild combat redden'd o'er the plain. These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid ! Return, return, in vest of light array'd ! Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air : With accents milder than ^olian lays, When o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays, Be thine to charm the raging world to rest, Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy breast ! Thou ! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep ! Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep ! Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's force, And stays the thunder in its vengeful course ; Fountain of life ! Omnipotent Supreme ! Robed in perfection ! crown'd with glory's beam ! Oh ! send on earth thy consecrated dove, To bear the sacred olive from above; Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, The festal harmony of nature^s prime ! Bid truth and justice once again appear, And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane sphere ; Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, Transcendant light their hallow'd fane illume ; Bid war and anarchy for ever cease, And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace; Brothers once more, let men her empire own, And realms and monarchs bend before the throne , While circling rays of angel-mercy shed Eternal haloes round her sainted head ! THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, AXD OTHER POEMS. [In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled The DomesticAffections, and other Poems, was given to the world the last that was to appaar with the name of Felicia Browne ; for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged that appellation for the one under which she has become so much more generally known. Captain Hemans had re- turned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquain- tance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych ; and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on which (however little in accordance with the dictates of worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so entirely to depend. Memoir, p. 24.] THE SILVER LOCKS. ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND. THOUGH youth may boast the curls that flow In sunny waves of auburn glow ; As graceful on thy hoary head Has Time the robe of honour spread, And there, oh ! softly, softly shed His wreath of snow ! As frost-work on the trees display 'd When weeping Flora leaves the shade, E'en more than Flora, charms the sight ; E'en so thy locks of purest white Survive, in age's frost-work bright, Youth's vernal rose decay 'd ! To grace the nymph whose tresses play Light on the sportive breeze of May, Let other bards the garland twine, Where sweets of every hue combine ; Those locks revered, that silvery shine, Invite my lay ! Less white the summer-cloud sublime, Less white the winter's fringing rime ; Xor do Belinda's lovelier seem (A Poet's blest immortal theme) Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam Of reverend Time ! Long may the graceful honours smile, Like moss on some declining pile ; much revered ! may filial care Around thee, duteous, long repair, Thy joys with tender bliss to share, Thy pains beguile ! THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave ! Long, long, your much-loved beauty save ! May bliss your latest evening crown, Disarm life's winter of its frown, And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down In gladness to the grave ! And as the parting beams of day On mountain-snows reflected play, And tints of roseate lustre shed ; Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, May joy, with evening planet, shed His mildest ray ! August 18, 1309. TO MY MOTHER. IF e'er from human bliss or woe I feel the sympathetic glow ; If e'er my heart has learn 'd to know The generous wish or prayer ; Who sow'd the germ with tender hand ? Who mark'd its infant leaves expand 1 My mother's fostering care. And if one flower of charms refined May grace the garden of my mind, 'Twas she who nursed it there : She loved to cherish and adorn Each blossom of the soil ; To banish every weed and thorn That oft opposed her toil ! And oh ! if e'er I sigh'd to claim The palm, the living palm of fame, The glowing wreath of praise ; If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores That Fortune on her favourite pours ; 'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine. Round thec with streaming rays might shino, And gild thy sun-bright days ! Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power Might then irradiate every hour ; For these, my mother ! well I know, On thee no raptures could bestow ; But could thy bounty, warm and kind, Be, like thy wishes, unconfined, And fall as manna from the skies, And bid a train of blessings rise, Diffusing joy and peace ; The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright, For thee would beam with softer light Than all the diamond's crystal rays, Than all the emerald's lucid blaze ; And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart To bid one bosom-grief depart, One tear, one sorrow cease ! Then, oh ! may Heaven, that loves to bless, Bestow tjie power to cheer distress ; Make thee its minister below, To light the cloudy path of woe ; To visit the deserted cell, Where indigence is doom'd to dwell ; To raise, when drooping to the earth, The blossoms of neglected worth ; And round, with liberal hand, dispense The sunshine of beneficence ! But ah ! if Fate should still deny Delights like these, too rich and high ; If grief and pain thy steps assail, In life's remote and wintry vale ; Then, as the wild -Eolian lyre Complains with soft entrancing number, When the lone storm awakes the wire, And bids enchantment cease to slumber ; So filial love, with soothing voice, E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice ; E'en then shall sweeter, milder sound, When sorrow's tempest raves around ; While dark misfortune's gales destroy, The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy ! TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, OS HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. THOUGH dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way ; Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers, Whose fragrance shall never decay ! And lo ! to embrace thee, my Brother ! she flies, With artless delight, that no words can bespeak ; With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, With a smile and a glow on her cheek ! From the trophies of war, from the spear and the shield, From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest; Oh ! welcome again, to the grove and the field, To the vale of retirement and rest. Then warble, sweet muse ! with the lyre and the voice, Oh ! gay be the measure and sportive the strain ; JUVENILE POEMS. For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice To meet thee, my Brother ! again. When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd, How often would fancy present to my view The horrors that waited thee round-! How constant, how fervent, how pure was my prayer, That Heaven would protect thee from danger and harm ; That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, In the heat of the combat's alarm ! How sad and how often descended the tear, (Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain !) How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with fear I might never behold thee again ! But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the rose ; , Thy dangers, our tears, have endear'd thee the more, And my bosom with tenderness glows. And oh ! when the dreams, the enchantments of youth, Bright and transient, have fled like the rain- bow away ; My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, Shall never, oh ! never decay ! Xo time can impair it, no change can destroy, Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share ; It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of jov, And beam through the cloud cf despair ! TO MY ELDEST BROTHER. (WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.) How many a day, in various hues array'd, Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade, How many an hour, on silent wing is past, my loved Brother ! since we saw thee last ! Since tiien has childhood ripen'd into youth, And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth ; Her splendid fabrics melting into air, As sage experience waved the wand of care ! Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, And the tear trembles in affection's eye ! When shall we meet again ? with glowing ray. Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day ; Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting tear, And sings benignly still that day is near ! She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice ; Tells that the hour approaches, to restore Our cherish'd wanderer to his home once more ; Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, To faith still true, affection still sincere ! Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot, In that blest meeting shall be all forgot ! And joy's full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, Though all around th' impending storm should lower. Xow distant far, amidst the intrepid host, Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast, (That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, Where glory's pole-star beams their constant guide,) Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray To Cambria's vales and mountains far away ? Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, And paint the greeting that awaits at home ? Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue, Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; In softer tints delighting to retrace Each tender image and each well-known face 1 Yes, wanderer ! yes ! thy spirit flies to those Whose love, unalter'd, warm and faithful glows. Oh ! could that love, through life's eventful hours, Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with flowers ! Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast, Xo struggle rend thee, and no cares molest ! But though our tenderness can but bestow The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe, Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, In storms, in sunshine, far and near the same ! Still dwell enthroned within th' unvarying heart, And, firm and vital, but with life depart ! Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811. LINES WRITTEN IN THE .MEMOIRS OK ELIZABETH SMITH. thou ! whose pure, exalted mind, Lives in this record, fair and bright ; THE RUIX AND ITS FLOWERS. O thou ! whose blameless life combined Soft female charms, and grace refined, With science and with light ! Celestial maid ! whose spirit soar'd Beyond this vale of tears Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explored The lore of years ! Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here, The wing of towering thought was thine ; If, on this dim and mundane sphere, Fair truth illumed thy bright career, With morning-star divine ; How must thy bless'd ethereal soul Now kindle in her noon-tide ray, And hail, unfetter'd by control, The Fount of Day ! E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, Undimm'd by doubt, nor vcil'd by fear, Behold a chain of wonders rise Graze on the noon-beam of the skies, Transcendant, pure, and clear ! E'en now, the fair, the good, the true, From mortal sight conceal'd, Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, In light reveal'd ! If here the lore of distant time, And learning's flowers, were all thine own How must thy mind ascend sublime, Matured in heaven's empyreal clime, To light's unclouded throne ! Perhaps e'en now thy kindling glance Each orb of living fire explores, Darts o'er creation's wide expanse, Admires adores ! Oh ! if that lightning-eye surveys This dark and sublunary plain ; How must the wreath of human praise Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, So dim, so pale, so vain ! How, like a faint and shadowy dream, Must quiver learning's brightest ray ; While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, The sun of glory pours his beam, Perfection's day ! [The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hema:is with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wil- son. Poems, vol. ii. p. 140-9.] . THE RUIX AXD ITS FLOWERS. SWEETS of the wild ! that breathe and bloom On this lone tower, this ivied wall, Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall. Though doom'd, remote from careless eye, To smile, to flourish, and to die In solitude sublime, Oh ! ever may the spring renew, Your balmy scent and glowing hue, To deck the robe of time ! Breathe, fragrance ! breathe ! enrich the air, Though wasted on its wing unknown ! Blow, flowerets ! blow ! though vainly fair, Xeglected and alone ! These flowers that long withstood the blast, These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, While Flora's children stay To mantle o'er the lonely pile, To gild Destruction with a smile, And beautify Decay ! Sweets of the wild ! uncultured blowing, Neglected in luxuriance glowing ; From the dark ruins frowning near, Your charms in brighter tints appea)', And richer blush assume ; You smile with softer beauty crowu'd, Whilst all is desolate around, Like sunshine on a tomb ! Thou hoary pile, majestic still, Memento of departed fame ! While roving o'er the moss-clad hill, I ponder on thine ancient name ! Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep, That here, so oft, have shone supreme j While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep That vanish'd is the golden dream ! Where are the banners, waving proud, To kiss the summer-gale of even All purple as the morning-cloud, All streaming to the winds of heaven 1 Where is the harp, by rapture strung To melting song or martial story 1 Where are the lays the minstrel sung To loveliness or glory ? JUVENILE POEMS. Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, To thee no festal measure calls ; No music through the desert halls, Awakes thee to rejoice ! How still thy sleep ! as death profound As if, within this lonely round, A step a note a whisper d sound Had ne'er aroused thy voice ! Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying, Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing ; But ne'er again shall harp or song, These dark deserted courts along, Disturb thy calm repose. The harp is broke, the song is fled, The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead ; And never shall thy tones repeat Or lofty strain or carol sweet With plaintive close ! Proud Castle ! though the days are flown When once thy towers in glory shone ; When music through thy turrets rung, When banners o'er thy ramparts hung, Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone, Stern Desolation rear his throne ; And Silence, deep and awful, reign Where echo'd once the choral strain ; Yet oft, dark ruin ! lingering here, The Muse will hail thee with a tear ; Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams, And through the fringing ivy streams, And softens every shade sublime, And mellows every tint of Tune Oh ! here shall Contemplation love, Unseen and undisturb'd, to rove ; And bending o'er some mossy tomb, Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom, Shall weep for Glory's transient day And Grandeur's evanescent ray ; And listening to the swelling blast, Shall wake the Spirit of the Past Call up the forms of ages fled, Of warriors and of minstrels dead, Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, With all Ambition's kindling fire ! Nor wilt thou, Spring ! refuse to breathe Soft odours on this desert air ; Refuse to twine thine earliest wreath, And fringe these towers with garlands fair ! Sweets of the wild, oh ! ever bloom Unheeded on this ivied wall ! Lend to the gale a rich perfume, And grace the ruin in its fall ! Thus round Misfortune's holy head, Would Pity wreaths of honour spread ; Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile ! CHRISTMAS CAROL. FAIR Gratitude ! in strain sublime, Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal ; And, hailing this auspicious tune, Kneel, Adoration ! kneel ! For lo ! the day, th' immortal day, When Mercy's full, benignant ray Chased every gathering cloud away, And pour'd the noon of light ! Rapture ! be kindling, mounting, glowing, While from thine eye the tear is flowing, Pure, warm, and bright ! 'Twas on this day oh, love divine ! The Orient Star's effulgence rose ; Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign Shall never, never close ! CHORUS. Messiah ! be thy name adored, Eternal, high, redeeming Lord ! By grateful worlds be anthems pour'd Emanuel ! Prince of Peace ! This day, from heaven's empyreal dwelling, Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, Bade discord cease ! Wake the loud paean, tune the voice, Children of heaven and sons of earth ! Seraphs and men ! exult, rejoice, To bless the Saviour's birth ! Devotion ! light thy purest fire ! Transport ! on cherub wing aspire ! Praise ! wake to Hun thy golden lyre, Strike every thrilling chord ! While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, We own thy grace, reviving, healing, Redeemer ! Lord ! THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. WHENCE are those tranquil joys in mercy given, To light the wilderness with beams of heaven ] To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse Their temper'd sunshine and celestial hues 1 Those pure delights, ordain'd on life to throw Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know ] Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne, When kneeling myriads call the world his own ? Or dwell with Luxury, in th' enchanted bowers Where taste and wealth exert creative powers ] Favour'd of heaven ! Genius ! are they thine, When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine ; While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day ] No ! sacred joys ! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined, Most fondly cherish'd, in the purest mind ; To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties, On earth so sweet so perfect in the skies ! Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, The violet smiles, embosom'd in the glade There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, Gem of seclusion ! treasure of the vale ! Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road, Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode Where hallow'd Innocence and sweet Repose May strew her shadowy path with many a rose. As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, The cherub, Infancy, can close its eye, And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, While viewless angels wave their pinions near ; Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, Borne on resistless whig from pole to pole, While War's red lightnings desolate the ball, And thrones and empires in destruction fall ; Then calm as evening on the silvery wave, When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, She dwells unruffled, hi her bower of rest, Her empire Home ! her throne, Affection's breast ! For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, And softer sunshine every scene illumes. When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, Whose light whig undulates the sleeping seas ; When Summer, waving her creative wand, Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand ; Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace, O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace ; Oh ! still for her, through Nature's boundless reign, No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain ; While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright, Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light ! Lo ! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, Stern Whiter, bursting from the polar clime, Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, The blood-red meteor of the northern sky ! And high through darkness rears his giant-form, His throne the billow, and his flag the storm ! Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more, And the wild surges foam along the shore, Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene, Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green ! Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade ! Clear through the day, her light around thee glows, And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose ! Hail, sacred Home ! where soft Affection's hand With flowers of Eden twines her magic band ! Where pure and bright the social ardours rise, Concentring all their holiest energies ! When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame, And every power deserts the sinking frame, Exhausted nature still from sleep implores The charm that lulls, the manna that restores ! Thus, when oppress'd with rude, tumultuous cares, To thee, sweet Home ! the fainting mind repairs ; Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies ! Bower of repose ! when, torn from all we love, Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar Thee, our bright vista ! thee, our magnet-star ! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee ! When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh ; Wide o'er the world when Peace and Midnight reign. And the moon trembles on the sleeping main ; At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep ! No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, All heaven and sea and solitude around ! Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear ! Lo ! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, And Danger frowns the monarch of the wave ! i6 JUVENILE POEMS. Lo ! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell ! Child of the ocean ! is thy bier the surge, Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge 1 Yes ! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o'er, No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more ! Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, The struggling agony for death or life, E'en then thy mind, embittering every pain, Retraced the image so beloved in vain ! Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, Life's parting sigh the murmur of adieu ! Can war's dread scenes the hallow'd ties efface, Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase 1 Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy The loved impression of domestic joy 1 Ye daylight dreams ! that cheer the soldier's breast, In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest, Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray O'er the long march through Desolation's way ; Oh ! still ye bear him from th' ensanguined plain, Armour's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain, To that loved Home where pure affection glows, That shrine of bliss ! asylum of repose ! When all is hush'd the rage of combat past, And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast ; When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er, And many an eye is closed to wake no more ; Lull'd by the night-wind, pillow'd on the ground, (The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round !) While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep, Famt with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep ! E'en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray The cherish'd forms that o'er his bosom sway ; He sees fond transport light each beaming face, Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace ! While the sweet welfcome vibrates through his heart, " Hail, weary soldier ! never more to part ! " And lo ! at last, released from every toil, He comes ! the wanderer views his native soil ! Then the bright raptures words can never speak Flash in his eye and mantle o'er his cheek ! Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing prayer Implored for him each guardian-spirit's care ; Who, for his fate, through sorrow's lingering year, Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear; In that blest moment, all the past forget Hours of suspense and vigils of regret ! And oh ! for him, the child of rude alarms. Rear'd by stern danger in the school of arms ! How sweet to change the war-song's pealing note For woodland-sounds in summer air that float ! Through vales of peace, o'er mountain wilds to roam , Andbreathehisnativegales, thatwhisper 'Home !' Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, Charms of existence ! angel sympathies ! Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen ! And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, AVhere sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours With mirth and music in Arcadian bowel's ; Though gazing nations hail the fiery car That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, While Fame's loud paean bids his heart rejoice, And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice ; Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright, Flows the full current of serene delight ! On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores, Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars ! Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire, Meridian glory on her throne of fire ! Bird of the Sun ! his keen unwearied gaze Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze ; But soon, descending from his height sublime. Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal clime, Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest ! Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, And proudly waving in his gifted hand, O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand. Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys The clearest heaven of intellectual rays ! Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, (While in his mind, with high-born grandeur fraught, Dilate the noblest energies of thought ;) Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, At length he flies, to that serene retreat, Where calm and pure the mild affections meet ; Embosom'd there, to feel and to impart The softer pleasures of the social heart ! Ah ! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, From every tie by fate relentless torn ; THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, Mark'd with no step, uncheer'd by human smile, Heart-sick and faint the ship-\vreck'd wanderer stand, Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand ! Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, And weep and pray and linger but in vain ! Thence, roving wild through many a depth of shade, Where voice ne'er echo'd, footstep never stray 'd, He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude, Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude ! And pauses oft, and sadly hears alone The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan ! All else is hush'd ! so silent, so profound, As if some viewless power, presiding round, With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, Had spread for ages the repose of death ! Ah ! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, Lives but to watch and watches but to weep ! He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, His the dread loneliness of sea and skies ! Far from his cherish'd friends, his native shore, Banish'd from being to return no more ; There must he die ! within that circling wave, That lonely isle his prison and his grave ! Lo ! through the waste, the wilderness of snows, With faulting step, Siberia's exile goes ! Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild, Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled ; Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign, And bind existence in eternal chain ! Child of the desert ! pilgrim of the gloom ! Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb ! While on thy faded cheek the arctic air Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair ! Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day In that stern clime to shed its parting ray ; Xot that fair nature's loveliness and light Xo more shall beam enchantment on thy sight ; Ah ! not for this far, far beyond relief, Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; But that no friend of kindred heart is there, Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share ; That no mild soother fondly shall assuage The stormy trials of thy lingering age ; Xo smile of tenderness, with angel power, Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour ; For this alone, despair, a withering guest, Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast ! Yes ! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime, Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime ; Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, In all his wild magnificence of might ; E'en there, affection's hallow'd spell might pour The light of heaven around th' inclement shore ! And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine graced, That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced, Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow ! The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions feign, With mystic power could tranquillise the main ; Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, And peace and silence brood upon the deep ! And thus, Affection, can thy voice. compose The stormy tide of passions and of woes ; Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, And lull misfortune in the arms of peace ! Oh ! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien, Wan, yet resign'd, and hopeless, yet serene ! Long ere victorious time had sought to chase The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, That faded eye was dimm'd with many a care, Those waving locks were silver'd by despair ! Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm ! He, a sad emigrant ! condemn'd to roam In life's pale autumn from his ruin'd home, Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave, Where joy and hope and fortune found a grave ! Twos his to see Destruction's fiercest band Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, And roll triumphant on their blasted way, I In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay ! ! L'nequal combat raged on many a plain, And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain ! Ah ! gallant exile ! nobly, long, he bled, Long braved the tempest gathering o'er his head ! Till all was lost ! and horror's darken'd eye Roused the stern spirit of despair to die ! Ah ! gallant exile ! in the storm that roll'd Far o'er his countiy, rushing uncontroll'd, The flowers that graced his path with loveliest bloom, Torn by the blast, were scatter'd on the tomb ! When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, The bosom ties that bound his soul to life, Yet one was spared ! and she, whose filial smile Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, E'en then could temper, with divine relief, The wild delirium of unbounded grief; 1 8 JUVENILE POEMS. And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart ! And now, though time, subduing every trace, Has mellow'd all, he never can erase ; Oft will the wanderer's tears in silence flow, Still sadly faithful to remember'd woe ! Then she, who feels a father's pang alone, (Still fondly struggling to suppress her own.) With anxious tenderness is ever nigh, To chase the image that awakes the sigh ! Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise To brighter visions of celestial days ! And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall soar On eagle-plume to wonder and adore ; And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, Unite their kindred souls and smile on all the past ! Yes ! we may hope that nature's deathless ties, Uenew'd, refined, shall triumph in the skies ! Heart-soothing thought ! whose loved, consoling powers With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hours, Oh ! still be near, and brightening through the gloom, Beam and ascend ! the day-star of the tomb ! And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. !.> ! by the couch where pain and chill disease la every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze ; Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay. Life's closing lesson in its dawning day ; Where beauty's rose is withering ere its prime, Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil'd by tune ; There, bending still, with fix'd and sleepless eye, There, from her child, the mother learns to die ; Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace Of lingering sickness in the faded face ; Through the sad night, when every hope is fled, Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed ; And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare The spoiler's hand the blight of death is there ! He comes ! now feebly in the exhausted frame, Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame : From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away ! Fauit beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart ; Yet fond existence lingers ere she part ! "Tis past ! the struggle and the pang are o'er, And life shall throb with agony no more ; While o'er the wasted form, the features pale. Death's awful shadows throw their silvery veiL Departed spirit ! on tliis earthly sphere Though poignant suffering mark'd thy short career, Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, And hush thy sighs an angel of repose ! But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast ? And, while she bends hi silence o'er thy bier, Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear ? Visions of hope in loveliest hues array 'd, Fair scenes of bliss by fancy's hand portray'd ! And were ye doom'd with false, illusive smile, With flattering promise, to enchant awhile 1 And are ye vanish'd, never to return, Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn ? Will no bright hour departed joys restore '! Shall the sad parent meet her child no more 1 Behold no more the soul-illumined face, The expressive smile, the animated grace ! Must the fair blossom, wither 'd hi the tomb, Revive no more in loveliness and bloom 1 Descend, blest faith ! dispel the hopeless care, And chase the gathering phantoms of despair ; Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn, Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn ; Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, The full perfection of immortal hues ; Tell, that when mounting to her native skies, By death released, the parent spirit flies ; There shall the child, hi anguish mourn'd so long, With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, And guide her pinion on exulting flight, Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds of living light. Ye gentle spirits of departed friends ! If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends ; If, with benignant care, ye linger near, To guard the objects in existence dear ; If, hovering o'er, ethereal band ! ye view The tender sorrows, to your memory true ; Oh ! in the musing hour, at midnight deep, While for your loss affection wakes to weep : While every sound hi hallow'd stillness lies, But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs ; Oh ! then, amidst that holy calm be near, Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear ; With secret spells her wounded mind compose, And chase the faithful tear for you that flows : Be near when moonlight spreads the charm you loved O'er scenes where once your earthly foototep roved. JUVENILE POEMS. Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling dew, Through glens and wood-paths, once endear'd by you, And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers, And pauses oft, recalling former hours ; Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known vale, Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale ; Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, Borne by the summer-wind from grot and dell ; And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul With soft enchantments and divine control ! Be near, sweet guardians ! watch her sacred rest, "When Slumber folds her in his magic vest ; Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, Retum'd in dreams, to bless her mental eyes ; Efface the memory of your last farewell- Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell ; The sweet communion of the past renew, Reviving former scenes, array'd in softer hue. Be near when death, in virtue's brightest hour, Calls up each pang, and summons all his power ; Oh ! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream, Then let your forms unvcil'd around her beam ; Then waft the vision of unclouded light, ' A burst of glory, on her closing sight ; Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal strain, To hush the final agonies of pain ; With rapture's flame the parting soul illume, And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom ! Oh ! still be near, when, darting into day, Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay ; Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high O'er many a world, ascending to the sky ; There let your presence, once her earthly joy, Though dimm'd with tears and clouded with alloy, Now form her bliss on that celestial shore Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more. Yes ! in the noon of that Elysian clime, I Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time ; Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire, i Shall beam on glories never to expire ; i Oh ! there th' illumined soul may fondly trust, ; More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust, Those mild affections, whose consoling light Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow, Exalting rapture not assuaging woe ! TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OP CONWAY. [Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beauti- ful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm ; and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pen- sive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of "Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, unapproached by bridge or causeway, flinging its broad shadow across the tributary waves which washed its regal walls. These lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagi- nation of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna Baillie's play of Ethwald was always pleasingly associated with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the rums of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their place in her favour. Her own little poem, "The Ruin and its Flowers," which will be found amongst the earlier pieces in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway ; and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering Into oblivion, once bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative of that gifted bard l had, at the time now alluded to, his appropriate dwelling-place at Conway ; but his strains have long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its originality and beauty, " The minstrel was infirm and old ; " but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him ; and the follow- ing lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his auditors.] MIXSTREL ! whose gifted hand can bring Life, rapture, soul, from every string ; And wake, like bards of former time, The spirit of the harp sublime ; Oh ! still prolong the varying strain ! Oh ! touch th' enchanted chords again ! 1 Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally called, had been blind from his birth, and was endowed with that extraordinary musical genius by which persons suffering under such a visitation are not unfrequently indemnified. From the respectability of his circumstances, be was not 20 JUVENILE POEMS. Thine is the charm, suspending care, The heavenly swell, the dying close, The cadence melting into air, That lulls each passion to repose ; While transport, lost in silence near, Breathes all her language in a tear. Exult, Cambria ! now no more With sighs thy slaughter'd bards deplore : What though Plinlimmon's misty brow And Mona's woods be silent now, Yet can thy Conway boast a strain UnrivalTd in thy proudest reign. For Genius, with divine control, AVakcs the bold chord neglected long, And pours Expression's glowing soul O'er the wild Harp, renown'd in song ; And Inspiration, hovering round, Swells the full energies of sound. Now Grandeur, pealing La the tone, Could rouse the warrior's kindling fire, And now, 'tis like the breeze's moan, That murmurs o'er th' Eolian lyre : As if some sylph, with viewless wing, Were sighing o'er the magic string. Long, long, fair Conway ! boast the skill That soothes, inspires, commands, at will ! And oh ! while rapture hails the lay, Far distant be the closing day, When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, And Cambria's Harp lie hush'd in sleep ! EPITAPH ON MR W , A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST. 1 STOP, passenger ! a wondrous tale to list Here lies a famous Mineralogist. called upon to exercise his talents with any view to remuner- ation. He played to delight himself and others ; and the innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies called forth by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with which he regarded himself, as in a manner consecrated, by l>eing made the depositary of a direct gift from Heaven, were as far as possible removed from any of the common modifica- tions of vanity or self-conceit. 1 " Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss to introduce two little pieces of a very different character from the foregoing, [Lines to Mr Edward the Harper,] which were written at the same place, three or four years afterwards, and will serve as a proof of that versatility of talent before alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they were never in- tended for publication, but were merely a jm d'esprit of the moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable zeal and perseverance of one of the party in his geological re- searches." Memoir, p. 20. Famous indeed ! such traces of his power, He's left from Peumaenbach to Penmaenmawr, Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks. His works resemble those of earthquake shocks i And future ages very much may wonder What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, Or whether Lucifer himself had ne'er Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there. His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, With him, good reader, here lie buried too Sweet specimens ! which, toiling to obtain, He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain. We knew, so great the fuss he made about them, Alive or dead, he ne'er would rest without them; So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, We paved his grave with all his favourite stones. His much-loved hammer's resting by his side ; Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified : His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses, And at his feet a lump of coal reposes : Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet! His very coffin-plate is made of granite. Weep not, good reader ! he is truly blest Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest : Weep not for him ! but envied be his doom, Whose tomb, though small, fur all he loved had room : And, ye rocks ! schist, gneiss, whate'er ye be, Ye varied strata ! names too hard for me Sing, " Oh, be joyful ! " for your direst foe By death's fell hammer is at length laid low. Ne'er on your spoils again shall W riot. Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet He sleeps no longer planning hostile actions, As cold as any of his petrifactions ; Enshrined in specimens of every hue, Too tranquil e'en to dream, ye rocks, of you. EPITAPH ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAID MINERALOGIST. HERE in the dust, its strange adventures o'er, A hammer rests, that ne'er knew rest before. Released from toil, it slumbers by the side Of one who oft its temper sorely tried ; Xo day e'er pass'd, but in some desperate strife He risk'd the faithful hammer's limbs and life : Xow laying siege to some old limestone wall, Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball Xow scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize ; But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, He'd mount a precipice that touch'd the skies, JUVENILE POEMS. And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, I'm sure they almost would have made a penny ! Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, "\Yhat fearful risks this hammer must have run. And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine In lays more lofty and more famed than mine : Oh ! that in strains which ne'er should be forgot, Its deeds were blazon'd forth by Walter Scott ! Then should its name with his be closely link'd, And live till every mineral were extinct. Rise, epic bards ! be yours the ample field Bid W 's hammer match Achilles' shield : As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, I search for specimens of wit in vain ; Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, And seek some theme less arduous than the ham- mer; Remembering well, " what perils do environ " Woman or " man that meddles with cold iron." PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLEMAN, AS INTENDED TO BE PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF THE 34TH REGIMENT AT CLONMEL. 1 Enter Captain GEORGE BROWNE, in the character of Corporal Foss. TO-MGHT, kind friends, at your tribunal here, Stands " The Poor Gentleman," with many a fear ; Since well he knows, whoe'er may judge his cause, That Poverty's no title to applause. Genius or Wit, pray, who'll admire or quote, If all their drapery be a threadbare coat ? Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, Minds a man's worth except his worth in gold ) Who'll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner ! Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner ! Away with Poverty ! let none receive her, She bears contagion as a plague or fever ; *' Bony, and gaunt, and grim " like jaundiced eyes, Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. " Poor Gentleman ! " and by poor soldiers, too ! Oh, matchless impudence ! without a sous ! In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, With heads, perhaps, as empty as then 1 purses, How shall they dare at such a bar appear ? What are their tactics and ruanrouvres here 1 While thoughts like these come rushing o'er our mind, Oh ! may we still indulgence hope to find ! Brave sons of Erin ! whose distinguished name Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, i These verses were written about the same time as the pre- ceding humorous epitaphs. And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle t View our weak efforts with approving smile ! School'd in rough camps, and still disdaining art 111 can the soldier act a borrow'd part ; The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage ; His theatre is found in every land, Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band : Place him in danger's front he recks not where Be your own Wellington his prompter there, And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, He'll act his part in glory's tragic scene. Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall'd round, And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound, Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter's wile Aims at his breast, save hid hi beauty's smile ; Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, No stage effect of glittering pageantries : No, to your kindness he must look alone To realise the hope he dares not own ; And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye, His wish to please may claim indemnity. And why despair, indulgence when we crave From Erin's sons, the generous and the brave ? Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught ; Still has the stranger, in their social isle, Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, And well their hearts can share, though unexpress'd, Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier's breast. [As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the first time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile com- positions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity for her real career as an authoress cannot be said to have com- menced before the publication of the section which immedi- ately follows. In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of Mrs Hemans' mind may be divided into two distinct and sepa- rate eras the first of which may be termed the classical, and comprehends the productions of her pen, from " The Restora- tion of the Works of Art to Italy," and " Modern Greece," down to the " Historical Scenes," and the " Translations from Camoens ;"and the last, the romantic, which commences with " The Forest Sanctuary," and includes " The Records of Woman," together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occa- sional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sen- timent and description may be read with an interest which diminishes not by comparison.] 22 THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF AET TO ITALY. [" The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity o the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpiece from their pedestals, and, dragging them from their temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory." EUSTACE'S CUistical Tour through, Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.] ' Italia, Italia ! tu cui die la sorte Dono infelice di belleiza, ond' hai Funesta dote d'infiniti guai, Che n fronts serittc per gran doglia port* ; Deh, fosai ta men beila, o almen piu forte." LA>'D of departed fame ! whose classic plains Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains ; Whose hallo w'd soil hath given the great and brave, Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave ; Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; Though rlimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! Lost, lovely realm ! once more 'tis thine to gaze On the rich relics of sublimer days. Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; "VVake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom "Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high Those magic strains of love and chivalry ! If yet by classic streams ye fondly mve, Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song, Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd. And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior- might Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight Souls of unyielding power, to storms mured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; Whose banners track'd the vanquished Eagle's flight O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height ; Who bade once more the wild heroic lay Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe ; Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, And 'midst those scenes renew'd th' achievements high Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry. Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past, One strife remain'd the mightest and the last ! Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour Untamed Ambition summond all his power : Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, And the stern might of resolute Despair. Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy champions stood, Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood ; Sunbeam of battle ! then thy spirit shone, Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, Xo sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, Yours, on the scene where valour's race was ruu, A prouder sepulchre the field ye won ! There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, Shall live a watchword blended with your fame ; And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown That ask no um to blazon their renown ! There shall the bard in future ages tread, And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead ; - THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ! i Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear In every breeze some name to glory dear ; And as the shades of twilight close around, With martial pageants people all the ground. Thither unborn descendants of the slain Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, While as they trace each spot, whose records tell Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! And many an age shall see the brave repair '. To learn the Hero's bright devotion there. And well, Ausouia ! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, , And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. Yes, fair creations ! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought ! Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste ! I Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne ; Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind ; Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. Oh ! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy Xe'er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; Where midst the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, j And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends ! Yes ! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 1 And the deep tones of inspiration swell From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell ; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; There was your home, and there your power imprest, With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighs Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, Thus at your influence, starting from repose, Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. Fair Florence ! queen of Arno's lovely vale ! Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour, To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. Too long the spirits of thy noble dead Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled. Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, Temples of genius, palaces of taste, Too long, with sad and desolated mien, Reveal'd where Conquest's lawless track had been ; Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude. Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er, Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! As one who, starting at the dawn of day From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, With transport heighten'd by those ills of night, Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, While heaven's own hues in radiance round thee glow, With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored As loved lost relics, ne'er to be restored Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed By fond affection, bending o'er the dead. Athens of Italy ! once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majesty So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand. Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake. And daring Intellect his bondage break THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose, And bade its pealing energies resound With power electric through the realms around ; high in thought, magnificent in soul ! Bom to inspire, enlighten, and control ; Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more, The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, Shall hail the mighty of departed days : Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined; Still with ascendant power the world to awe, Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; To breathe some spell of holiness around, Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind ! Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind ! Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. Oh ! who can tell what beams of heavenly light Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal'd to him alone, Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own ; Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye On forms instinct with bright divinity, While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand array 'd, From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray 'd : From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, Seal'd with perfection, " sanctified by time ;" Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel His spirit burn with emulative zeal : Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, Imbued at once with nobler energies ; O'er life's dun scenes on rapid pinions soar, And worlds of visionary grace explore, Till his bold hand give glory's daydream birth, And with new wonders charm admiring earth. Venice exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! "What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name ; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey ; Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, And gild the wreck of years for ever past. Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. From thy rich dome again th' unrivalTd steed Starts to existence, rushes into speed, Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, Xo mortal birth ye seem but forin'd to bear Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of air; To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet ; And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, The flame that wakes creations into day. Creatures of fire and ether ! wing'd with light, To track the regions of the Infinite ! From purer elements whose life was drawn, Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn What years, on years in silence gliding by, Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! Moulded by Art to dignify alone Her own bright deity's resplendent throne. Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow'd Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, How many a race, whose tales of glory seem An echo's voice the music of a dream, Whose records feebly from oblivion save A few bright traces of the wise and brave ; How many a state, whose pillar'd strength sublime Defied the storms of war, the waves of tune, Towering o'er earth majestic and alone, Fortress of power has flourish 'd and is gone ! And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, Consummate still in every grace remain, As o'er their heads had ages roll'd in vain ! Ages, victorious in then- ceaseless flight O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain, Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island throne, And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. Venice the proud, the Kegent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free ! And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfuii'd Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, Eternal city ! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime ; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song ; Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day. Lo ! where thy sons, O Rome ! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again ! Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, Still o'er thy children seem to claim control ; With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes, From time's dun sepulchre in glory rise. Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; Oh ! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; Patriots and Heroes ! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn ; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phoenix grande\ir burst ! With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb ; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread asgis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light ! Tain dream ! Degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fixd on thee the world's adoring gaze ; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die ! Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! Oh ! what can realms in fame's full zenith boast To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, Genius and Taste shall love to wander still ; For there has Art survived an empire's doom, And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophisd tomb : She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak ! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm ! Oh ! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame ? Lord of the daystar ! how may words portray Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray 1 Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, Of regal dignity and heavenly grace ; Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight Each bold idea, borrow'd from the sky, To vest th' embodied form of Deity ; All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined ! Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy throne, And days unborn, and nations yet to be, Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee ! And thou, triumphant wreck, 1 e'en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time : Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought ! Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign'd ; Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair 1 1 The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Micliael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists. THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurl'd, Yet claiming still the homage of the world. What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced The work of wonder, idolised by taste ? Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode, Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God ! l Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense From every part some ray of excellence ! E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high, Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! Within that frame a purer being glows, Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; Fill'd with immortal life each muscle swells, In every line supernal grandeur dwells, Consummate work ! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past : 2 Xurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic bill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero's image to the world bequeathed ; Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray Of bigh-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers who never shall return ! And mark yon group, transfrx'd with many a throe, Seal'd with the image of eternal woe : With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stem combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind. 1 " Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait 'te 1 maltraitfe et mutilee d'une maniere Strange, se trouvant sans tete, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef- d'oeuvre aux yeux dcs connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent percer dans les myst&res de Part, se la repre"sentent dans toute sa beauW. L'Artiste, en voulant repre"senter Hercule, a forme' nn corps ideal audessus de la nature * * * Get Hercule paroit done ici tel qu'il put etre lorsque, purine" par le feu des foiblesses de 1' humanit^, il obtint 1' immortality et prit place aupres des Dieux. II est repre'sente' sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles." WIXCKELMAXX, Histoire de V Art chez let Ancient, torn, ii. p. 248. " Le Torso d' Ilercule paroit un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que 1'art ait produit en Grece, avant la perte de sa ]ibe>W. Car apres que la Grece fut rcMuite en province Romaine, 1'histoire ne fait mention d'aucun artiste cdlebre da cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain." VfOfCKKUUmr, ibid. torn. ii. p. 250. Oh, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense; Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold ; Yet the strong spirit lives and not a cry Shall own the might of Xature's agony ! That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, Xor yields one moan to torture or to death ! 3 Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; . Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays : Landscapes, by colouring dress'd in richer dyes, More meliow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. Oh ! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light ; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy ! who stand alone And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own ; What scenes, what beings bless'd your favour 'd sight, Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 3 " It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, tliat the secret grace of its composition resides ; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not yielded to tuffcring, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still tuptrior to all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued." ALISON'S Ettayt, vol. ii. p. 400. " Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humainedans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous 1' image d'un homme qui tache de rassembler centre elle toute la force del' esprit. Tandis que 1' execs de la souffranee enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonfle": la poitrine s'e'Ieve avec peine par la ne'cessite' de la respiration, qui est egalement contrainte par le silence que la force de 1' ame impose a la douleur qu'elle voudroit e'touffer * * * * Snn air est plaintif, et non criard." WIXCBBLMA.VX, Hittoire de I' Art che: k* Ancient, torn. ii. p. 214. THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye Could meet the noontide of eternity, And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd, On all that Fancy trembles to behold. Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled : Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare, Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair ; These o'er the walls your magic skill array 'd, Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, And breathe and move, the records of your power. Inspired of heaven ! what heigh ten'd pomp ye cast O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! Round many a marble fane and classic dome, Asserting still the majesty of Rome Round many a work that bids the world believe What Grecian Art could image and achieve, Again, creative minds, your visions throw Life's chasten'd warmth and Beauty's mellowest glow. And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, Or evening suns illume with purple smile The Parian altar and the pillar'd aisle, Then, as the full or soften'd radiance falls On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, Well may those temples, where your hand has shed Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, That nought of earth should find admittance there, Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown, Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! Hence, ye vain fictions ! fancy's erring theme ! Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime ! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. To her 'twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent ! O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way ; By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep, 1 Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 1 Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell ! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, " Breathed still small " whispers on the midnight gale. There dwelt her spirit there her hand portray'd, Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, Or patriarch-seers absorb'd in sacred thought, Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. But chief to Hun, the Conqueror of the grave, Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, And soul return'd to animate the dead; Whom the waves o wn'd and sunk beneath his eye, Awed by one accent of Divinity ; To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. O'er her bright scenes sublime repose sne threw, As all around the Godhead's presence knew, And robed the Holy One's benignant mien In beaming mercy, majesty serene. Oh ! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine ! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head ; 2 Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude, And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower 'd by that excess of light ! Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, By truth inspired, to elevate the heart ! To bid the soul exultingly possess, Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness ; And, strong in hope, anticipate the day, The last of life, the first of freedom's ray ; To realise, in some unclouded sphere, Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, Faint effluence of " the Dayspring from on high !" [This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818 : " Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again. ... I shall take Felicia Hemans's Restoration, &c., with me it is a good poem very."] 2 The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave. MODERN GREECE. MODERN GREECE. ' O Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, In these hast led the way, in these excell'd, Crown'd with the laurel of assenting Time." THOMSON'S Liberty. OH ! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains ! And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks of time, The print of Glory's parting step retains ; Nor for awhile, in high-wrought dreams, forgot, Musing on years gone by in brightness there, The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye Of sea and heaven hath track'd the blue infinity ] Is there who views with cold unalter'd mien, His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught, Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, "Where Freedom triumph'd, or where Wisdom taught ? Souls that too deeply feel ! oh, envy not The sullen calm your fate hath never known : Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam shone, Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's trace, Glow with the generous flames of every age and race. But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined In the calm school of silent solitude ; Pour'd on his ear, midst groves and glens retired, The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, All that hath lived, while empires have expired, To float for ever on the winds of time ; And on his soul indelibly portray'd Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, A sanctuary of beauty and of light 1 There he may dwell in regions all his own, A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. For him the scenes of old renown possess Komantic charms, all veil'd from other eyes ; There every form of nature's loveliness Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; As music's voice, in some lone mountain dell, From rocks and caves around calls forth each echo's swell. For him Italia's brilliant skies illume The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat- plains, And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom Round Doric Ptestuni's solitary fanes. 1 But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore He feels the fervours of his spirit rise ; Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice of yore Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; And lingers still around the well-known coast, Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost. By seas that flow in brightness as they lave Thy rocks, th' enthusiast rapt in thought may stray, While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave, Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore The free, the conquering, hymn'd by choral strains, How sleep ye now around the silent shore, The lonely realm of ruins and of chains ! How are the mighty vanish'd in their pride ! E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. Hush'd are the Paeans whose exulting tone Swell'd o'er that tide 2 the sons of battle sleep 1 " The Paestan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the singularity of blowing twice a-year, is often mentioned by the classic poets. The wild rose, which now shoots up among the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very high perfume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers both in spring and autumn." SWINBURNE'S Travels in the Two Sicilies. 2 In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it was usual MODERN GREECE. 29 The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice alone Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. Yet when those waves have caught the splendid hues Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse With all their purple mellowness of light, Oh ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were there ? Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh ; Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow, Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky ; Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead, Verdure and flowers in sumrner-bloommay smile, And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile ; And mantling woodbine veil the wither'd tree; And thus it is, fair land ! forsaken Greece, with thee. For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb, The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm. And thou art desolate thy morn hath pass'd ! So dazzling in the splendour of its sway, That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fan-, Thy fate hath been unmatch'd in glory and despair. For thee, lost land ! the hero's blood hath flow'd, The high in soul have brightly lived and died ; For thee the light of soaring genius glow'd O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified. Thine were the minds whose energies sublime So distanced ages in their lightning-race, The task they left the sons of later time Was but to follow their illumined trace. Now, bow'd to earth, thy children, to be free, Must break each link that binds their filial hearts to thee. for the soldiers before the fight to sing a paean, or hymn, to Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo." See POTTER'S Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 155. Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies, 1 To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales, Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. There shall he rest ? Alas ! his hopes in vain Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm : Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, Where patriarchs reign'd of old in pastoral repose. Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, Wears but two forms the tyrant and the slave! There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning wild ; There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword O'er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled ; And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied charms Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms,' 3 The lost descendant of the immortal brave 'i Amidst the wild magnificence of shades That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, In the green depth of thine untrodden glades Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last 1 Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er hath been. There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress'd In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams: 1 The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in his Ilindraire de Paris a Jerusalem " Parvenu au dernier degre" du malheur, le Moralte s'arrache de son pays, et va chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir ! il retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du Jourdain et dans les deserts de Palmyre." 2 In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates his having met with several Greek emigrants who had established them- selves in the woods of Florida. MODERN GREECE. Or where some flood from pine-clad mouutaiu pours Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, The exiled Greek hath fix'd his sylvan home : So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian hunts- man's feet. The forests are around him in their pride, The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide, 1 That images the fairy worlds it laves, And stillness, and luxuriance. O'er his head The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers; And from those green arcades a thousand tones Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- ture's temple moans. And there, no traces left by brighter days For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief ;' Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath mark'd the bouryiless plain With marble records of his fame and power ; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower : Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free. XVTL But doth the exile's heart serenely there In sunshine dwell ] Ah ! when was exile blest 1 When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum- mer air, Chase from his soul the fever of unrest 1 There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, And shrines itself in mental solitude, An uncomplaining and a nameless woe. " La grace est toujours unie a la magnificence dans les scenes de la nature : et tnndis que le courant du milieu en- tralne vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chenes, on voit sur les deux courants latcraux, remonter, le long des rivages des lies flottantes de Pistia et de Ndnuphar, dont les roses jaunes s'elevent comme de petits papillons." Description of the Banks of the Mississippi, CHATEAUBRIAND'S Atala. That coldly smiles midst pleasure'sbrightest ray, As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. Such grief is theirs, who, fix'd on foreign shore, Sigh for the spirit of their native gales, As pines the seaman, midst the ocean's roar, For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells with thee, Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art Though thought and step in western wilds be free, Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart : The deserts spread between, the billows foam, Thou, distant and hi chains, are yet his spirit's home. In vain for him the gay liannes entwine, Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine, As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, Or breathes the freshness of Cithasron's height, Or dreams how softly Athe us' towers would smile, Or Sunium's rums, in the fading light ; On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep, Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' J2geau deep ! What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like thine } (The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine Soft as a vision of remember'd joy. And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, To laughing climes, where all is splendour still; And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel Amidst the tombs of heroes for the brave Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save The land redeein'd and hallow'd by their toil ; And there is language in thy lightest gale, That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring yet their tale. MODERN GREECE. xxn. And he, whose heart is weary of the strife Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, Must turn to thee, whose even- valley teems With proud remembrances that cannot die. Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish'd years. Through that deep solitude be his to stray, By Faun and Oread loved in ages past, Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur vast. Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same Wild, as when sung by bards of elder tune :* Years, that have changed thy river's classic name, 2 Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves, In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves. Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow, 3 1 " Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, and that the phrase, vale of Tempe, is one that depends on poetic fiction The real character of Tempe, though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it. . . . . . To those who have visited St Vincent's rocks, below Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, tlian by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the Avon ; and the channel between the cliffs is equally con- tracted in its dimensions : but these cliffs themselves are much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over the hollow beneath." HOLLAND'S Travels in Albania, SfC. 2 The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria. 3 " Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the Or midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow, Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, As rock and stream some glancing light have caught, And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; And linger oft, recalling many a tale, That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whisper- ing through thy dale. He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose, And trembling nations heard then: doom foretold By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and snows. Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, And silence now the hallow'd haunt possess, Still is the scene of ancient rites august, Magnificent in mountain loneliness ; Still inspiration hovers o'er the ground, Where Greece her councils held, 4 her Pythian victors crown'd. Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood, When by the waves that break on GEta's shore, The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead, 5 Or lone Platsea's ruins yet remain To mark the battle-field of ages fled : Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, grot, and bower. vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards the chasm ; where the surface renders it possible, the sum- mits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow far over the channel of the stream The rocks on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same ; what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of finer quality." HOLLAND'S Travels in Albania, SfC. * The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and autumn at Delphi or Thermopylae, and presided at the Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. * " This spot, (the field of Mantinea,) on which so many brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary and laurels." POUIJUEVILLE'S Travds in Oic Morea. MODERN GREECE. Oh ! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell Where mortal worth has hallow'd grove or stream, To sway the heart with some ennobling spell ; For mightiest minds have felt their blest control In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul, And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal 1 Yet many a sad reality is there, That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil. Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air, But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene Deep as the brooding torpor of repose That follows where the earthquake's track hath been ; Or solemn calm on Ocean's breast that lies, When sinks the storm, and death has hush'd the seamen's cries. Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl'd By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, Doom'd to resign the homage of a world, For Pity's deepest sigh and saddest tear 1 Oh ! hast thou watch'd the awful wreck of mind That weareth still a glory in decay ? Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind Thought, science, genius to the storm a prey; And o'er the blasted tree, the wither'd ground, Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly nourish round ? So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck thought, On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought, So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime. There the proud monuments of Valour's name, The mighty works Ambition piled on high, The rich remains by Art bequeath'd to Fame Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength,and symmetry, Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish'd there ! There, while around lie mingling in the dust The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er> grown, The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust. The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone Amidst the loneliness of shatter'd fanes, Still matchless monuments of other years O'er cypress groves or solitary plains, Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears : As on some captive city's min'd wall The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall. Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste Spreads the chill blight ; as in that orient islo Where the dark upas taints the gale around, 1 Within its precincts not a flower may smile, Xor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground ; Xor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light O'er conquer'd realms, in ages pass'd away ; Full and alone it beam'd, intensely bright, While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and shades, Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers : Its sculptured lions, 2 richly wrought arcades, Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the gale. Then fostcr'd genius lent each caliph's throne Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 1 For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, set the notes to DARWIN'S Botanic Garden. 2 " The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that called the court of the Lions ; it is ornamented with sixty elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called the Arabian order But its principal ornament, and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon's temple." BURGOA.VNE'S Travels in Spain. MODERN GREECE. 33 And stars unnumber'd o'er the orient shone, JBright as that Pleiad, sphered in Mecca's fane. 1 From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound, And Science, woo'd on Egypt's burning plains, Rear'd her majestic head -with glory crown'd ; And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. XXXV. Those years have past in radiance they have past, As sinks the daystar in the tropic main ; His parting beams no soft reflection cast, They burn are quench'd and deepest shadows reign. And Fame and Science have not left a trace In tho vast regions of the Moslem's power, Regions, to intellect a desert space, A wild without a fountain or a flower, Where towers Oppression midst the deepening glooms, As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the tombs. Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia pour'd Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall ; When Europe sheath'd, in apathy, her sword, And heard unmoved the fated city's call. Ko bold crusaders ranged their serried line Of spears and banners round a falling throne ; And thou, last and noblest Constantino ! 2 Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. Oh ! blest to die in freedom, though in vain Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not the chain ! Hush'd is Byzantium 'tis the dead of night The closing night of that imperial race ! 3 And all is vigil but the eye of light Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 1 " Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes Ara- Mques sont designes par les ^crivains orientaux sous le noru de Pkiade Arabiqitf, et leurs ouvrages e"taient suspendus autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque." SISMO.VDI, Literature du Midi. - " The distress andiail of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Csesars." GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 226. 3 See the description of the night previous to the taking of Constantinople by Mahomet II. GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 225. There is a murmuring stillness on the train Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die ; And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane, For the last tune is raised Devotion's eye ; And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise, There kneels the high-soul'd prince, the summon'd of the skies. Day breaks in light and glory 'tis the hour Of conflict and of fate the war-note calls Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel , Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float j From camp and wave rush on the Crescent's host, And the Seven Towers 4 are scaled, and all is won and lost. Then, Greece ! the tempest rose that burston thee, Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! Oh ! where were then thy sons, the great, the free, Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age ? Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows, And bright the memory of thy days of pride, In mountain might though Corinth's fortress rose, On, unresisted, roll'd th' invading tide ! Oh ! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- quer'd power. XL. Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless might Preserved inviolate their awful fane, 5 When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's height, In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's tram 1 Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake, Call the dread storms to darken round their towers, Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break ; 1 " This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers i is men- tioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople ; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the last periods of the empire." POL-QI-EVILLE'S Travels in the Morea. 5 See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural de- fence of Delphi. MITFORD'S Greece, vol. i. p. 396-7. 34 MODERN GREECE. Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus rang. Where was the spirit of the victor-throng Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, Whose names are bright in everlasting song, The lords of war, the praised, the deified 1 Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, Who from the dead at Marathon arose 1 All arm'd ; and beaming on the Athenians' gaze, A battle-meteor, guided to their foes 1 Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck eye, 2 Hovering o'er Athens, blazed in airy panoply ? XLTL Ye slept, heroes ! chief ones of the earth ! 3 High demigods of ancient days ! ye slept : There lived no spark of your ascendant worth When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept. No patriot then the sons of freedom led, In mountain pass devotedly to die ; The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled, And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy ; And by your graves, and on your battle-plains, Warriors ! your children knelt to wear the stran- ger's chains. XLm. Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce remain E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar, The halls that echo'd to their sounds are gone, Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war 4 " In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a consider- able part of the army thought they saw the apparition of The- seus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon the barbarians." LANGHORXE'S Plutarch, Life ofTheseut. s " From Thermopyle to Sparta, the leader of the Goths (Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering any mortal antagonist ; but one of the advocates of expiring paganism lias confidently asserted that the walls of Athens were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable aegis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities of Greece." GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c. voL v. p. 183. '' Even all the chief ones of the earth." ISAIAH, sir. "How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished ! " SAMUEL, book ii. chap. L And if a mossy stone your names retain, 'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands, That with those names tradition hallows yet, Oft shall the wandering son of other lands Linger in solemn thought and hush'd regret. And still have legends mark'd the lonely spot Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies ; And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again, Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory's reign. Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains : Oh ! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, And many a chief of old illustrious line, Yield not one spirit of unconquer'd worth To kindle those that now in bondage pine ? No ! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, And terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaints were death. Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, How rich in charms were that romantic clime, With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair, And wall'd with mountains, haughtily sublime ! Heights that might well be deem'd the Muses' reign, Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain Meet home for those retired divinities That love, where nought of earth may e'er intrude, Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. XLVH. There in rude grandeur daringly ascends Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height ; He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure bright. "W ild and august in consecrated pride, There through the deep-blue heaven Olympug towere, Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; MODERN GREECE. 35 Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would roam ; She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, And make the rocky fastnesses her home. And in the rushing of the mountain flood, In the wild eagle's solitary cry, In sweeping winds that peal through cave and wood, There is a voice of stern sublimity, That swells her spirit to a loftier mood Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. But from those hills the radiance of her smile Hath vanish'd long, her step hath fled afar ; O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused a while, 1 Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war. And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there, Still brightest midst privation : o'er distress It cast romantic splendour, and despair But fann'd that beacon of the wilderness ; And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to swell. Dark children of the hills ! 'twas then ye wrought Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; As midst your craggy citadels ye fought, And women mingled with your warrior band. Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood 2 High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave, And hurl'd, in dread delirium, to the flood Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. For all was lost all, save the power to die The wild indignant death of savage liberty. Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days, With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 1 For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote warfare with Ali 1'asha, see HOLLAND'S Travels in Albania. 2 " It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy." HOLLAND'S Travels, &c. And the dread struggle's fearful memory stiL O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws : Sheds darker shadows o'er the frovraing hill, More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. For stillness now the stillness of the dead Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene ; And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, What race may rove, unconscious of the chain ? Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again : Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, The children of her sons inherit but their name. Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes ! In scatter'd fragments o'er the vale they lie ; Of all they were not e'en, enough remains To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 3 Birth-place of those whose nameswefirst revered In song and story temple of the free ! thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, Are such thy relics, and can this be thee ? Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, And e'en in ruin claim'd the wonder of mankind. For thine were spirits cast in other mould Than all beside and proved by ruder test ; They stood alone the proud, the firm, the bold, With the same seal indelibly imprest. Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race, In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace ; As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower. Such were thy sons their life a battle-day ! Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! Closed is that task, and they have passed away Like softer beings train'd to aims less high. 3 The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by travellers as very striking. MODERN GREECE. Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, True to their shields, the champions of thy cause, Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell How died the brave, obedient to thy laws I 1 O lofty mother of heroic worth, How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth? Hadst thou but perish'd with the free, nor known A second race, when glory's noon went by, Then had thy name in single brightness shone A watchword on the helm of liberty ! Thou shouldst have pass'd with all the light of fame, And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame, And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves. K"ow all is o'er for thee alike are flown Freedom's bright noon and slavery's twilight cloud ; And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. Home of Leonidas ! thy halls are low ; From their cold altars have thy Lares fled ; O'er thee, unmark'd, the sunbeams fade or glow, And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread ; And midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound. Taygetus still lifts his awful brow High o'er the mouldering city of the dead, Sternly sublime ; while o'er his robe of snow Heaven's floating tints their warm suffusions spread. And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain ; While, whispering there, his own wild graceful reeds Rise as of old, when hail'd by classic strain ; 1 The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan monument in the pass of Thermopylae has been thus trans- lated : ' Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians tliat we have obeyed their laws, and that we lie here." There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave, 2 And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's grave. Oh, thus it is with man ! A tree, a flower, While nations perish, still renews its race, And o'er the fallen records of his power Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. The laurel shoots when those have pass'd away. Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay, The myrtle blows -when love hath ceased to be ; Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled, And all that round us blooms is blooming o'er the dead. LX. And still the olive spreads its foliage round Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries crown'd, Deem'd a meet offering for celestial powers. The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ; 3 They waved around the Olympic victor's head ; And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd bier o'erspread. Those rites have vanish'd but o'er vale and hill Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd still. 4 Where now thy shrines, Eleusis ! where thy fane Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high 1 The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, The long procession's awful pageantry ] Quench'd is the torch of Ceres 5 all around Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign ; There never more shall choral hymns resound O'er the hush'd earth and solitary mam, 3 " In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tube- roses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis." POUQUEVILLE'S Travels in the Morea. 3 It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound with wool. * The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with veneration by the people of the Morea. 5 It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the festival, for men and women to run about with torches in their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Ceres, and to contend who should present the largest. This was done in memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, dur- ing which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of Etna. PORTER'S Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392. MODERN GREECE. 37 Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. And oh, ye secret and terrific powers ! Dark oracles ! in depth of groves that dwelt, How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, Where Superstition trembled as she knelt ! Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made The elements your voice, the wind and wave ; Spirits ! whose influence darken'd many a shade, Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! How long your power the awe-struck nations sway'd, How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey'd ! And say, what marvel, in those early days, While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not, If man around him cast a fearful gaze, Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot ? Awful is nature hi her savage forms, Her solemn voice commanding in its might, And mystery then was in the rush of storms, The gloom of woods, the majesty of night ; And mortals heard Fate's language in the blast, And rear d your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past ! Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh But with prophetic sound a waving tree, A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, A bird's wild flight reveal'd the things to be. All spoke of unseen natures, and convey'd Their inspiration ; still they hover'd round, Hallow'd the temple, whisper'd through the shade, Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; Of them the fount, the forest, murmur d still, Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on the hill Now is the train of Superstition flown ! Unearthly beings walk on earth no more ; The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave, There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep ; Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave, 1 That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. 1 The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercy- Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime! But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time ! LXVI. Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams ; Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, Her vales, that foster'd Art's divinest dreams ! But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, And all around pervading influence pour'd, That lent the harp of ^Eschylus its tone, And proudly hallow'd Lacedsemon's sword, And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, With them its ardours lived with them its light is flown. Thebes, Corinth, Argos ! ye renown'd of old, Where are your chiefs of high romantic name 1 How soon the tale of ages may be told ! A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, The work of centuries. We gaze on you, cities ! once the glorious and the free, The lofty tales that charm'd our youth renew, And wondering ask, if these their scenes could be) Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb, And find the mosque alone a record of their doom ! How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour'd, Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales ? 2 There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword, And banners floated on the balmy gales. Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas ; On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke : Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow'd beneath the yoke. LXIX. And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats Far other sounds have echo'd than the strain nian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained. See HOLLAND'S Travels. 2 Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies marching through it delivered up their weapons, and reeeirsd them again when they had passed its boundary. MODERN GREECE. Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain ! There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, On his green banks renew'd, the classic dance, And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious lays, Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, and dell. But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; Who, as the summit of some Alpine height Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light, 1 And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; Oh ! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream. Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail Wake at her call be all thou wert once more ! Hark ! hymns of triumph swell on every gale Lo ! bright processions move along thy shore ; Again thy temples, midat the olive-shade, Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies ; And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly mien, In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright Again renew'd by Thought's creative spells, In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : Within, around, the light of glory dwells On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. There marble fanes in finish'd grace ascend, The pencil's world of life and beauty glows ; Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 1 " We are assured by Thueydides that Attica was the province of Greece in which population first became settled, and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation." MITFORD'S Greece, vol. i. p. 35. Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, 2 On summer seas that undulating lave Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand ; That pictured scene of airy colonnades, Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest, Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast ; Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears, As Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. Still be that cloud withdrawn oh ! mark on high, Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, That fane, august in perfect symmetry, The purest model of Athenian taste. Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise In simple dignity, thy marble's hue Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue ; And art o'er all thy light proportions throws The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold Each latent grace, developing in light ; Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold, Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems, While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with its beams. 2 Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose account is quoted by Swinburne : " On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at my window, with a most wonderful spectacle : the" sea that washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thou- sands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades, like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly alike ; these again changed into towers, which were shortly after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees." SWI.VBURXE'S Travels in the Two Sit it ift. MODERN GREECE. 39 But oh ! what words the vision may portray, The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine ] There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array, Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! With spear and helm she stands, and flowing vest, And sculptured fegis, to perfection wrought ; And on each heavenly lineament imprest, Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought The pure intelligence, the chaste repose All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still Through time's deep shadows all thy splendour trace, And in each work of art's consummate skill Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race : That spirit, roused by every proud reward That hope could picture, glory could bestow, Foster'd by all the sculptor and the bard Could give of immortality below. Thus were thy heroes form'd, and o'er their name, Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. Mark in the throng'd Ceramicus, the train Of mourners weeping o'er the martyr 'd brave : Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, Holy the amaranth strew'd upon their grave ! l And hark ! unrivalTd eloquence proclaims Their deeds, their trophies, with triumphant voice ! Hark ! Pericles records their honour'd names ! a Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : What hath life brighter than so bright a doom? What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the tomb! 1 All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorn- ing tombs ; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decor- ated the tomb of Achilles. POTTER'S Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 232. 2 Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained him great applause ; and when he came down from the ros- trum the women paid their respects to him, and presented him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned victorious from the lists. LANOHORXE'S Plutarch, Life of Pericles. LXXIX. Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art Exhaust her skill, then: triumphs bodying forth ; Theirs are enshrined names, and eveiy heart Shall bear the blazon'd impress of their worth. Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall rise, Their fields of fight shall epic song record ; And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, Their name shall be their country's rallying word ! While fane and column rise august to tell How Athens honours those for her who proudly felL City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind, Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Thus hallow'd by the memory of the dead : Alone in beauty and renown a scene Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest ray. 'Tis but a vision now yet thou hast been More than the brightest vision might portray ; And every stone, with but a vestige fraught Of -thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty thought. Fall'n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung To choral melodies and tragic lore ; Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, The song that hail'd Harmodius peals no more. Thy proud Piraeus is a desert strand, Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their hill, Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand, The magic voice of eloquence is still ; Minerva's veil is rent 3 her image gone ; Silent the sage's bower the warrior's tomb o'er- thrown. 3 The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival ; and it was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, and consecrated to Minerva. tree CHANDLER'S Travelt, STUART'S Athens, <$<;. MODERN GREECE. Yet in decay thine exquisite remains Wondering we view, and silently revere, As traces left on earth's forsaken plains By vanish'd beings of a nobler sphere ! Not all the old magnificence of Rome, All that dominion there hath left to time Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal, As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal. Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, Palmyra rises, desolately grand Though with rich gold ' and massy sculpture graced, Commanding still, Persepolis may stand In haughty solitude though sacred Nile The first-born temples of the world surveys, And many an awful and stupendous pile Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays ; City of Pericles ! oh who, like thee, Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may be? Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere "Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence didst bear, Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. And still to thee th' enlighten'd mind hath flown As to her country, thou hast been to earth A cynosure, and, e'en from victory's throne, Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; And nations, rising to their fame afar, Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. Glory to those whose relics thus arrest The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! For they, they only, could have thus imprest Their mighty image on the years to be ! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot, To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Of high-soul'd genius is th' unrivaU'd lot Honour to thee, Athens ! thou hast shown What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. 1 The pildine amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, accord- ing to Winckelmann, in high preservation. LXXXVI. Oh ! live there those who view with scornful eyes All that attests the brightness of thy prime ? Yes ; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, Their homes are midst theworks of noblest arts; Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, Where Genius first reveal'd the triumphs of his hand ! For them in vain the glowing light may smile O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to shed, And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. Xo patriot feeling binds them to the soil, Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not rear'd ; Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil But to destroy what ages have revered As if exulting sternly to erase Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a nobler race. And who may grieve that, rescued from theii hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart Though now no more th' exploring stranger's sight, Fix'd in deep reverence on Minerva's fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain'd of forms adored in vain ; A few short years and, vanish'd from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had ! been. Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep In all their beauty still and thine is gone ! Empires haw sunk since thou wert first revered, And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd Thy walls ; and thou their fate must soon ba thine ! MODERN GREECE. But when shall earth again exult to see Visions divine like theirs renew'd in aught like theel Lone are thy pillars now each passing gale Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale Of the bright synod once above them throned. Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill, Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared : Yet art thou honour'd in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had spared ; Each hallow'd stone, from rapine's fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet un- born. Yes ! in those fragments, though by time defaced And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm th' enlighten'd eye of taste, On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, E'en thus th' essential energy of art There in each wreck imperishably glows ! x The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, The holy festival's triumphal throng, In fair procession to Minerva's fane, With many a sacred symbol, move along. There every shade of bright existence trace, The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; The matron's calm austerity of grace, The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud mien Each ray of beauty caught and mingled hi the scene. Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, 3 Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 1 " In the most broken fragment, the same great principle of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure," is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin Marbles. 2 " Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and mas- terly skill." CANOVA'S Letter to the Earl of Elgin. There e'enthe steed, withhold expression warm, 3 Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole ; Those varied groups the same bright impress bear; One beam and essence of exalting soul Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair; And well that pageant of the glorious dead Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain The subtle graces, fading as they rise, Eternalise expression's fleeting reign, Arrest warm life in all its energies, And fix them on the stone thy glorious lot Might wake ambition's envy, and create Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish'd fate! And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a name on earth. Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere But once beheld, and never to return ] No we may hail again thy bright career, Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- new'd A light inherent let not man despair : Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine. 4 Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 3 Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's head in Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian sculpture, thus proceeds: " We feel the same, when we view the young equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are in- sensibly carried on with the impression that they and their horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when they were converted into marble." WEST'S Second Letter to Lord Elgin. * Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly im- proved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion is not singular because works of such prime importance as the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents of the artist. See the Evidence tjiven in reply to Interroga- tories from the Committee on the Elgin Marblet. 42 MODERN GREECE. Their virtual grandeur could not be erased ; It clothes them still, though veil'd from com- mon eyes. They once \vere gods and heroes 1 and beheld As the blest guardians of their native scene ; And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell'd With awe that own'd their sovereignty of mien. Ages have vanish'd since those hearts were cold, And still those shatter'd forms retain their god- like mould. Midst their bright kindred, from their marble throne They have look'd down on thousand storms of time; Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown, They still remain'd, still tranquilly sublime ! Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr'd. The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard ; But these were destined to a nobler lot ! And they have borne, to light another land, The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- pand. Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but thine, Inhuman works thus blending earth and heaven, O'er nature's truth had spread that grace divine, To mortal form immortal grandeur given ] What soul but thine, infusing all its power In these last monuments of matchless days, Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower, And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ; And guide deep Thought to that secluded height Where excellence is throned in purity of light ? And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, Caught from these models, may illume the west? What British Angelo may rise to fame, 3 On the free isle what beams of art may rest 1 1 The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, " because there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other more celebrated statues." See The Evidence, %c. 2 " Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated speci- men of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence Deem not, England ! that by climes confined, Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ; 3 Deem not the eternal energies of mind Sway'd by that sun whose doom is but decay ! Shall thought be foster'd but by skies serene ] No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath been. But thine are treasures oft unprized, unknown, , And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, O'er whose young ardours had thy smile but shone, Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! And many a gifted hand, that might have wrought To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, Or each pure grace of Eaphael's pencil caught, Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and thus lost Yet rise, Land, in all but art alone ! Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! Fame dwells around thee Genius is thine own ; Call his rich blooms to life be thou their sun ! So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep, Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, Nations unborn shall track thine own blue deep To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious race ! " might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned the temple of Minerva at Athens ? " WEST'S Second Letter to Lord Elgin. 3 In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, Montesquieu, &c., with regard to the inherent obstacles in the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts. See HOARE'S Epochs of the Arts, p. 84, 85. EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. Blacktcood's Mayazine. " In our reviews of poetical pro- ductions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us" a task at once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition of another poem on a kindred subject, " The Restoration of the TRANSLA TIONS. 43 TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHEE POETS. " Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl'ingesni o gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all' utilita. L'Agricoltura, Is Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dl novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi ; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand' altri v'aspira con piu giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile." SAVIOLI. SONNET 70. " Na metade do ceo subido ardia." HIGH in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, The sun had reach'd the zenith of his reign, And for the living fount, the gelid stream, Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, The birds had shelter'd from the scorching ray ; Hush'd were their melodies and grove and glade Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay : When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain, To seek the maid who but despised his pain, Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved : " Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, " By whom thou art not loved ] " and thus replied An echo's murmuring voice "Thou art not loved/" Works of Art to Italy" namely, Mrs Ilemans of North Wales. That the author's fame has not altogether kept pace with her merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the reading public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems to have had enough ; and, excepting always that portion of it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own in- trinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all. " But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the table. But this is no proof that these great poets have for- feited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers ; and poetry, high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease to pay ; and SONNET 282. FROM PSALM CXXXTII. " Na ribeira de Euprates assentado." WRAPT in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream I sat, retracing days for ever flown, While rose thine image on the exile's dream, much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone : When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, Thus to their captive spoke "Why sleep thy lays? Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, And all thy triumphs in departed days ! Know'st thou not Harmony's resistless charm Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm ] Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." With sighs I answer'd, " When the cup of woe Is fill'd, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, The mourner's cure is not to sing but die." although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler incense of the latter will ever be its reward. " Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentimenteand feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and passed almost unnoticed by the multitude. "With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly con- trasted ancient with modern Greece. " The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome ; and nothing can be more spirited than the passages in which the author invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most cele- brated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our extracts may be limited." Edinburgh Monthly Review. " The grand act of retribu- tion the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre occa- sioned Mrs Ilemans' first publication. " Modern Greece "next appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her strength." 44 TRANSLA TIONS. PART OF ECLOGUE 15. " Se 14 no assento da maior alteza." IF in thy glorious home above Thou still recallest earthly love, If yet retain'd a thought may be Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; Eemember still how deeply shrined Thine image in his joyless mind: Each well-known scene, each former care, Forgotten thou alone art there ! Remember that thine eye-beam's light Hath fled for ever from his sight, And, with that vanish'd sunshine, lost Is every hope he cherish'd most. Think that his life, from thee apart, Is all but weariness of heart; Each stream, whose music once was dear, Now murmurs discord to his ear. Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays Woke him to joy in other days, Now, in the light of beauty drest, Brings but new sorrows to his breast. Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, The sun's meridian blaze is dun; And harsh were e'en the bird of eve, But that her song still loves to grieve. All it hath been, his heart forgets, So alter 'd by its long regrets ; Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, And joy's light spirit wakes no more. SONNET 271. " A formosura desta fresca serra." Tmsmountain-scene with sylvan grandeur crown'd, These chestnut -woods, in summer verdure bright ; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray ; This clime, where all is new ; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze ; And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne'er in thy absence can delight my breast : Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles : And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. SONNET 186. " Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia." THOSE eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow; The rich redundance of that golden hair, Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, Where now those treasures 1 mouldering into clay ! Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn, Touch'd by the hand that gathers but to blight ! Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears ! Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless night ! SONNET 108. " Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando." FAIR Tajo ! thou whose calmly-flowing tide Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide, Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nympha and swains. Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I mourn, I have no hope to meliorate my pain, No dream that whispers I may yet return ! My frowning destiny, whose watchful care Forbids me blessings and ordains despair, Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, And blendmy tears with other waves than thine! TRANSLATIONS. 45 SONNET 23. TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. " Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao." Taou to whoso power my hopes, my joys I gave, fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair ! Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, Dark o'er thy head th' eternal billows roll ; But while one ray of life or thought is mine, Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. And if the tones of my uncultured song Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure ; Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure. SONNET 19. " Alma minha gentil, que te partiste." SPIRIT beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, How is yon Heaven eternally thine own, Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here ! Oh ! if allow'd hi thy divine abode Of aught on earth an image to retain, Remember still the fervent love which glow'd In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. And if thou deem'd that all my faithful grief, Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! Oh ! ask of Heaven, which call'd thee soon away, That I may join thee in those realms of day, Swiftly as thou hast vanish'd from mine eyes. " Que estranbo caso de amor ! " How strange a fate in love is mine ! How dearly prized the pains I feel ! Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, With avarice I conceal : For did the world the tale divine, My lot would then be deeper woe And mine is grief that none must know. To mortal ears I may not dare Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 'Twould plunge in ruin and despair Or me, or her I love. My soul delights alone to bear Her silent, unsuspected woe, And none shall pity, none shall know. Thus buried in my bosom's urn, Thus in my inmost heart conceal'd, Let me alone the secret mourn, In pangs unsoothed and unreveal'd. For whether happiness or woe, Or life or death its power bestow, It is what none on earth must know. SONNET 58. " Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata." SHOULD Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart Yet long enough protract his votary's days To see the lustre from those eyes depart, The lode-stars 1 now that fascinate my gaze ; To see rude Time the living roses blight That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; Oh ! then thy heart an equal change will prove, And mourn the coldness that repell'd my love, When tears and penitence will all be vain ; And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. SONNET 178. " Jd cantei, jd chorei a dura guerra." OFT have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woes Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, While he the tale forbade me to disclose, That taught his votaries their deluded state. 1 " Your eyes are lode-stars." SHAKSPEARE. 4 6 TRANSLA TIONS. Nymphs ! who dispense Castalia's living stream, Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal, Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, May hear experience breathe a warning lay How false his smiles, his promises how vain ! Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre, For ever hush'd, shall slumber in your fane. SOXXET 80. " Co:no quando do mar tempestuoso." SAVED from the perils of the stormy wave, And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, Trembles to hear its horrors named again. How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien No more shall lure him from the smiles of home ! Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free : But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, Still draws me back where countless perils reign, And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. SOXXET 239. FROM PSALM CXXXVH. " Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando." BESIDE the streams of Babylon, in tears Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, hallow'd Sion ! and the vanish'd years, When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, Our foes demanded from their captive band. " How shall our voices, on a foreign shore," (We answer'd those whose chains the exile wore,) " The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? If I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, Thee, Jerusalem ! my native soil ! May my right luind forget its cunning too /" SOXNET 128. " Iluma admiravel herva se conbece." THERE blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power, And most expands when most her idol burns : But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour'd weep, Still fondly pining for the vanish'd ray. Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight ! When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, Bom but to live within thine eye-beam's powen " Polomeu apartamento." AMIDST the bitter tears that fell In anguish at my last farewell, Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell, To make that moment bright 1 Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say, Which then could most my bosom sway, Affliction or delight 1 It was when Hope, oppress'd with woes, Seem'd her dim eyes in death to close, That rapture's brightest beam arose In sorrow's darkest night. Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 'Tis that my fate o'ercame the power Of anguish with delight. For oh ! her love, so long unknown, She then confess'd was all my own, And in that parting hour alone Reveal'd it to my sight. And now what pangs will rend my soul, Should fortune still, with stern control, Forbid me this delight ! I know not if my bliss were vain, For all the force of parting pain Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, When exiled from her sight : Yet now what double woe for me, Just at the close of eve, to see The dayspring of delight ! TRA NSLA TIONS. 47 SONNET 205. " Quern diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso." HE who proclaims that Love is light and vain, Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways, Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, Too justly finds him all he thus portrays : For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. Believe not him who dares the tale oppose ; Oh ! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! Here let the world his utmost rigour see, His utmost power exerted to annoy : But all his ire is still the ire of love ; And such delight in all his woes I prove, I would not change their pangs for aught of other joy. SONNET 133. " Doces e claras aguas do Mondego." WAVES of Mondego ! brilliant and serene, Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly strays, Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; Yes, I forsake your banks ! but still my heart Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, And, suffering not one image to depart, Find lengthening distance but endear you more. Let Fortune's will, through many a future day, To distant realms this mortal frame convey, Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ; Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, On thought's light pinion still shall fly to you, And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. SONNET 181. " Onde acharei lugar tao apartado." WHERE shall I find some desert-scene so rude, Where loneliness so undisturb'd may reign, That not a step shall ever there intrude Of roving man, or nature's savage train Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom ] That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with grief Entomb'd in life, and hopeless of relief, In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. For oh ! since nought my sorrows can allay, There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. SONNET 278. " Eu vivia de lagrimas isento." EXEMPT from every grief, 'twas mine to live In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, A thousand joys propitious Love can give Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine. Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power ; No care intruding to disturb my breast, I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower : But Fate, such transports eager to destroy, Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, And bade the phantoms of delight begone : Bade hope and happiness at once depart, And left but memory to distract my heart, Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. " Mi nueve y duke querella." No searching eye can pierce the veil That o'er my secret love is thrown ; No outward signs reveal its tale, But to my bosom known. Thus, like the spark whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight, It dwells within, alone. METASTASIO. " Dunque si sfoga in pianto." IN tears, the heart oppress'd with grief Gives language to its woes ; In tears, its fulness finds relief, When rapture's tide o'erflows ! TRANSLATIONS. "Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek On this terrestrial sphere ; When e'en Delight can only speak, Like Sorrow in a tear ] " Al furor d'avversa Sorte." HE shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien, Xor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a trying scene, To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued. In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, Xursed and matured, the pilot learns his art : Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms The lofty spirit and enduring heart ! " Quella onda che ruina." THE torrent wave, that breaks with force Impetuous down the Alpine height, Complains and struggles in its course, But sparkles, as the diamond bright. The stream in shadowy valley deep May slumber in its narrow bed ; But silent, in unbroken sleep, Its lustre and its life are fled. " Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie." SWEET rose ! whose tender foliage to expand Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann'd, And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread : That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground, To brighter worlds thy favour'd charms hath borne ; Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown'd, There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn. Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower ! Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, Sheltered with tcndercst care from frost or shower, And each rough season's chill vicissitude, Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. " Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine." FORTUNE ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these] Think'st thou that 7 thy threatening mien shall dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ] Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway ! My constant soul should triumph unsubdued, Were the wide universe destruction's prey. Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried ? Xo ! I have long thine utmost power defied, And drawn fresh energies from every fight Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper'd steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright. " Parlagli d'un periglio." WOULDST thou to Love of danger speak] Veil'd are his eyes, to perils blind ! Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek ? He is a child of wayward mind ! But with a doubt, a jealous fear, Inspire him once the task is o'er ; His mind is keen, his sight is clear, Xo more an infant, bund no more. " Sprezza il furor del vento." UXBEXDIXG midst the wintry skies, Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stern in rugged strength, defies The rushing of the storm. Then sever'd from his native shore, O'er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before, He proudly struggles there. " Sol pu6 dir che sia contento." OH ! those alone whose sever'd hearts Have mourn'd through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, When Fate unites them once again. TRAXSLA TIOXS. 49 Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, Whose language hails that moment bright, When past afflictions but endear The presence of delight ! " Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle ! " AH ! cease those fruitless tears restrain ! I go misfortune to defy, To smile at fate with proud disdain, To triumph not to die ! I with fresh laurels go to crown My closing days at last, Securing all the bright renown Acquired in dangers past. YINCENZO DA FILICAJA. " Italia ! Italia ! O tu cui die la sorte." ITALIA ! O Italia ! thou, so graced With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien ; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine ! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bitter- ness! Not then would foreign hosts have drain'd the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed : Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd, Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine ! And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, "Hail! thouyhin ruins, thou, icert ne'er in chains!" LOPE DE VEGA. " Zstese el cortesano." LET the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare ; Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air ; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign'd ; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth. Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend, At Grandeur's altar to attend, Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless crown ! Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure ; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain. PASTORINI. " Geneva mia ! se con asciutto ciglio." IF thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye, Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold ; But know I deem rebellious every sigh ! Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might ! And in each trace of devastation's way, [sight. Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering FRANCISCO MANUEL. OX ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. " Xo bases temeroso, o peregrine !" PAUSE not with lingering foot, pilgrim ! here , Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight ; Pause not, but tread this consecrated road 'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. TRANSLA TIONS. Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides and wilt thou linger still] Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life. BELLA CASA. " Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte." THESE marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, They sought these island precincts to be free. Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless breast: Oh ! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay, O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest! IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. " L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso." THE sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour'd sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest ! But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest. QUEVEDO. HOME BURIED IN HER OWN " Buscas en Roma a Roma, o peregrino ! " AMIDST these scenes, pilgrim ! seek'st thou Rome] Vain is thy search the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other day?, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower 'd sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave, Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem'd for years eternal framed to last : Nought but the wave a fugitive, remains. EL COXDE JUAN DE TARSIS. " Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos." THOU, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs To shun the midnight perils of the main Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh ! how shouldst tliou the exulting pjean raise, Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze ! TORQUATO TASSO. " Xegli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." THOU in thy morn wert like a glowing rose To the mild sunshine only half display Yl, That shunn'd its bashful graces to disclose, And hi its veil of verdure sought a shade : TRANS LA TIONS. Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,) Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade ; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. BERNARDO TASSO. " Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole." THIS green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play'd, Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade ; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair ! A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free. PETRARCH. " Chi vuol veder quantunque pu6 natura." THOU that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind : And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long, First calls the brightest and the best away ; And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental grace, In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze : But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. " Se lamentar angelli, o verdi fronde." IF to the sighing breeze of summer hours Bend the greenleaves; if mourns aplaintive bird; Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with flowers, The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear : though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. "Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) "While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless ; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to close ! " VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. " O Muerte ! que sueles ser." THOU, the stern monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, Death ! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; The pangs that bid existence close, Ah ! sure are far less keen than those Which cloud its lingering moments with despair. FRANCESCO LORENZIXI. " O Zefiretto, che movendo vai." of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions light Wave gently round the tree I planted here, Sacred to her whose soul hath wing'd its flight To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour ; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, TRANS LA TIONS. Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind, Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free ! GESNER. MORNING SONa " Willkommen, frulie morgensonn." HAIL ! morning sun, thus early bright ; Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day ! Through the dark woods that fringe the height, Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, Bright on the water's glittering fall, And life, and joy, and health appear, Sweet Morning ! at thy call. Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring From beds of fragrance, where they lay, And roving wild on dewy wing, Drive slumber far away. Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, Now from each mind withdraw their spell ; While the young loves delighted meet, On Rosa's cheek to dwell. Speed, zephyr ! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; Then whig thy way to Rosa's bower, Ere her light sleep is flown. There, o'er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day ; Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o'er her bosom play ; And whisper, when her eyes unveil, That I, since morning's earliest call, Have sigh'd her name to ev'ry gale By the lone waterfall. GERMAN SONG. " Madchen, lernet Amor kennen." LISTEN, fair maid ! my song shall tell How Love may still be known full well- His looks the traitor prove. Dost thou not see that absent smile, That fiery glance replete with guile 1 Oh ! doubt not then 'tis Love. When varying still the sly disguise, Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, Or with complaint would move ; To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, Changing each hour, he knows not why, Oh ! doubt not then 'tis Love. There's magic in his every wile, His lips, well practised to beguile, Breathe roses when they move ; See ! now with sudden rage he burns, Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. Oh ! doubt not then 'tis Love. He comes, without the bow and dart, That spare not e'en the purest heart ; His looks the traitor prove ; That glance is fire, that mien is guile, Deceit is lurking in that smile Oh ! trust him not 'tis Love ! CHAULIEU. " Grotte, d'oii sort ce clair ruisseau." THOU grot, whence flows this limpid spring, Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, Still bid its voice of murmurs bring Peace to my musing hours. Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me The dayspring of existence rose, Soon shall my dust return to thee, And midst my sires repose. Muses ! that watch'd my childhood's morn, Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye- Fair trees ! that here beheld me born, Soon shall ye see me die. GARCILASO DE VEGA. " Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera." ENJOY the sweets of life's luxuriant May Ere envious Age is hastening on his way TRANSLA TIONS. 53 With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow ; The rose will fade when storms assail the year, And Time, who changeth not his swift career, Constant in this, will change all else below ! LORENZO DE MEDICI. " Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti." WE come not, fair one ! to thy hand of snow From the soft scenes by Culture's hand array 'd; Not rear'd in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade ! There once, as Venus wander' d, lost in woe, To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood, Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk'd below With print relentless drew celestial blood ! Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes ; We were not foster'd in our shadowy vales By guided rivulets or summer gales Our dew and air have been Love's balmy tears and sighs ! PINDEMONTE. ON THE HEBE OP CANOVA. " Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi ? " WHITHER, celestial maid, so fast away ? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies 'i How canst thou leave thy native realms of day For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs 1 O thou, Canova ! soaring high above Italian art with Grecian magic vying ! We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying ? Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace. [A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, " Lays of many Lands." At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The "graceful superstitions" of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influ- ence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period such as " The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," " Modern Greece," and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled " Tales and Historic Scenes." " Apart from all intercourse," says Delta, " with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional corre- spondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circum- stances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popu- larity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which . appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject ; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron ; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation : the reputation which, through years of silant study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked for- ward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivo- cally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world ; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens ; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career." Biographical Sketch, prefixed to Poetical Remains, 1836. In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans' career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations : " At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classi- cal, and highly polished ; but it wanted warmth : it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her me- mory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ' loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.' " Athenaum, Feb. 1831.] 54 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. LINES WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. WANDERER ! would thy heart forget Each earthly passion and regret, And would thy wearied spirit rise To commune with its native skies ; Pause for a while, aad deem it sweet To linger in this calm retreat ; And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone, Here Nature's voice is heard alone : When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, Is rushing on its wing of power, And spirits of the deep awake, And surges foam, and billows break, And rocks and ocean-caves around Reverberate each awful sound That mighty voice, with all its dread control, To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. But when no more the sea-winds rave, When peace is brooding on the wave, And from earth, air, and ocean rise No sounds but plaintive melodies ; Soothed by their softly mingling swell, As daylight bids the world farewell, The rustling wood, the dying breeze, The faint low rippling of the seas, A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. Is thine a heart the world hath stung, Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung 1 Hast thou some grief that none may know, Some lonely, secret, silent woe 1 Or have thy fond affections fled From earth, to slumber with the dead ? Oh ! pause awhile the world disown, And dwell with Nature's self alone ! And though no more she bids arise Thy soul's departed energies, And though thy joy of life is o'er, Beyond her magic to restore ; Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. DIRGE OF A CHILD. No bitter tears for thee be shed, Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! With flowers alone we strew thy bed, blest departed One ! Whose all of life, a rosy ray, Blush'd into dawn and pass'd away. Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power To stain thy cherub-soul and form, Closed is the soft ephemeral flower That never felt a storm ! The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, All that it knew from birth to death. Thou wert so like a form of light, That heaven benignly call'd thee hence, Ere yet the world could breathe one blight O'er thy sweet innocence : And thou, that brighter home to bless, Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness ! Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! How soon thy brightness had been stain'd With passion or with grief ! Now not a sullying breath can rise To dim thy glory in the skies. We rear no marble o'er thy tomb No sculptured image there shall mourn ; Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom Such dwelling to adorn. Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be The only emblems meet for thee. Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath; Each glowing season shall combine Its incense there to breathe ; And oft, upon the midnight air, Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; And bear, from thine own world of rest, Some balm for human woes ! .MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 55 What form more lovely could be given Than thine to messenger of heaven 1 1 IXYOCATIOX. HUSH'D is the world in night and sleep Earth, sea, and air are still as death ; Too rude to break a calm so deep "Were music's faintest breath. Descend, bright visions ! from aerial bowers, Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. In hope or fear, in toil or pain, The weary day have mortals pass'd ; Xow, dreams of bliss ! be yours to reign, And all your spells around them cast ; Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear, And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. Oh, bear your softest balm to those Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead ! To them that world of peace disclose Where the bright soul is fled : Where Love, immortal in his native clime, Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time. Or to his loved, his distant land On your light wings the exile bear, To feel once more his heart expand In his own genial mountain-air ; Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, And bless each note, as heaven's own music sweet. But oh ! with fancy's brightest ray, Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; Bid forms of heaven around him play, And bowers of Eden bloom ! And waft his spirit to its native skies Who finds no charm in life's realities. Xo voice is on the air of night, Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light Falls on the placid brow of sleep. Descend, bright visions ! from your airy bower : Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour. 1 Vide Annotation from Quarterly Sfvine, p. 62. TO THE MEMORY OF GENERAL SIR E D P K M. 2 BRAVE spirit ! mourn'd with fond regret, Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon, Oh, who could deem thy star should set So darkly and so soon ! Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind Which mark'd and closed thy brief career, And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, Lies wither'd on thy bier. The soldier's death hath been thy doom, The soldier's tear thy mead shall be ; Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb Might Fate have rear'd for thee. Thou shouldst have died, high-soul'd chief ! In those bright days of glory fled, When triumph so prevail'd o'er grief We scarce could mourn the dead. Noontide of fame ! each tear-drop then Was worthy of a warrior's grave : When shall affection weep again So proudly o'er the brave 1 There, on the battle-fields of Spain, Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene, Or on Vitoria's blood-red plain, Meet had thy deathbed been. 2 Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New Orleans, 8th January 1814. " Six thousand combatants on the British side," says Mr Alison, " were in the field : a slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with heavy artillery." History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743. The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official account of General Keane, communicating the result of the action: " The advancing columns were discernible from the enemy's line at more than two hundred yards' distance, when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from all parts of the enemy's line, but from the battery on the opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly expired." Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. We mourn not that a hero's life Thus in its ardent prime should close ; Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, But died midst conquer'd foes ! Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame In that last moment cheer'd thee not) Left Glory's isle another name, That ne'er may be forgot : And many a tale of triumph won Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear, And long may England mourn a son Without reproach or fear. TO THE MEMORY OF SIR H T E LL S, WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. " Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown :s around them." OSSIAN. WEEP'ST thou for him, whose doom was seal'd On England's proudest battle-field ] For him, the lion-heart, who died In victory's full resistless tide ? Oh, mourn him not ! By deeds like his that field was won, And Fate could yield to Valour's son No brighter lot. He heard his band's exulting cry, He saw the vanquish'd eagles fly ; And envied be his death of fame ! It shed a sunbeam o'er his name That nought shall dun : No cloud obscured his glory's day, It saw no twilight of decay. Weep not for him ! And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, A hero claims far loftier tone ! Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, Recording how the mighty fell In that dread hour, When England, midst the battle-storm The avenging angel rear'd her form In tenfold power. Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise, Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays ; Since he, the soldier's guiding star, The Victor-chief, the lord of war, Has own'd thy fame : And oh ! like his approving word, What trophied marble could record A warrior's name 1 GUERILLA SONG. FOUNDED O.V THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH PATRIOT 5IIXA. OH ! forget not the hour when through forest and vale We return'd with our chief to his dear native halls; Through the woody sierra there sigh'd not a gale, And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement- walls ; And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our sight. , We enter'd that home all was loneliness round, The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave ; Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound : Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave ! For the spoilers had pass'd, like the poison-wind's breath, And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. Oh ! forget not that hour let its image be near, In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine O'er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine. THE AGED INDIAN. WARRIORS ! my noon of life is past, The brightness of my spirit flown ; I crouch before the wintiy blast, Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; The heroes of my youth are fled, They rest among the warlike dead. Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! My kindred chiefs in days of yore ! Ye fill an unreniember'd grave, Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 57 The records of your wars are gone, Your names forgot by all but one. Soon shall that one depart from earth, To join the brethren of his prime ; Then will the memoiy of your birth Sleep with the hidden things of time. With him, ye sons of former days ! Fades the last glimmering of your praise. His eyes, that hail'd your spirits' flame, Still kindling in the combat's shock, Have seen, since darkness veil'd your fame, Sons of the desert and the rock ! Another and another race Rise to the battle and the chase. Descendants of the mighty dead ! Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! Oh, let me join their spirits fled Oh ! send me to their shadowy land. Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart He shrinks not from the friendly dart. These feet no more can chase the deer, The glory of this arm is flown ; Why should the feeble linger here When all the pride of life is gone 1 Warriors ! why still the stroke deny ] Think ye Ontara fears to die ] He fear'd not in his flower of days, When strong to stem the torrent's force, When through the desert's pathless maze His way was as an eagle's course ! When war was sunshine to his sight, And the wild hurricane delight ! Shall, then, the warrior tremble now ? Now when his envied strength is o'et Hung on the pine his idle bow, His pirogue useless on the shore 1 When age hath dirom'd his failing eye, Shall he, the joyless, fear to die ? Sons of the brave ! delay no more The spirits of my kindred call. 'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! Oh, bid the aged cedar fall ! To join the brethren of his prime, The mighty of departed tune. EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. SOFT skies of Italy ! how richly drest, Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow ! What glorious hues, reflected from the west, Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain- stream. Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; From rock and torrent fade the tints away, And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose : While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper star, And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN "WAVERLEY." 1 Sox of the mighty and the free ! High-minded leader of the brave ! Was it for lofty chief like thee To fill a nameless grave ] Oh ! if amidst the valiant slain The warrior's bier had been thy lot, E'en though on red Culloden's plain, We then had moum'd thee not. 1 These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edin- burgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following interesting heading. " A literary friend of ours received these verses with a letter of the following tenor : '"A very ingenious youn/j friend of mine hasjttft sent me the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives that charming work , and if in any future edition you should like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do honour to Your Sincere Admirer.' " The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to send the verses to our Register." Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the "very ingenious young friend of mine" and "your sincere ad- mirer," on the one hand ; and the disclaimer by "a literary friend ofourt," on the other, there can be little doubt that the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hemans to Sir AValter, then Mr Scott, and by him to the Register of which he himself wrote that year the historical department. Vide Lock- hart's Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, The watchword of Despair ! Yet, oh ! if gallant spirit's power Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark'd thy parting hour, Last of a mighty line ! O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, But cannot chase their silent gloom ; Those beams that gild thy native walls Are sleeping on thy tomb ! Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, Thy green woods wave in vernal air, But the loved scenes may vainly smile : Not e'en thy dust is there. On thy blue hills no bugle-sound Is mingling with the torrent's roar ; Unmark'd, the wild deer sport around : Thou lead'st the chase no more ! Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, Those halls where peal'd the choral strain ; They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill, And all is hush'd again. No banner from the lonely tower Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high ; There the tall grass and summer flower Unmark'd shall spring and die. No more thy bard for other ear Shall wake the harp once loved by thine Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear, Last of a mighty line ! THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SOXG. CHIEFTAINS, lead on ! our hearts beat high Lead on to Salem's towers ! \Vho would not deem it bliss to die, Slain in a cause like ours ? The brave who sleep in soil of thine, Die not entomb'd but shrined, Palestine ! Souls of the slain in holy war ! Look from your sainted rest. Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, To mingle with the blest ; Tell us how short the death-pang's power, How bright the joys of your immortal bower. Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! Pour forth your loftiest lays ; Each heart shall echo to the ttraiu Breathed in the warrior's praise. Bid every string triumphant swell Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so welL Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, The wildest rage of fight, Thy name shall lend our falchions power, And nerve our hearts with might. Envied be those for thee that fall, Who find their graves beneath thy sacred -wall. For them no need that sculptured tomb Should chronicle their fame, Or pyramid record their doom, Or deathless verse their name ; It is enough that dust of thine Should shroud their forms, blessed Palestine ! Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high For combat's glorious hour ; Soon shall the red-cross banner fly On Salem's loftiest tower ! We burn to mingle in the strife, Where but to die insures eternal life. THE DEATH OF CLAXRONALD. [It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourn- ing ! " The Highlanders received a new impulse from his words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all before them. See the Quarterly Review article of " Cul- loden Papers."] OH, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell ; But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the spot, We spared not one moment to murmur "Farewell." We heard but the battle-word given by the chief, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " And wildly, Clanronald ! we echo'd the vow, With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our hand ; Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee now, For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 59 When they join d in wild chorus the ciy of the chief, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave ; But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave "While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, '' To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " Thou art fallen, O fearless one ! flower of thy race ! Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set : But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet ! Nor vainly have echo'd the words of the chief, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " TO THE EYE. THROXE of expression ! whence the spirit's ray Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, Where fancy's fire, affection's mental beam, Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart, Finds its own language to pervade the heart : Thy power, bright orb ! what bosom hath not felt, To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! And, by some spell of undefined control, With magnei>innuence touch the secret soul ! Light of the features ! in the morn of youth Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth ; And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror given But to reflect the purity of heaven, Oh ! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! When Genius lends thee all his living light, Where the full beams of intellect unite ; When love illumes thee with his varying ray, Where trembling Hope and tearful Rapture play; Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews ; Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, Bid some new feeling to existence start From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. And oh ! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time. Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, (As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, Flash through the mist of dim mortality :) Who does not own, that through thy lightning- beams A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams 1 That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die ! THE HERO'S DEATH. LITE'S parting beams were in his eye, Life's closing accents on his tongue, WTien round him, pealing to the sky, The shout of victory rung ! Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, A smile so bright illumed his face Oh ! never, of the light it shed, Shall memory lose a trace ! His was a death whose rapture high Transcended all that life could yield ; His warmest prayer was so to die, On the red battle-field ! And they may feel, who loved him most, A pride so holy and so pure : Fate hath no power o'er those who boast A treasure thus secure ! STANZAS THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. [" H. " Le pntfet demeura dans le chateau Saint Ange avec son prisonnier : il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinee aux executions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, e'leve' sur un bQcher, fut attache 1 a un poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit me'surer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son e'chafaud ; elles font presqu' une moitid de Rome. C'est la qu'habi- toient les hommes qu'il avoit si souvent appele's a la liberty. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur legis- lateur. Le tumulte de 1'exe'cution et la flamme du bOcher THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. And thou, whose Roman soul the last Spoke with the voice of ages past, 1 Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled To mingle with the glorious dead, That midst the world's degenerate race They vainly sought a dwelling-place, Within that house of death didst brood O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, Bienzi, be thy faults forgot ! For thou, when all around thee lay Chain'd in the slumbers of decay So sunk each heart, that mortal eye Had scarce a tear for liberty Alone, amidst the darkness there, Couldst gaze on Rome yet not despair ! 2 ''Tis mom and nature's richest dyes Are floating o'er Italian skies ; Tints of transparent lustre shine Along the snow-clad Apennine ; The clouds have left Soracte's height; And yellow Tiber winds in light, Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd The wide Campagna's solitude. 'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace Those relics of a vanish'd race ; Yet, o'er the ravaged path of time Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, Where nature still, though empires fall, Holds her triumphant festival E'en desolation wears a smile, Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; And heaven's own light, earth's richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb. But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; rdveillerent les Remains ; ils s'armerent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repousserent, avec ' leurs lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moms recueillir ses cendres comrne de prdcieuses reliques." 1 " Posterity will compare the virtues and failings of this extraordinary man ; but in a long period of anarchy and ser- vitude, the name of Rienzi lias often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and tlie last of the Roman patriots." GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 362. 2 " Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu'a Venouse. Get homme, de la plus basse naissance, n'avoit &.& 6le\& au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse : mais le snat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux tri- omphe ; il vit combien il dtoit ne'cessaire qu'il s'attirat dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple il alia au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il n'avoit pas desesptrt de la rcpubliquc." MONTESQUIEU'S Grandeur et Decadence des Romains. She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air, Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia's brightest glow. Though throned midst Latium's classic plains Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, And they, the Pleiades of earth, The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, Lie spread beneath ; not now her glance Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse ; Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown On Adrian's massy tomb alone ; There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, His faithful few Cresceutius led ; While she, his anxious bride, who now Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane, Which then could shelter, not in vain. But now the lofty strife is o'er, And Liberty shall weep no more. At length imperial Otho's voice Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; And he, who battled to restore The glories and the rights of yore, Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, Could burst the dead repose around, Again his native Rome shall see The sceptred city of the free ! And young Stephania waits the hour When leaves her lord his fortress-tower Her ardent heart with joy elate, That seems beyond the reach of fate ; Her mien, like creature from above, All vivified with hope and love. Fair is her form, and in her eye Lives all the soul of Italy ; A meaning lofty and inspired, As by her native day-star fired ; Such wild and high expression, fraught With glances of impassion'd thought, As fancy sheds, in visions bright, O'er priestess of the God of Light ; And the dark locks that lend her face A youthful and luxuriant grace, Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes Seem from the fire within to rise, But deepen'd by the burning heaven To her own land of sunbeams given. Italian art that fervid glow Would o'er ideal beauty throw, And with such ardent life express Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness, 88 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. Dreams which, surviving Empire's full, The shade of glory still recall. But see ! the banner of the brave O'er Adrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. "Tis lower'd and now Stephania's eye Can well the martial train descry, Who, issuing from that ancient dome, Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. Now from her watch-tower on the height, With step as fabled wood-nymph's light, She flies and swift her way pursues Through the lone convent's avenues. Dark cypress groves, and fields o'erspread With records of the conquering dead, And paths which track a glowing waste, She traverses in breathless haste ; And by the tombs where dust is shrined Once tenanted by loftiest mind, Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd, Rush on the gathering multitude. Is it their high-soul'd chief to greet That thus the Roman thousands meet ] With names that bid then- thoughts ascend, Crescentius ! thine in song to blend ; And of triumphal days gone by Recall th' inspiring pageantry ] There is an air of breathless dread, An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; And now a fearful silence round, And now a fitful murmuring sound, Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony ! Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes. Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien but fetter'd hands 1 The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; And in his glance there lives a mind Which was not form'd for chains to bind, But cast hi such heroic mould As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won ] Oh, worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium's pride ! Thus must the beam of glory close O'er the seven hills again that rose, When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, The soul of Rome indignant woke ? Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, 1 Sunk is the crowning city's throne : 2 Th' illusions, that around her cast Then- guardian spells, have long been past 3 Thy life hath been a shot-star's ray, Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; Thy death at freedom's ruin'd shrine Must rivet every chain but thine. Calm is his aspect, and his eye Now fix'd upon the deep blue sky, Now on those wrecks of ages fled Around in desolation spread Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, Recording triumphs pass'd away ; 1 Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following account : " In the eighth year of >"uma's reign, a pestilence prevailed in Italy ; Rome also felt its ravages. AVhile the people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler fell from heaven into the hands of Xuma. Of this he gave a very wonderful account, received fromEgeria and the Muses: that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the city, and should be kept with great care ; that eleven others should be made as like it as possible in size and fashion, in order that, if any person were disposed to steal it, he might not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the mea- dows about it, where he frequently conversed witli the Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities ; and that the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify their temple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is said to have confirmed the truth of this account." Lift of Numa. 3 " Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, thecrouminq city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the honourable of the earth ?" Isaiah, chap. 23. 3 " Un melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame et de foiblesse entroit des eette cheque '.I'onzieme siecle) dans le caractere des Remains. Un mouvement ge'ne'reux vers les grandes choses faisoit place tout-a-coup a I'abattement ; ils passoient de la liberti la plus orageuse, a la servitude la plus avilis- sante. On auroit dit que les mines et les portiques deserts de la capitate du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le sentiment de lenr impuissance ; au milieu de ces monumens de leur domination passde, les citoyens e'prouvoient d'une maniere trop decourageante leur propre nullite'. Le noni des Remains qu'ils portoient ranimoit fre'quemment leurentliou- siasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd'hui ; mas bientot la vue de Rome, du forum desert, des sept collines de nouveau rendues au paturage des troupeaux, des temples dfeoles, des monumens tombant en mine, les ramenoit a sentir qu'ils n'etoient plus les Remains d'autrefois." SISMONDI, Hiiloirt di-t Republiques Italienna, Tol. i. p. 172. THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. Works of the mighty and the free, \Yhose steps on earth no more shall be, Though their bright course hath left a trace Nor years nor sorrows can efface. Why changes now the patriot's mien, Erewhile so loftily serene \ Thus can approaching death control The might of that commanding soul ] No ! Heard ye not that thrilling cry Which told of bitterest agony 1 He heard it, and at once, subdued, Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. He heard it, and his heart too well Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; And midst the gazing throngs around One well-known form his glance hath found One fondly loving and beloved, In grief, in peril, faithful proved. Yes ! in the wildness of despair, She, his devoted bride, is there. Pale, breathless, through % the crowd she flies, The light of frenzy in her eyes : But ere her amis can clasp the form Which life ere long must cease to warm Ere on his agonising breast Her heart can heave, her head can rest Chock'd in her course by ruthless hands, Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance ; Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead ; And the light waving of her hair, And veil, far floating on the air, Alone, in that dread moment, show She is no sculptured form of woe. The scene of grief and death is o'er, The patriot's heart shall throb no more : But hers so vainly form'd to prove The pure devotedness of love, And draw from fond affection's eye All thought sublime, all feeling high When consciousness again shall wake, Hath now no refuge but to break. The spirit long inured to pain May smile at fate in calm disdain, Survive its darkest hour, and rise In more majestic energies. But in the glow of vernal pride, If each warm hope at once hath died, Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, Dead to the sunbeam and the shower ; A broken gem, whose inborn light Is scatter'd ne'er to re-unite. PART II. HAST thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled ? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty's farewell] Italia ! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O'er all that hath been great on earth. Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled When thou wert freedom's favour'd child : Though fane and tomb alike are low, Tune hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow ; And, robed in that exulting ray, Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, In nature's pomp magnificent ! What marvel if, when all was lost, Still on thy bright enchanted coast, Though many an omen warn'd him thence, Linger'd the lord of eloquence, 1 1 " As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along to Circa-urn with a favourable wind. The pilots were pre- paring immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes in Csesar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made again for the sea. He passed the night in the most per- plexing and horrid thoughts ; insomuch, that he was some- times inclined to go privately into Czesar's house, and stab himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat ni the sum- mer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with great noise towards Cicero's vessel as it was making land. They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero went on shore, and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber- window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to reproach themselves. ' Shall we,' said they, ' remain to be spectators of our master's murder? Shall we not protect him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. Still gazing on the lovely sky, Whose radiance woo'd him but to die ] Like him, who would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair 1 Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell ] Hath not thy pure and genial air Balm for all sadness but despair I 1 No ! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace Not all thy magic can efface ! Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn The world and all its gifts to spurn ; Time may steal on with silent tread, And dry the tear that mourns the dead, May change fond love, subdue regret, And teach e'en vengeance to forget : But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! Vain are bright suns and laughing skies To soothe thy victim's agonies : The heart once made thy burning throne, Still, while it beats, is thine alone. In vain for Otho's joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes' rich array Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius ! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave ! Where, through Gargano's woody dells, O'er bending oaks the north wind swells, 3 brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention ? ' Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into his litter, and carried him towards the sea." PLUTARCH, Life of Cicero. 1 " Now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair." MILTON. 8 Mount Gargano. "This ridge of mountains forms a very large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus : ' Aquilombus Querceta Gargani laborant, Et foliU viduantur orm.'-HoRAcu. A sainted hermit's lowly tomb Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there ; Around that dweller of the wild There "bright appearances" have smiled, And angel-wings at eve have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echoes made An Eden of the lonely shade ! Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ; Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown And veil'd his low sepulchral stone : Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aerial vesper-hymns may hear Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine's departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. And thither Otho now repairs, To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; And if for him, on holy ground, The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, Midst rocks and forests, by the bed Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, She dwells, remote from heedless eye, With nature's lonely majesty. Vain, vain the search ! his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest : The weary pilgrimage is o'er, The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. Then sinks his soul, and day by day Youth's buoyant energies decay. " There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and com- mon oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be blest with luxuriant vegetation." SWINBURNE'S Travels. 3 " In yonder nether world where shall I seek His bright appearances, or footstep trace ? " MILTON THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. The light of health his eye hath flown, The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. Joyless as one on whom is laid Some baleful spell that bids him fade, ' Extending its mysterious power O'er eveiy scene, o'er every hour : E'en thus lie withers ; and to him Italia's brilliant skies are dim. He withers in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair He only seems to perish there. Yet sometimes will a transient smile Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, When breathes his minstrel boy a strain Of power to lull all earthly pain So wildly sweet, its notes might seem Th' ethereal music of a dream, A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone ! Sweet is that lay ! and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe ; And if at times its wakening swell Some tale of glory seems to tell, Soon the proud notes of triumph die, Lost in a dirge's harmony. Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved, Hath deeply sufler'd, fondly loved, Ere the sad strain could catch from thence Such deep impassion'd eloquence ! Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy He is no child of hope and joy ! Though few his years, yet have they been Such as leave traces on the mien, And o'er the roses of our prime Breathe other blights than those of tune. Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd. Oh ! there are sorrows which impart A sternness foreign to the heart, And, rushing with an earthquake's power, That makes a desert in an hour, Rouse the dread passions in their course, As tempests wake the billows' force ! 'Tis sad, on youthful Guide's face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind 1 His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays : His full dark eye at tunes is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate'er that thought, still unexpress'd Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well conceals He breathes each wounded feeling's tone In music's eloquence alone ; His soul's deep voice is only pour'd Through his full song and swelling chord. He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain , And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber's banks along, Where Empire's desolate remains Lie scatter'd o'er the silent plains ; Or, lingering midst each ruin'd shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home ; When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls ; When hush'd is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom ; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, 'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido ! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 9 2 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. And rouse th' inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet's hour along I The feast is spread, and music's call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O'er stately guests in glittering line ; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep The still small voice of conscience die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours ; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music's power shall fly ; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido ! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly ! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear ! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woo ; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart but not the mien ! Away, vain dream ! on Otho's brow, Still darker lower the shadows now ; Changed are his features, now o'erspread With the cold paleness of the dead ; Now crimson'd with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony ! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress'd ; Now his dim eye seems fixd and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised ; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay'd, He sinks while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter "This is death !" Then rush'd that haughty child of song, Dark'Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill'd with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright ; And on the sufferer's mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried : " Yes ! these are death-pangs on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now ! Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff 'd; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from, me ! Yet these are but a moment's throes Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath My life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time ! " Deem'st thou my mind of reason void 1 It is not frenzied but destroy'd ! Ay ! view the wreck with shuddering thought- That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well ! Stephania ! once a hero's bride ! Otho ! thou know'st the rest he died. Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst thou trust in aught again ! " He died, and I was changed my soul, A lonely wanderer, spuru'd control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill'd the vow The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer ! in thy turn betray 'd, The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! Thine hour is come the tune hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene ; That feeling long is past my fate Hath made me stern as desolate. " Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom 1 Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! He sleeps unhonour'd yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory Rome ! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre ? Lead me to death ! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there ! " The day departs that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away : THE LAST- BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 93 From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber's stream, And softly tints each Eoman hill With glowing light, as clear and still As if, unstain'd by crime or woe, Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. The day sets calmly it hath been Mark'd with a strange and awful scene : One guilty bosom throbs no more, And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. And thou, ere yet another sun His burning race hath brightly run, Released from anguish by thy foes, Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! A few short hours and all shall be The silent and the past for thee. Oh ! thus with tempests of a day We struggle, and we pass away, Like the wild billows as they sweep, Leaving no vestige on the deep ! And o'er thy dark and lowly bed The sons of future days shall tread, The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, By them unknown, by thee forgot. THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AXD CLEOPATRA. [" Antony, concluding that he could not die more honour- ably than in battle, determined to attack Caesar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execu- tion of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus ; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expec- ations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an wnourable death. At the dead of night, when universal ilence reigned through the city a silence that was deepened >y the awful thought of the ensuing day on a sudden was leard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which esembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy's camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him." I.AXGHORNE'S Plutarch.'] THY foes had girt thee with their dread array, stately Alexandria ! yet the sound Of mirth and music, at the close of day, Swell'd from thy splendid fabrics far around O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed O'er many a column, rich with precious dyes, That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- ing skies. And soft and clear that wavering radiance play'd O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillar'd scene Calm and majestic rose, by art array 'd In godlike beauty, awfully serene. Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined Round that luxurious board ! hi every face Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, Though vainly mask'd in smiles which are not mirth, [of earth. But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom May still survive the wearers and the rose Perchance may scarce be wither' d, when the tomb Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! The day must dawn on battle, and may set In death but fill the mantling wine-cup high ! Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet Lend her one hour for parting revelry. They who the empire of the world possess'd Would taste its j oys again, ere all exchanged for rest Its joys ! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir's mien, And read their annals on that brow of care ! Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been: Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire The buoyant energies of days gone by ; There is delusion in its meteor fire, And all within is shame, is agony ! Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, [woe. But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee : in decay Xot less than kingly though of all bereft, Thou seem'st as empire had not pass'd away. Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate ,' 94 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. But them, enchantress queen ! whose love hath made His desolation thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array' d, To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour ; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. Thine aspect, all impassion'd, wears a light Inspiring and inspired thy cheek a dye, "Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright "With the deep glow of feverish energy. Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught "With an immortal fire in every beam It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; For thou with death hast communed to attain Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain. 1 And the stern courage by such musings lent, Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent "With all the majesty of mighty woes : "While he, so fondly, fatally adored, Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar'd Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; Scarce his charm'd heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by thee. But there is sadness in the eyes around, "Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away. " Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he cries ; " Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep ; "While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown'd but not for me. 1 Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation , she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions : such as were milder were slow in their effect : she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures ; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy. See PLUTARCH. " Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o'er, victors of Philippi ! many a field Hath yielded palms to us : one effort more ! By one stern conflict must our doom be seal'd. Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl'd, Now bursts the tempest on his crested head ! Yet sovereign still, if bauish'd from the sky, The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop but die.' 1 The feast is o'er. Tis night, the dead of night Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep ; From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep. For those who wait the mom's awakening bearcs, The battle-signal to decide their doom, Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb ; Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease, "When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. Wake, slumberers ! wake ! Hark ! heard ye not a sound Of gathering tumult 1 Xear and nearer still Its murmur swells. Above, below, around. Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets the tread Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth. These are no mortal sounds their thrilling strain Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; And the deep horror chilling every vein Owns them of stern terrific augury. Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, ye invisible and awful throng ! Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay To Caesar's camp exulting move along. Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky By that dread sign reveals thy doom "Despair and die !" 2 2 " To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword ; despair and die ! " Richard III. ALAKIC IN ITALY. 95 ALARIC IX ITALY. [After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire thus proceeds: ""Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, tlian he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad ; and the fabulous monsters of the deep the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Chary bdis could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners : yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element ; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious cha- racter of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mourn- ful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia, The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed ; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the re- mains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been em- ployed to execute the work." Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.] HEARD ye the Gothic trumpet's blast 1 The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd 1 His steps have track'd that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time ; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dead, 1 Xor heard the voice whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He pass'd the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains ; 1 After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though such numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking coun- try. What reduced the best men among them to this despair of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the well-known cruelty of Sylla : yet, partly by the intercession of Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves at his feet partly by the entreaties of the senators who attended him in that expedition, and being himself satiated with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his hand ; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, ' he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the living for the dead.' " PLUTARCH. And woke they not the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylae 1 And left they not their silent dwelling, When Scythia's note of war was swelling ? No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept, Sad freedom battled not but wept ! For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band ; Nor one high soul from slumber broke "When Athens own'd the northern yoke. But was there none for tkee to dare The conflict, scorning to despair 1 City of the seven proud hills ! "Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, As doth a clarion's battle-call Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall 1 Did no Camillus from the chain Eansom thy Capitol again ? Oh, who shall tell the days to be No patriot rose to bleed for thee ! Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast ? The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd ] That fearful sound, at midnight deep, 2 Burst on the Eternal City's sleep : How woke the mighty ? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th' ascendant star of destiny ! She woke to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour'd from a thousand agonies ! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal'd the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp'd shrine : Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O'er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying. Weep, Italy ! alas, that e'er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 2 " At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremen- dous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a por- tion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the tribes of Germany and Scythia." Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311. 9 6 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. The time hath been when thy distress Had roused up empires for redress ! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder'd temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies. Ye who on bright Campania's shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And ciystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline ; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed, 1 O'er guests, unlike your vanish'd friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords, Or wreaths of Psestan roses twine % To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art Oh ! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye To visions of divinity ; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace. Arouse ye from your soft delights ! Chieftains ! the war-note's call invites ; 1 The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, on account of its extraordinary shade ; and they used to nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. Temple observes) that " this tree loved that liquor as well as those who used to drink it under its shade." See the notes to MELMOTH'S Pliny. And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors ! your flowery bondage break , Sons of the stormy North, awake ! The barks are launching from the steep Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, 2 And Afric's burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. Where shall his race of victory close ] When shall the ravaged earth repose ? But hark ! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise 1 Why swells dread Alaric's name on air 1 A sterner conquerer hath been there ! A conqueror yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world's release ; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer Death ! Is then that daring spirit fled 1 Doth Alaric slumber with the dead 1 Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength. And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines ; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now a grave alone. But his her lord from Alp to sea No common sepulchre shall be ! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch's bed. Let not his royal dust be hid 'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; Nor bid the gather'd mound arise, To bear his memoiy to the skies. Years roll away oblivion claims Her triumph o'er heroic names ; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory's ray ; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, leader of the free ! That general doom awaits not thee : Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener's final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, 1 Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and pec* liar dominion of Ceres. THE WIFE OF AS DRUB A L. 97 And hollow in the torrent's bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done the captive's hand Hath well obey'd his lord's command. "Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder d Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there ; To rest at length from victory's toil, Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! Then the freed current's rushing wave Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; Then streams the martyr d captives' blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep. Time hath past on since then and swept From earth the urns where heroes slept ; Temples of gods and domes of kings Are mouldering with forgotten things ; Yet not shall ages e'er molest The viewless home of Alaric's rest : Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, The guardian of his dust for ever. THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. t"This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the con- queror's feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first : there the proconsul attacked them ; and these un- happy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. Ai the flamee spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph ; and after hav- ing uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus, ' Base coward ! ' said she, ' the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee ; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.' Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames." Ancient Universal History.] THE sun sets brightly but a ruddier glow O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway'd by the wind, they wave while glares the sky As when the desert's red simoom is nigh ; The sculptured altar and the pillar'd hall Shine out in dreadful biightness ere they fall ; Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams Rock, wave, and isle are criinson'd by its beams ; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors' tents with ivy crown'd. 1 But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire ? She might be deem'd a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power ; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light ; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; Flush'd is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ] Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign ? Fix'd is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands ; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; Who, when his country perish'd, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. "Live, traitor ! li ve !" she cries, "sirice dear to thee, E'en in thy fetters, can existence be ! 1 It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of rictors with ivy. 9 8 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. Scorn'd and dishonour'd live ! with blasted name, The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! Still may the manes of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes ; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither'd heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! E'en now my sons shall die and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. Think'st thou I love them not 1 ? 'Twas thine to fly 'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate ! the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.'' Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, [eye. Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal HELIODORUS IX THE TEMPLE. [From Maccabees, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. " Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multi- tude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony. 22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them. 23. Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed. 24. Xow as he was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great appari- tion, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid. 25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair cover- ing ; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold. 26. Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many sore stripes. 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter. 28. Thus him that lately came with great tram, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly they acknowledged the power of God. 29. For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life."] A SOUND of woe in Salem ! mournful cries [pale, Rose from her dwellings youthful cheeks were Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer. And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside The regal splendour of their fair array, With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, And throng'd the streets in hurrying, wild dismay ; While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine Who made of old renown and empire thine. But on the spoiler moves ! The temple's gate, The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold ; And all the scene reveals its solemn state, Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold ; And man with eye unhallow'd views th' abode, The sever'd spot, the dwelling-place of God. Where art thou, Mighty Presence ! that of yore Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, Veil'd in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest '! Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. And call the oracle's recess thine own ! Angel of God ! that through the Assyrian host, Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, To tame the proud, to hush the invader's boast, Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, And death alone reveal'd where thou hadst been. Wilt thou not wake, Chastener ! in thy might, To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light Hath stream'd the house of holiness to fill '\ Oh ! yet once more defend thy loved domain, Eternal One ! Deliverer ! rise again ! Fearless of thee, the plunderer uadismay'd Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, The orphan's portion and the widow's store : What recks his heart though age unsuccour'd die. And want consume the cheek of infancy ? Away, intruders ! hark ! a mighty sound ! Behold, a burst of light ! away, away ! A fearful glory fills the temple round, A vision bright in terrible array ! And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame ! NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 99 His neck is clothed with thunder, 1 and his mane Seems waving fire the kindling of his eye Is as a meteor ardent with disdain His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty ! Instinct with light he seems, and form'd to bear Some dread archangel through the fields of air. But who is he, in panoply of gold, [form, Throned on that burning charger? Bright his Yet in its brightness awful to behold, And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! Lightning is on his helmet's crest and fear Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. And by his side two radiant warriors stand, All arm'd, and kingly in commanding grace Oh ! more than kingly godlike ! sternly grand, Their port indignant, and each dazzling face Beams with the beauty to immortals given, Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. Then sinks each gazer's heart each knee is bow'd In trembling awe ; but, as to fields of fight, Th' unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd, Bursts on their leader in terrific might ; And the stern angels of that dread abode Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. Darkness thick darkness ! low on earth he lies, Rash Heliodorus motionless and jpale Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, Is borne from that inviolable fane. The light returns the warriors of the sky Have pass'd, with all their dreadful pomp, away ; Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; Rejoice, city of the sacred hill ! Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. [" En meme temps que les Gdnois poursuivoient avec ardeur la guerre contre Pise, ils dtoient de'chire's eux-memes par une discorde civile. Les consuls de I'anne'e 1169, pour 1 " Hast thou given the horse strength ? Hast thou clothed his neck with thunder ? "Job, chap, xxxix. v. 19. re'tablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes a leur voix et plus puissantes qu'eux, fureut obliges d'ourdir eruquelque sorts une conspiration. Us commencerent par s'assurer secretement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs des citoyens, qui cependant (Hoient entraine's dans les emeutes par leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; puis, se concertant avec le ve'ne'rable vieillard, Hugues, leur archevdque, ils firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des cloches les citoyeus au parlement : ils se flattoient que la surprise et 1'alarnie de cette convocation inattendue, au milieu de I'obscuritd de la nuit, rendroit 1'assemble'e et plus compjete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au parlement gdndral, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le vieil archeveque, entour<5 de son clerge en habit de ce>e- mouies, et portaut des torches allurne'es; tandis que les reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, ikoient exposces devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix suppliantes. Des que 1'assemble'e fut forme'e, le vieillard se leva, et de sa voix casse'e il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de paix, au nom du salut de leurs ames, au nom de leur patrie et de la liberte", dont leurs discordes entraineroient la ruine, de jurer sur 1'evangile 1'oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix a venir. " Les heVauts, dts qu'U eut fini de parler, s'avancerent aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de 1'uue des factions, qui e'toit present a I'assemblee, et, secondes par les acclama- tions de tout le peuple, et par les prieres de ses parens eux- m6mes, ils le sommerent de se conformer au vceu des consuls et de la nation. " Roland, a leur approche, decliina ses habits, et, s'asseyant par terre en versant des larmes, il appela a haute voix les morts qu'il avoit jure 1 de venger,, et qui ne lui permettoient pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne pouvoit le determiner a s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 1'archeveque et le clergd, s'approcherent de lui, et, renouve- lant leurs prieres, ils 1'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer sur 1'dvangile 1'oubli de ses inimitie's passees. " Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, etlngo de Volta, n'e'toient pas pre'sens a 1'assemble'e, mais le peuple et le clergd se porterent en foule a leurs maisons; ils les trouverent deja e'branle's par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, et, profitant de leur Emotion, ils leur firent jurer une re"con- ciliation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de la faction opposee. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnerent en tdmoignage d'alldgresse, et 1'archeveque de retour sur la place publique entonua un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, en honneur du Dieu de pair qui avoit sauvd leur patrie." Histoire des Repulliquet Italiennes, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.] IN Genoa, when the sunset gave Its last warm purple to the wave, No sound of war, no voice of fear, Was heard, announcing danger near : Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate But slumber'd till its hour of fate, Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, Sunk the wide city to repose. But when deep midnight reign'd around, All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, Full swelling, while the hollow breeze Bore its dread summons o er the seas. TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. Then, Genoa, from their slumber started Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted ; Then mingled with th' awakening peal Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. Arm, warriors ! arm ! for danger calls ; Arise to guard your native walls ! With breathless haste the gathering throng Hurry the echoing streets along ; Through darkness rushing to the scene Where their bold counsels still convene. But there a blaze of torches bright Pours its red radiance on the night, O'er fane, and dome, and column playing, With every fitful night-wind swaying : Now floating o'er each tall arcade, Around the pillar'd scene display'd, In light relieved by depth of shade : And now, with ruddy meteor glare, Full streaming on the silvery hair And the bright cross of him who stands Rearing that sign with suppliant hands, Girt with his consecrated train, The hallow'd servants of the fane. Of life's past woes the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch's face Expression holy, deep, resign'd, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o'er his snowy head have pass'd, And left him of his race the last, Alone on earth yet still his mien Is bright with majesty serene; A.nd those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from th' eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye Whose fount is immortality, And o'er his features pour'd a ray Of glory, not to pass away. He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone, On earth by nought but pity's tie Detain'd a moment from on high ! One to sublhner worlds allied, One from all passion purified, E'en now half mingled with the sky, And all prepared oh ! not to die But, like the prophet, to aspire, In heaven's triumphal car of fire. He speaks and from the throngs around Is heard not e'en a whisper'd sound ; Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glance, They stand as in a spell-bound trance : He speaks oh ! who can hear nor own The might of each prevailing tone : " Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate Hath made your country desolate ; Now by the love ye bear her name, By that pure spark of holy flame On freedom's altar brightly burning, But, once extinguished, ne'er returning ; By ah 1 your hopes of bliss to come When burst the bondage of the tomb ; By Him, the God who bade us live To aid each other, and forgive I call upon ye to resign Your discords at your country's shrine, Each ancient feud in peace atone, Wield your keen swords for her alone, And swear upon the cross, to cast Oblivion's mantle o'er the past ! " No voice replies. The holy bands Advance to where yon chieftain stands, With folded arms, and brow of gloom O'ershadow'd by his floating pluiuc. To him they lift the cross in vain : He turns oh ! say not with disdain, But with a mien of haughty grief, That seeks not e'en from heaven relief. He rends his robes he sternly speaks Yet tears are on the warrior's checks : - " Father ! not thus the wounds may close Inflicted by eternal foes. Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface The dread volcano's burning trace ? Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene Be smiling as it once hath been ] No ! for the deeds the sword hath done Forgiveness is not lightly won ; The words by hatred spoke may not Be as a summer breeze forgot ! 'Tis vain we deem the war-feud's rage A portion of our heritage. Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, Bequeath'd us that undying flame ; Hearts that have long been still and cold Yet rule us from their silent mould ; And voices, heard on earth no more, Speak to our spirits as of yore. Talk not of mercy ! blood alone The stain of bloodshed may atone ; Nought else can pay that mighty debt, The dead forbid us to forget" He pauses. From the patriarch's brow There beams more lofty grandeur now ; THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 101 His reverend form, his aged hand, Assume a gesture of command ; His voice is awful, and his eye Fill'd with prophetic majesty. " The dead ! and deem'st thou they retain Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ? Of guilt incurr'd in days gone by, Aught but the fearful penalty ] And say'st thou, mortal ! blood alone For deeds of slaughter may atone 1 There hath been blood by Him 'twas shed To expiate every crime who bled ; Th' absolving God, who died to save, And rose in victory from the grave ! And by that stainless offering given Alike for all on earth to heaven ; By that inevitable hour When death shall vanquish pride and power, And each departing passion's force Concentrate all in late remorse ; And by the day when doom shall be Pass'd on earth's millions, and on thee The doom that shall not be repeal'd, Once utter 'd, and for ever seal'd I summon thee, child of clay ! To cast thy darker thoughts away, And meet thy foes in peace and love, As thou wouldst join the blest above." Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing. Oh, not in vain the pleading cries Of anxious thousands round him rise ! He yields : devotion's mingled sense Of faith, and fear, and penitence, Pervading all his soul, he bows To offer on the cross his vows, And that best incense to the skies, Each evil passion's sacrifice. Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing High hearts with soft emotions glowing ; Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, And ardent throngs in transport meeting ; And eager footsteps forward pressing, And accents loud in joyous blessing ; And when their first wild tumults cease, A thousand voices echo " Peace I " Twilight's dim mist hath roll'd away, And the rich Orient bums with day ; Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth, Rises the choral hymn of earth Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, Of peace and holy rapture telling. Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep, The seaman hears them on the deep So mellow'd by the gale, they seem As the wild music of a dream. But not on mortal ear alone Peals the triumphant anthem's tone ; For beings of a purer sphere Bend with celestial joy, to hear. THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. [" Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) " if we believe the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive enemies ; and both might have remained unknown but for the grateful attachment of a Provencal bard, or minstrel, named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship and tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to the place ; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, and he could obtain no information relative to the name or quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, lie bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by Richard ; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive. (llist. Troubadours.) To this discovery the English monarch is said to have eventually owed his release." See RUSSELL'S Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. THE Troubadour o'er many a plain Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain. O'er many a rugged mountain-scene And forest wild his track hath been : Beneath Calabria's glowing sky He hath sung the songs of chivalry ; His voice hath swcll'd on the Alpine breeze, And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave ; And yet, if still on earth thou art, Monarch of the lion-heart ! The faithful spirit, which distress But heightens to devotedness, By toil and trial vanquish'd not, Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 102 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine, And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine : The feudal towers that crest its height Frown in unconquerable might ; Dark is their aspect of sullen state No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate J To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, At the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; Vainly rich evening's parting smile Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky. Not these the halls where a child of song Awhile may speed the hours along ; Their echoes should repeat alone The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, When his phantom train are hurrying past 3 The weary minstrel paused his eye Roved o'er the scene despondingly : Within the length'ning shadow, cast By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, Lingering he gazed. The rocks around Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd ; Proud guardians of the regal flood, In giant strength the mountains stood By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below ; In purple tints the vineyards smiled, But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; Nor pastoral pipe nor convent's bell Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell ; But all was lonety, silent, rude, A stern, yet glorious solitude. But hark ! that solemn stillness breaking, The Troubadour's wild song is waking. 1 It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and partake of hospitality. So in the romance of " Perceforest," " ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un heaulme, en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes en- trassent hardiment en leur hosUl comme en leur propre." - Popular tradition has made several mountains in Ger- many the haunt of the wild Jager, or supernatural hunts- man. The superstitious tales relating to the TJnterburg are recorded in Eustace's Classical Totir; and it is still believed in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament to the opposite castle 01 Schnellerts. See the " Manuel pour Its Voyayevrs tur le Rhin," and " Autumn on the Rhine." Full oft that song in days gone by Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry : It hath swell'd o'er Judah's mountains lone, Hermon ! thy echoes have learn'd its tone ; On the Great Plain 3 its notes have rung, The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 'Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won The palm in the field of Ascalon ; And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine Peals the bold strain of Palestine. THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG. " Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," The Soldan cried to the captive knight, " And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met To gaze on the fearful sight. " But be our faith by thy lips profess'd, The faith of Mecca's shrine, Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, And life shall yet be thine." " I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, And gazed with undaunted eye ; I have borne the bright cross through fireandflood, And think'st thou I fear to die 1 "I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers, Have fall'n for the name Divine ; And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours Shall be the light of mine." '' Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ? Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth, Or torture and the tomb." "I have been where the crown of thorns was twined For a dying Saviour's brow ; He spum'd the treasures that lure mankind, And I reject them now !" 3 The Plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the " Great Plain ;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the " field of Megiddo," the " Galilsean Plain." This plain, the most fer- tile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of Xabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous march of Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. 'Warriors out of " every nation which is under heaven " have pitched their tents upon the Plain of Esdraelon, and have beheld the va- rious banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon and Thabor. Dr Clarke's Travels. THE DEATH OF CON RAD IN. 103 " Art thou the son of a noble line In a land that is fair and blest ] And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! pine Again on its shores to rest ? " Thine own is the choice to hail once more The soil of thy father's birth, Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er, Forgotten in foreign earth." " Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise In the country of my love ; But yet, though cloudless my native skies, There's a brighter clime above ! " The bard hath paused for another tone Blends with the music of his own ; And his heart beats high with hope again, As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. " Are there none within thy father's hall, Far o'er the wide blue main, Young Christian ! left to deplore thy fall, With sorrow deep and vain]" " There are hearts that still, through all the past, Unchanging have loved me well ; There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast When I bade my home farewell. " Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier Than th" apostate's living stain ; There's a land where those who loved when here Shall meet to love again." 'Tis he ! thy prince long sought, long lost, The leader of the red-cross host ! Tis he ! to none thy joy betray, Young Troubadour ! away, away ! Away to the island of the brave, The gem on the bosom of the wave ; 1 Arouse the sons of the noble soil To win their Lion from the toil. And free the wassail-cup shall flow, Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; The festal board shall be richly crown'd, While knights and chieftains revel round, And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, When merry England hails her king. 1 " This precious stone set in the sea." Richard IT. THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. [" La defaite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni a ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d' Anjou.) L'amour du peuple pour Phe'ritier le"gitime du trone avoit delate 1 d'une maniere effrayante ; il pouvoit causer de nou- velles revolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie ; et Charles, revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute 1 des formes de la justice, resolut de faire perir sur P^chafaud le dernier rejeton de la Maison de Souabe, Punique esperance de son parti. Tin seul juge Provencal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens n'ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort. d'autres se renfermerent dans un timide et coupable silence ; et Charles, sur Pautorite 1 de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sen- tence fut communique'e a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux cchecs ; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se pre'parer a son execution, et le 26 d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous ses amis, sur la Place du Marche 1 de Naples, le long du rivage de la mer. Charles itoit present, avec toute sa cour, et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi condamni. Conradin dtoit entre les mains des bourreaux ; il detacha lui-meme son manteau, et s'^tant mis a genoux pour prier, il se releva en s'ecriant : ' Oh, ma mere, quelle profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on va te porter de moi ! ' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui 1'entouroit ; il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, de'tachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. Apres lui, sur le meme e'chafaud, Charles fit trancher la tete au Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Barto- lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Dono- ratico de Pise. Par un rafinement de cruaute 1 , Charles voulut que le premier, fils du second, pr^c^dat son pere, et mourut entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'aprts ses ordres, furent exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans pompe sur le rivage de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite batir sur le mdme lieu une e'glise de Carmelites, comme pour appaiser ces ombres irrite'es." SISMONDI'S Rifpttbliqucs Ituliennes.] No cloud to dim the splendour of the day . Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore With every tint that charm'd the great of yore Th' imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade Their marble domes e'en ocean's realm invade. That race is gone but glorious Nature here Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, And bids these regions of the sun display Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away. The beam of heaven expands its kindling smile Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, With all its rocks and vines, on ocean's breast. Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray, On Roman streamers there no more to play ; Still, as of old, unalterably bright, Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 104 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. With all Italia's sunshine to illume The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, Furrow'd and dark with many a lava streak. Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! Rich with all nature's and all fiction's hues, Who shall explore your regions, and declare The poet err'd to paint Elysium there ? Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside ; And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, And spells more potent shall pervade the air. What though his dust be scatter'd, and his urn Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, 1 Still dwell the beings of his verse around, Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground ; His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves ; His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill The purple radiance of Elysium still. Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky Have witness'd many a dark reality. Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne The sighs of exiles never to return. 2 There with the whisper of Campania's gale Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail, Mourning for buried heroes while to her That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 3 And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan Swell'd from strange voices of no mortal tone ; And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 1 The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil has long since been lost. - Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many rears in the isle of Pandataria, and her daughter Agrippina, the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the same desolate spot. 3 " Quelques souvenirs du coeur, quelques noms de femmes, r^clament aussi vos pleurs. C'est a Misene, dans le lieu meme ou nous sommes, que la veuve de Pompee Cornelie conserva jusqu'a la rnort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords : un jour, le meme assassin qui lui ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le suivre. L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie." MADAME DE STAEL, Corinne. Around the spot where Agrippina died, Denouncing vengeance on the matricide.* Pass'd are those ages yet another crime, Another woe, must stain th' Elysian clime. There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er ! There is a throne in regal pomp array'd, A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. Mark'dye the rushing throngs ? each mien is pale, Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale : But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd ; The burning tear awhile must check its course, Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; For tyranny is near, and will not brook Aught but submission in each guarded look. . Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mie:n Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, 3 And in his eye a keen suspicious glance Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, Behold the conqueror ! Vainly in his face Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament : And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, May read at once her sentence to despair t But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, While all is yet around thee which can give A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's ey, Till the deep love that not with thee shall die Hath grown too full for utterance Can it be ! And is this pomp of death prepared for thee 1 * The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors ; besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid shrieks and cries from Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. Xero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew to Naples See Ancient Universal Hittory. 5 " Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani," fut sage et prudent dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, apre et forte redoute de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes pensees qui Pegaloient aux plus grandes entreprises; indbranlable dans 1'adversite, ferme et fidele dans toutes ses promesses, parlant peu et agissant beaucoup, TH riant pretquejamait, decent comme un religieux, zele 1 catholique, apre a rendre justice, feVoce dans ses regards. Sa taille etoit grande et nerveuse, sa couleur olivatre, son nez fort grand. II paroissoit plus fait qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale. II ne dor- moit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour." SISMOXDI, Rejmb- liquet Italitnnes, vol. iii. THE DEA TH OF CONRADIN. 10; Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom Of youth, array 'd so richly for the tomb, Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, Emotions tyranny may ne'er control 1 Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, [shed, Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth can Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, May hope for mercy if to thee denied ? There is dead silence on the breathless throng, Dead silence all the peopled shore along, As on the captive moves the only sound, To break that calm so fearfully profound, The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; While on that shore, his own fair heritage, The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage Is passing to his fate : the eyes are dim [him. Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on He mounts the scaffold doth his footstep fail 3 Doth his lip quiver] doth his cheek turn pale ! Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought Cling to that world, for liim with beauty fraught, To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! If, in his life's young dayspring, while the rose Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, One human fear convulse his parting breath, And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! But no ! the spirit of his royal race Sits brightly on his brow : that youthful face Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye Is eloquent with injured majesty. He kneels but not to man ; his heart shall own Such deep submission to his God alone ! And who can tell with what sustaining power That God may visit him hi fate's dread hour ] How the still voice, which answers every moan, May speak of hope when hope on earth is gone? That solemn pause is o'er the youth hath given One glance of parting love to earth and heaven : The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, Life all around him glows and he must die ] Yet midst his people, undismay'd, he throws The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; Vengeance that, like their own volcano's fire, May sleep suppress'd a while but not expire. One softer image rises o'er his breast, One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! " Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, When thy lost child is gone?" that thought can thrill His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. The lifted axe is glittering in the sun It falls the race of Conradin is run ! Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, A voice shall cry to heaven and not in vain ! Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, In proud supremacy of guilt alone, Charles of Anjou ! but that dread voice shall be A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! The scene of death is closed the throngs depart, A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave ; Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, Unhonour'd, unadorn'd but unforgot; For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, Now mutely suffering never to forgive ! The sunset fades from purple heavens away A bark hath anchor'd in the unruffled bay : Thence on the beach descends a female form, 1 Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, And her soft eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak, Inured to woes yet what were all the past ! She sank not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, [tell While one bright hope remain'd who now shall Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one fell] To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, The mother came and she hath found his grave! And by that grave, transfix'd hi speechless grief, Whose deathlike trance denies a tear's relief, Awhile she kneels till roused at length to know, To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, On the still air a voice of anguish wild, A mother's cry is heard " My Conradin ! my child!" 1 " The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin's mother, who, landing on the beach with her son's ransom, found only a lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous con- queror." SWINBURNE'S Trawls in the Ttco Sicilitt. EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. Quarterly Review. " ' Tales and Historic Scenes' is a collec- io6 THE SCEPTIC. tion, as tlie title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was not on consideration that Mrs Ileraans passed from a poem of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales ; but if we were to prescribe to a young poet his count of practice, this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexpe- rience of the same age, in passing judgments, in the one richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more sought after than truth: the poem is written rapidly, and correctness but little attended to. But in narration more care must be taken : if the tale be fictitious, the conception and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is added to those just mentioned, in determining ho^far it may be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art. " The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge of Ilamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn ; and she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of their dialogue, they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly free from exaggeration, ' Oh ! wert thou still what once I fondly deetn'd, 1 " etc. Edinburgh Monthly Review. "The more we become ac- quainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are de- lighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie ; but, even compared with the living matkrt of the lyre, she is entitled to a very high distinction. .... " Mrs nemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it im- possible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by inspiration as it is poetically called by a fine tact of sym- pathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours forth her enchanting song and ' builds her lofty rhyme.' The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each element of her composition its due share of fancy and of feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite sparkles, are touched her lighter delineations ; with a rich and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature : a sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of mag- nanimity ; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in which she has few equals. " It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of tales." Conttabk't Magazine. " The Abeneerrage is a romance, the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of romance was most powerful, and lingered longest in the kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first established, and had the greatest continuance The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descrip- tions here is exquisite Choice is bewildered among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from The Abencerrage. "If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this nature." THE SCEPTICS " Leurraison, qu'ils prennent pour guide, ne preente a leur esprit que dea conjectures et dea embarras; le= absurdite* ou ils tombent en niant la Religion deriennent plus insoutenables que les Terites dont la hauttur les etonne ; et pour ne vouloir pas croiie dea mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent 1'une apres 1'autre d'incomprehensibles erreurs." BOSSCKT. WHEN the young Eagle, with exulting eye, Has learn'd to dare the splendour of the sky, 1 " The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one in which her revered friend* took a peculiar interest. It had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advantageous to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who entered Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph. And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source ; very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to com- mand frankly whatever assistance his advice or experience could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first instance, consented to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered dedication ; but was afterwards deterred from putting it into execution, by a fear that it might be construed into a manoeuvre to propitiate THE SCEPTIC, 107 Will his free wing, from that majestic height, Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, Which far below, with evanescent fire, Shines to delude and dazzles to expire ? No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way, And proudly claims his heritage of day ! -And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze The dayspring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, Luring the wanderer from the star of faith To the deep valley of the shades of death \ What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, For the high birthright of its hope in heaven \ If lost the gem which empires could not buy, What yet remains 1 a dark eternity ! Is earth still Eden 1 might a seraph guest Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest ] Is all so cloudless and so calm below, We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, Rejects the promise of a brighter state, And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, To rear his dwelling on the quicksand's base 1 Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! the good graces of the Quarterly Review; and from the slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy." Memoir, p. 31. " One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine; and there is something in its tone so far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the same time so prophetic of the happy influence her writings were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the con- cluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the reviewer thus proceeds, 'These extracts must, we think, convey to every reader a favourable impression of the talents of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which her high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we imagine, of some of the most popular writers of the day, that they are not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of their per- formances ; it is the deep, and will be the lasting reproach of others, that in this point of view they have wantonly sought and realised the most profound literary abasement. With the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to most of them, the author before us is not only free from every stain, but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness; and it will be a memorable coincidence if the era of a woman's sway in literature shall become coeval with the return of its moral purity and elevation.' From suffrages such as these, Mrs Hemans derived not merely present gratification, but en- couragement and cheer for her onward course. It was still dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it often 'Tis well thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime ; Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, And in the glory of thy strength rejoice ! But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief hours Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, Are few and distant on the desert soil ; The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling Man ! Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared Proud child of reason ! how art thou prepared ? When years, with silent might, thy frame have bow'd, And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain With the bright images of pleasure's train 1 Yes ! as the sight of some far-distant shore, Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no more, Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave ! Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call. She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all] Will she speak comfort 1 Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of the talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feeling* of the sorrowful, or taught the desponding where to look for comfort. In a letter written at this time to a valued friend, recently visited by one of the heaviest of human calamities the loss of an exemplary mother she thus describes her own appreciation of such heart-tributes: 'It is inexpressibly gratifying to me to know, that you should find any thing I have written at all adapted to your present feelings, and that The Sceptic should have been one of the last books upon which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast. Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will inform me which were the passages distinguished by the approbation of that pure and- pious mind : they will be far more highly valued by me than any thing I have ever written.' Ibid. pp. 334-4. " It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy of The Sceptic. ' I cannot refuse myself the gratification of saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs Hemans's superior genius and refined taste. I rank her, as a poet, very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her Modern Greece which evinces more just views, or more delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful I am glad she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance, on a subject so worthy of it ; and, anticipating the future by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the per- usal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit." " Ibid. io8 THE SCEPTIC. And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! For she was born beyond the stars to soar, And kindling at the source of life, adore ; Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left ; And, haply, one whose strong affection's power Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's hour, Still with fond care supports thy languid head, And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. But thou whose thoughts have no blest home above, Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to lore? To nurse such feelings as delight to rest Within that hallowM shrine a parent's breast, To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, On one frail idol destined but to die ; Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite ? Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! If there be sorrow in a parting tear, Still let "for ever " vibrate on thine ear ! If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, Find more than anguish in the thought 'tis gone! Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, And let a glance the springs of thought control : Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; There seek thy blessings-, there repose thy trust, Lean on the -willow, idolise the dust ! Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, Think on that dread "for ever " and despair ! And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. Watch well its course explore with anxious eye Each little cloud that floats along the sky : Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! Yes ! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! Xot always heaven's destroying angel shrouds His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; He fills the summer air with latent power, He hides his venom in the scented flower, He steals upon thee in the zephyr's breath, ' And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, And vainly hope the tree of life to find Rooted in sands that flit before the wind ? Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell, Become a desert now, a vale of gloom, O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb 1 Where shalt thou turn ? It is not thine to raise To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze Xo gleam reflected from that realm of rest Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed Her glory round the image, of the dead ; And if, when slumbers lonely couch is prest, The form departed be thy spirit's guest, It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. But who shall dare the gate of life to close, Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows? That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves embrace Each distant isle, and visit every race, Pours from the throne of God its current free, Xor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. Oh ! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead While still, suspended by a single hair, The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! Patient, because Eternal, 1 He may hear Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, And send his chastening Spirit from above, O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. But seek thou mercy through his name alone, To whose unequall'd sorrows none was shown ; Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, As man to suffer, and to heal as God ; And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 1 " He is patient, because He is eternal." ST AUGUSTIJTR. THE SCEPTIC. 109 Call thou on Him ! for he, in human form, Hath walk'd the waves of life, and still'd the storm. He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch pour'd O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, Taught from his Cross the lesson to forgive ! Call thou on Him ! His prayer e'en then arose, Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. And haste ! ere bursts the lightning from on high, Fly to the City of thy Refuge, fly I 1 So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away, And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, As the soft halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade Of such deep night as man for man hath made, Through lingering years if call'd at length to be Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun. Thus, when the captive soul hath long remaiii'd In its own dread abyss of darkness chain' d, If the Deliverer, in his might at last, Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. But this will pass away : that spark of mind, Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, Born to be foster'd with ethereal day. Then wiltthou bless the hourwhen o'er thee pass'd, On wing of flame, the purifying blast, And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, Like Sinai's trumpet, call'd thee to thy God ! But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride 1 In thine own strength unaided to defy, With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky 1 Torn by the vulture, fetter'd to the rock, Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock ?- Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow A thousand years may awe the vale below, 1 " Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge for you ; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any person at unawares. And they shall be unto you cities of refuge from the avenger." Numbers, chap. xxxv. Yet not the less be shatter 'd on its height By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. Oh ! what is nature's strength ] The vacant eyo. By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! The wild delirious laughter of despair, The mirth of frenzy seek an answer there ! Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, Close not thine ear against their awful tale. They tell thee Reason, wandering from the ray Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur mouldering fanes, Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, And regal cities, now the serpent's own : Earth has more awful ruins one lost mind, Whose star is quench' d, hath lessons for mankind Of deeper import than each prostrate dome Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. But who with eye unshrinking shall explore That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more ? Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll Around the shatter'd temple of the soul, Curtain'd with midnight '\ Low its columns lie, And dark the chambers of its imagery; 3 Sunk are its idols now and God alone May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, Is heard an oracle that cries " Beware ! Child of the dust ! but ransorn'd of the skies ! One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies ! Haste, ere the hour of doom draw nigh to Him Who dwells above, between the cherubim ! " Spirit dethroned ! and check'd in mid career Son of the morning ! exiled from thy sphere, Tell us thy tale ! Perchance thy race was run With science in the chariot of the sun ; Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, And search the laws that nature's springs control, There tracing all save Him who guides the whole ! 2 " Everyman in the chambers of his imagery." Ezekid, chap. viii. 110 THE SCEPTIC. Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, The depths of time exploring, to retrace The glorious march of many a vanish'd race. Or did thy power pervade the living lyre Till its deep chords became instinct -with fire, Silenced all meaner notes, and swell'd on high, Full and alone, their mighty harmony ; While woke each passion from its cell profound, And nations started at th' electric sound ? Lord of th' ascendant ! what avails it now, Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow] What though thy name, through distant empires heard, Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word 1 Was it for this thy still unwearied eye Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, To make the secrets of all ages thine, And commune with majestic thoughts that shine O'er Time's long shadowy pathway ? hath thy mind Sever'd its lone dominions from mankind, For this to woo their homage ! Thou hast sought All, save the wisdom with salvation fraught, Won every wreath but that which will not die, Nor aught neglected save eternity ! And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy path 1 Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men, With an immortal's courage, to sustain The transient agonies of earthly pain ? One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved When the loud fury of the billow raved ; But him thou kneVst not and the light he lent Hath vanish'd from its ruin'd tenement, But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, A thing we shrink from vainly to forget ! Lift the dread veil no further ! Hide, oh hide The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! The dagger, grasp'd in death the brow, the eye, Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony ; The soul's dark traces left in many a line Graved on Ms mein, who died "and made no sign!" Approach not, gaze not lest thy fever'd brain Too deep that image of despair retain. Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power, Lest the mind sink with terror, and above See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th'Atoner'slove ! Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! Thou whose ways, Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, And countless ages, trampling into clay Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ; Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd ! Thou, With whom all tune is one eternal now, [breath Who know'st no past nor future Thou whose Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death ! Look on us ! guide us ! wanderers of a sea Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, A star may set and we are lost in night ; A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, A treacherous song allure us and we sink ! Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, To moments circumscribed the Infinite, And heaven and earth disdain'd not to ally By that dread union Man with Deity ; Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; Save, or we perish ! Let Thy word control The earthquakes of that universe the soul ; Pervade the depths of passion ; speak once more The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, " Here shall thy waves be stay'd ;" in grief, in pain, The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain. Thou, by whom suns are balanced ! thus secure In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure ; Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just Look upward still, in high and holy trust, And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. And oh ! be near when, clothed with conquering power, The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour : When on the edge of that unknown abyss Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, Must drink the cup of trembling l when we see Xought in the universe but Death and Thee, Forsake us not ! If still, when life was young, Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, Father, forsake us not ! When tortures urge The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge 1 " Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, and wrung them out." Itaiah, chap. li. THE SCEPTIC. When from thy justice to thy love we fly, On nature's conflict look with pitying eye ; Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, Come in the "small still voice," and whisper Peace ! J For oh ! 'tis awful ! He that hath beheld The parting spirit, by its fears repell'd, Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; He that hath seen the last convulsive throe Dissolve the union fonn'd and closed in woe, Well knows that hour is awfuL In the pride Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, We talk of Death as something which 'twere sweet In glory's arms exultingly to meet A closing triumph, a majestic scene, Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! Hush, fond enthusiast ! Still, obscure, and lone, Yet not less terrible because unknown, Is the last hour of thousands : they retire From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire. As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears Some trembling insect's little world of cares, Descends in silence while around waves on The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! Such is man's doom ; and, ere an hour be flown, Start not, thou trifler ! such may be thine own. But, as life's current in its ebb draws near The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, A thrilling thought which, haply mock'd before, We fain would stifle but it sleeps no more ! There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng That join the masque of revelry and song : Yet still Death's image, by its power restored, Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood, And the heart owns the might of solitude, Is its low whisper heard "? a note profound, But wild and startling as the trumpet sound That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes ! Oh ! vainly Eeason's scornful voice would prove That life had nought to claim such lingering love, And ask if e'er the captive, half unchain'd, Clung to the links which yet his step restrain'd. 1 " And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind : and after the wind an earthquake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake : In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, Would mock the feelings she perchance can liide, Call up the countless armies of the dead, Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, And say" What wouldst thou ] Shall the fix'd decree, Made for creation, be reversed for tJiee ? " Poor, feeble aid ! Proud Stoic ! ask not why- It is enough that nature shrinks to die. Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined And mystic questions of the parting mind, Half check'd, half utter'd : tell her what shall burst, In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, [world When freed from mortal films what viewless Shall first receive her whig, but half unfurl'd What awful and unbodied beings guide Her timid flight through regions yet untried ; Say if at once, her final doom to hear, Before her God the trembler must appear, Or wait that day of terror, when the sea Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth shall flee 1 Hast thou no answer 1 Then deride no more The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore The unknown, the unseen, the future though the heart, As at unearthly sounds, before them start ; Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, They have their source in immortality ! [denies, Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid An equal to the mortal conflict rise ? When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, The mighty rider comes oh whence shall aid Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay'd ? Whence, but from thee, Messiah ! thou hast drain'd The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd ; To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, The mystic horror all became thine own ! But did no hand celestial succour bring, Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting? Came not th' Archangel, in the final hour, To arm thee with invulnerable power ?- Xo, Son of God ! upon thy sacred head The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, and after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was not in the fire : and after the fire a still small voice." Kings, book i. chap. 19. THE SCEPTIC. From man averted and thy path on high Pass'd through the straight of fiercest agony : For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, Received the last, the almighty sacrifice ! But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. Break forth in joy, ye ransom'd ! saith your God ; Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, And hail with harps your bright and Morning Star. He rose ! the everlasting gates of day Received the King of Glory on his way ! The hope, the comforter of those who wept, And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, He rose, he triumph'd ! he will yet sustain Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame "When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice Raised the victorious hymn, and cried, Rejoice ! Aided by Him, though none the bed attend Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart ! And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft Of that high hope, to misery what were left 1 But for the vision of the days to be, But for the comforter despised by thee, Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, When o'er our heads the desolating blast, Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd, And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey Hath call'd our fairest and our best away ? Should we not madden when our eyes behold All that we loved in marble stillness cold, No more responsive to our smile or sigh, Fix'd frozen silent all mortality ] But for the promise, " All shall yet be well," Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel Beneath such clouds as darkeu'd when the hand Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; And thou, 1 just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, With all a nation's blessings on thy head, England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead ? 1 The Princess Charlotte. But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! When fled the hope through all thy pangs which smiled, When thy young bosom o'er thy lifeless child Yearn'd with vain longing still thy patient eye To its last light beam'd holy constancy ! Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, Amidst those agonies thy first and last, Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, Breathed not a plaint and settled in repose ; While bow'd thy royal head to Him whose power Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, Who from the brightest vision of a throne, Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own, And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, As blasted Israel when her ark was lost ! " It is the will of God ! " yet, yet we hear The words which closed thy beautiful career ; Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, But for that thought ' It is the will of God ! " Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree If not one murmur then escaped from thee . ( Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, Hallow'd by freedom and enshrined in song ! Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, E'en as an angel, with presiding care, To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. For lo ! the hour when storm-presaging skies Call on the watchers of the land to rise, To set the sign of fire on every height, 2 And o'er the mountains rear with patriot might, Prepared, if summon'd, in its cause to die, The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory ! By this hath England conquer'd. Field and flood Have own'd her sovereignty : alone she stood, When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were thrown, In high and holy singleness, alone, But mighty in her God and shall she now Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow 1 From the bright fountain of her glory turn, Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? No ! sever'd land, midst rocks and billows rude, Throned in thy majesty of solitude, Still in the deep asylum of thy breast Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, 8 " And set up a sign of fire." Jeremiah, chap. vi. THE SCEPTIC. Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers ! Still, where thy hamlet vales, chosen isle ! In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes That guard the peasant's records and remains, May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, '\Yhen starlight glimmers through the deepening shades, Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise, And bear the land's warm incense to the skies. There may the mother, as with anxious joy To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, Teach his young accent still the immortal lays Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days, "When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, Prophetic tones to Judah's harp convey'd ; And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, She bids the prayer of infancy arise, Tell of His name who left his throne on high, Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, j And fondly say "My child, for thee He died ! " [What follows is worthy of being here recorded. Thirteen years after the publication of the Sceptic, and when the author, towards the termination of her earthly career, was residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance occurred by which Mrs Hemans was greatly affected and impressed. A stranger one day called at her house, and begged earnestly to see her. She was then just recovering from one of her frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of all but her immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told that she was unable to receive him ; but he persisted in en- treating for a few minutes' audience, with such urgent impor- tunity that at last the point was conceded. The moment he was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner and appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and tones of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was to acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest satisfied without avowing that to her he owed, in the first instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more precious to him than life itself; for that it was by reading her poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to " search the Scriptures." Having poured forth his thanks and benedic- tions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her over- whelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and won- dering humility. Memoir, p. 255-6.] CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROXI REVIEWS. yorth American Review. " In 1820 Mrs Hemans pub- lished The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its sentiments, of which we shall give a rapid sketch. She con- siders the influence of unbelief on the affections and gentler part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may be found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality. Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she turns to the sterner tasks of life : * E'en youth's brief bourn Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must ton, And pain and sorrow claim their nursling Man.' But then the sceptic has no relief in memory ; for memory recalls no joys but such as were transitory, and known to be such ; and as for hope ' She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for an, Will she speak comfort ? Thou hast shorn her plume, That might have raised thee far above the tomb, And hush'd the only voice whose angel-tone Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown." "The poet thenasks, if an infidel dare love; and, having no Home for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feel- ings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attach- ment to a vain idol, from which death may at any tune divide him 'forever.' For relief the infidel is referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites the fervour of devotion with poetic sensibility The poem proceeds to depict, in a forcible manner, the unfor- tunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of know- ledge but that which gives salvation ; and, having gained possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed with the majestic minds that shine along the pathway of tune, neglects nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, finds relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal rest The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and support in the hour of dissolution ; for the hour, when the soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another life, is an ' awful one.' .... This is followed by an allusion to the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic questions, that it cannot solve. But through the influence of religion He whom the busy world shall miss no more Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart.' "After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, the poem closes with the picture of a mother teaching her child the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine example of the Saviour. " We have been led-into a longer notice of this poem, for it illustrates the character of Mrs Hemans's manner. "We perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, gratifications, and sorrows of social life." PROFESSOR NORTON. Edinburgh Monthly Review. "We have on more than one occasion expressed the very high opinion which we enter- tain of the talents of this lady ; and it is gratifying to find that she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree the applause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibi- tion of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy of her poetical career ; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, and of very high promise. >"ot but that she has already 114 SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. performed more than has often been sufficient to win for other candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but because what she has already done shrinks, when compared with what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere inci- pient excellence the intimation rather than the fulfilment of the high destiny of her genius. . . . . " The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spon- taneous offspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by a clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an ex- quisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than the force of many of her masculine competitors, she never ceases to be strictly feminine, in the whole current of her thought and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of that free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some of the most remarkable among the female literati of our times have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have been very difficult to have reconciled the treatment, in the hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belongs to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form its finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its attractions, and wrapt in darkness and defiance. But Mrs Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, while she has left in the poem before us every trace of vigo- rous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of un- belief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and con- fiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility of hope and of faith has in it none of the weakness with which it has been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owns a divine and mysterious vigour residing under the very aspect of gentle- ness and devotion." Quarterly Review. "Her last two publications are works of a higher stamp ; works, indeed, of which no living poet need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled The Sceptic, and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to advo- cating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem must have owed its being to the circumstances of the times to a laudable indignation at the course which literature in many departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and at the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but by no means exclusively, as has been falsely supposed) among the lower orders. Mrs Hemans, however, does not attempt to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse ; few poems, osten- sibly philosophical or didactic, have ever been of use, except to display the ingenuity and talent of the writers. People are not often taught a science or an art in poetry, and much less will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise in verse. But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force to confirm a wavering mind ; it is simply resting the truth ot religion on the necessity of it on the utter misery and help- lessness of man without it. This argument is in itself avail- able for all the purposes of poetry : it appeals to the imagina- tion and passions of man ; it is capable of interesting all our affectionate hopes and charities, of acting upon all our natu- ral fears. .Mrs Hemans has gone through this range with great feeling and ability ; and when she comes to the mind which has clothed itself in its own strength, and relying proudly on that alone in the hour of affliction, has sunk into distraction in the contest, she rises into a strain of moral poetry not often surpassed : ' Oh, what is nature's strength ? The vacant eye, By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,' etc."] SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION, AN UNFINISHED POEM. BEIJTGS of brighter worlds ! that rise at times As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, In those brief visions of celestial climes Which pass like sunbeams o'er the realms of thought, Dwell ye around us 1 are ye hovering nigh, Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air 1 And in deep solitudes, where human eye Can trace no step, Immortals ! are ye there ? Oh ! who can tell 1 what power, but Death alone, Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world unknown 1 But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers Of Eden wither'd, when reveal'd ye shone In all your brightness midst those holy bowers Holy, but not unfading, as your own ! While He, the child of that primeval soil, With you its paths in high communion trode, His glory yet undimm'd by guilt or toil, And beaming in the image of his God, And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays, Mingling their tones, from nature's temple rose, When nought but that majestic song of praise Broke on the sanctity of night's repose, With music since unheard : and man might trace By stream and vale, in deep embow'ring shade, SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place, The footsteps of th' Omnipotent, who made That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass'd. Short were those days, and soon, sons of Heaven! Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour, When from his paradise the alien driven Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower, Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell With meteor-swords : he saw the living flame, And his first cry of misery was " Farewell ! " His heart's first anguish, exile : he became A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot [not. Is still for happier lands to pine and reach them v. Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep? From all its founts the world of waters swell'd, And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep ! For He, to whom the elements are slaves, In wrath unchain 'd the oceans of the cloud, And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves Folded creation in their mighty shroud; Then left the earth a solitude, o'erspread With its own awful wrecks a desert of the dead. But onward flow'd life's busy course again, And rolling ages with them bore away As to be lost amidst the boundless main, Rich orient streams their golden sands convey The hallow'd lore of old the guiding light Left by tradition to the sons of earth, And the blest memory of each sacred rite Known in the region of their father's birth, When in each breeze around his fair abode [God. Whisper'd a seraph's voice, or lived the breath of Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day, Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's breast, A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, Catching brief splendour from the purple west ] So round thy parting steps, fair Truth ! awhile With borrow'd hues unnumber'd phantoms shone ; And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, Blending her rites with thine while yet afar Thine eye's last radiance beam'd, a slow-receding star. Yet still one stream was pure one sever'd shrine Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands ; And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. There still the father to his child bequeath'd The sacred torch of never-dying flame ; There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed The One adored and everlasting Name ; And angel guests would linger and repose Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade, Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, In thrilling whispers to the soul conveyed High inspiration : yet in every clime, Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought With beings, in their essence more sublime, To hold communion of mysterious thought ; On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, And hear in every wind the accents of th' Unseen. Yes ! we have need to bid our hopes repose On some protecting influence : here confined, Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, As exiles panting for their native coast, Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way, And shrinking from the gulf that must be cross'd. Death hovers round us : in the zephyr's sigh, As in the storm, he comes and lo ! Eternity .' As one left lonely on the desert sands Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, He gazes as the pathless waste expands Around, beyond, interminably wide ; While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky, Or suns of blasting light perchance illume The glistening Serab 1 which illudes his eye : Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread Unknown. 1 Serab, mirage. SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. XII. His thoughts explored the past and where were they, The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by 1 He turn'd a boundless void before him lay, Wrapp'd in the shadows of futurity. How knew the child of Nature that the flame He felt within him struggling to ascend, Should perish not with that terrestrial frame Doom'd with the earth on which it moved, to blend] How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed, If 'twere a Father's love or Tyrant's wrath de- creed ? xni. Oh ! marvel not if then he sought to trace In all sublimities of sight and sound, In rushing winds that wander through all space, Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom em- brown'd, The oracles of Fate ! or if the train Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer's brain, When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, Were deem'd mysterious revelations, sent From viewless powers, the lords of each dread element. Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, Clothed with a deeper power 1 earth's wandering race, Exploring realms of solitude sublime, Not as we see, beheld her awful face ! Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met Their searching eyes ; unpeopled kingdoms lay In savage pomp before them all was yet Silent and vast, but not as in decay ; And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, Look'd o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, voice- less, lone. xv. The forests in their dark luxuriance waved, With all their swell of strange JEolian sound ; The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved, Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. Then, brooding o'er the images, imprest By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, Midst dim remembrances of infancy, Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, and streams. Then bled the victim then in every shade Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine ; Fear bow'd before the phantoms she portray d, And Nature teeni'd with many a mystic sign. Meteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose course E'en yet is awful to th' enlighten'd eye, As, wildly rushing from your secret source, Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high, Then o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye pass'd. But you, ye stars ! in distant glory burning, Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky ! To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, Would pierce the secrets of infinity To you the heart, bereft of other light, Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains, Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns, Cloudless and silent, circled with the race Of some imnumber'd orbs, that light the depths of space. Shine on ! and brightly plead for erring thought, Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored The wide creation, and beholding nought Like your eternal beauty, then adored Its living splendours ; deeming them inform'd By natures temper'd with a holier fire Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm'd, Who to the source of spirit might aspire, And mortal prayers benignantly convey To some presiding Power, more awful far than they. Guides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you The seaman turn'd, rejoicing at the helm, When from the regions of empyreal blue Ye pour'd soft radiance o'er the ocean-realm ; To you the dweller of the plains address'd [own ; Vain prayers, that call'd the clouds and dews your To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone, As earth would light up all her hills, to vie With your immortal host, and image back the sky. Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crown Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 117 She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. Earth should be hush'd in slumber but the night Calls forth her worshippers ; the feast is spread, On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades Faintly as Nature's light the 'wilder' d soul pervades. But when thine orb, all earth's rich hues restoring, Came forth, sun ! in majesty supreme, Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring Beauty and life in each triumphant beam, Through thine own East what j oyous rites prevail'd ! "WTiat choral songs re-echo'd ! while thy fire Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled The precious incense of each odorous pyre, Heap'd with the richest balms of spicy vales, And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales. xxir. Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone, Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew'd ; For the dark children of the burning zone Drewfrenzy from thy fervours, andbedew'd [scene, With their own blood thy shrine ; while that wild Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view'd, And though with glory mantled, and severe In his own fulness of beatitude, Yet mourn'd for those whose spirits from thy ray Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day. But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers ! Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies, And hold high converse, midst his native bowers, With the once glorious son of Paradise, [strains Look'd ye from heaven in sadness! were your Of choral praise suspended in dismay, When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains With clouds of incense dimm'd the blaze of 1 day 1 Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes. [fice ] While demons hail'd the pomp of human sacri- And well the powers of evil might rejoice, When rose from Tophet's vale the exulting cry, And, deaf to Nature's supplicating voice, The frantic mother bore her child to die ! Around her vainly clung his feeble hands With sacred instinct : love hath lost its sway, While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands, And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale ! Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an infant's wail ? A voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows, Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns : Weep for the dead ! Away ! the lost is found To life and love the buried god returns ! Then wakes the timbrel then the forests ring, And shouts of frenzied j oy are on each breeze's wing ! But fill'd with holier joy the Persian stood, In silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, At early dayspring, while the expanding flood Of radiance burst around, above, below Bright, boundless as eternity : he gazed Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflow'd In worship of th' Invisible, and praised In thee, Sun ! the symbol and abode Of life, and power, and excellence the throne Where dwelt the Unapproach'd, resplendently alone. 1 What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave Mysterious sanctity to things which wear Th' Eternal's impress 1 if the living wave, The circling heavens, the free and boundless air- If the pure founts of everlasting flame, Deep in his country's hallow'd vales enshrined, And the bright stars maintain'd a silent claim To love and homage from his awestruck mind ! Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme. xxvni. And with that faith was conquest. He whose narno To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung 1 At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, th following stanza was here inserted : " Nor rose the Marian's hymn, sublimely swelling In full-toned homage to the source of flame, From &bri rear'd by man, the gorgeous dwelling Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame. Be rear'd no temple, bade no walls contain The breath of incense or the voice of prayer; But made the boundless universe his fane, The rocks his altar-stoneadoring there The Being whose Omnipotence pervades All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shadM." ITALIAN LITERATURE. He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, He came, the victor Cyrus ! As he pass'd, Thrones to his footstep rock'd, and monarchs lay Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast Their ancient idols down before his way, Who in majestic march, from shore to shore, The quenchless flame revered by Persia's children bore. [In the spring of 1820, Mrs Ilenians first made the ac- quaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valu- able friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in death Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor at Bodryddan, the residence of his father-in-law, the late Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent literary character with whom she had ever familiarly asso- ciated ; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her enjoyment: " I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I can possibly tell you ; his conversation is quite rich with anec- dote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that the first perusal of Ivanhoe did ; and was something so per- fectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I had a very long conversation with him on the subject of the poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he pro- ceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did not exactly coincide with his own." The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition and Ke.vda.tion, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some time before, and which was intended to embrace a very ex- tensive range of subject. Her original design will be best given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park: " I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed together, of a poem on national superstitions. 'Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain,' and in the course of my lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those of Christianity ? It would contain, of course, much classical allusion ; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbar- ous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consola- tion they could convey in the hour of affliction or hope, in that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed in illustration of this idea ; and the certainty of a future state, and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, India, &c., might contain much that is poetical ; but the subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled by its magnitude." Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and gave her every encouragement to proceed in it ; supplying her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustra- tions which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and the sources from whence the requisite information would best be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to the development of a plan which included the superstitions of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded to in the book of Job to the still existing rites of the Hindoos would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author's time. The work was, therefore, laid aside ; and the fragment now first published is all that remains of it, though the pro- ject was never distinctly abandoned.] ITALIAN LITEKATUKE. 1 THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. FROM SISMONDl's " LITTERATURK DU MIDI." VINCENZO MONTI, a native of Ferrara, is acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the 1 " About this time (1820) Mrs Remans was an occasional contributor to the Edinburgh Mimtfily Magazine, then con- ducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal cour- tesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many agreeable recollections with the period of this literary inter- course. Several of her poems appeared in the above-men- tioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign litera- Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is always actuated by the impulse of the moment. Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthu- siastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his thoughts they are present, and clothed with ture, Which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose compositions she ever gave to the world ; and indeed to these papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordi- nate to the poetical translations, which it is used to intro duce." Memoir, p. 41. THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 119 life before him, and a flexible and harmonious language is always at his command to paint them with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry is only another species of painting, he makes the art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagi- nation for himself ; and he permits not a verse to escape him which does not contain an image. Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has restored to the character of Italian poetry those severe and exalted beauties by which it was distinguished at its birth ; and he proceeds from one picture to another with a grandeur and dig- nity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, with something so lofty in his manner and style of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character should not be regulated by principles of greater consistency. In many other poets, this defect might pass unobserved : but circumstances have thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to works which display him in continual opposition to himself. Writing in the mifist of the various Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen political subjects for his compositions, and he has successively celebrated opposite parties in pro- portion to their success. Let us suppose, in his justification, that he composes as an improvisatore, and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it suggests, however foreign they may be to his individual sentiments. 1 In these political poems the object and purport of which are so different the invention and manner are, perhaps, but too similar. The Basviglia/na, or poem on the death of Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, since its appearance, it has been discovered that Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also very frequently imitated himself. Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was put to death at Rome by the people, for attempt- ing, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite a sedition against the Pontifical government. Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at the moment of Basville's death, he is saved by a sudden repentance, from the condemnation which his philosophical principles had merited. But, 1 The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Dic- tionnaAre det Girouettei) on the general versatility of poets, Eeems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the express purpose of such an application. " Le cerveau d'un poete est d'une cire molle et flexible, oil s'imprime naturelle- as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes of that country have received their due chastise- ment, and doomed to contemplate the misfor- tunes and reverses to which he has contributed by assisting to extend the progress of the Revo- lution. An angel of heaven conducts Basville from pro- vince to province, that he may behold the desola- tion of his lovely country. He then conveys him to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon France, and avenge the blood of her king. The poem concludes before the issue of the contest is known. It is divided into four cantos of three hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, like the poem of Dante. Not only many expres- sions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. An angel conducts Basville through the suffering world ; and this faithful guide, who consoles and supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts pre- cisely the same part which is performed by Virgil in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary character he describes him as feeling more pity than remorse and he seems to forget, in thus identifying himself with his hero, that he has at first represented Basville, and perhaps without foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolu- tionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more re- markable than any other poem for the majesty of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body : "Sleep, beloved companion of my woes, Rest thou in deep and undisturb'd repose ; Till at the last great day, from slumber's bed, Heaven's trumpet-summons shall awake the dead. "Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, And soft the breeze's whig, till that dread hour ; Xor let the wanderer passing o'er thee, breathe Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. ment tout ce qui le flatte, le seduit, et 1'alimente. La must du chant n'a pasdepartie; c'est une etourdie sans conse- quence, qui folatre e'galement et sur de riches gazons et sur d'arides bruyeres. Un poete en de'lire chante indifferemment Titus et Thamask, Louis 12e et Cromwell, Christine de Suede et Stanchon la Vielleuse." ITALIAN LITERATURE. " Sleep them iu peace ! Beyond the funeral pyre, There live no flames of vengeance or of ire ; And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore Where mercy's home hath been from days of yore." Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, Then turn'd to follow its celestial guide ; But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, A lingering step, and oft reverted eye As when a child's reluctant feet obey Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play. Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast, When from th' Eternal City's towers they pass'd, And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, Lo ! -where a cherub-form sublimely tower'd, But dreadful in his glory ! Sternly lower'd Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem'd Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour beam'd On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire Seem'd his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire ; And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, A comet's glare, presaging woe and blood. He waved his sword its red, terrific light With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night ; While his left hand sustain'*!, a shield so vast, Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom O'er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar ; And while, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar, Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, They sleep unheeding ; while the storm on high Breaks not their calm and proud security. In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the execution of Louis XVI. The air was heavy, and the brooding skies Look'd fraught with omens, as to harmonise With his pale aspect. Through the forest round Not a leaf whisper'd and the only sound That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, As if a storm within the woodland bowers Were gathering. On they moved and lo ! the towers Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; And all reveal'd, expanding on their view, The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! In the dark mantle of a cloud array'd, Viewless and hush'd, the angel and the shade Enter'd that evil city. Onward pass'd The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw That alter'd aspect, and, in breathless awe, Mark'd the strange silence round. The deep- toned swell Of life's full tide was hush'd ; the sacred bell, The clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, Inquiring glances, rumours whisper'd low, Questions half-utter'd, jealous looks that keep A fearful watch around, and sadness deep That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, heard At intervals, in many a broken word Voices of mothers,* trembling as they press'd Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast ; Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, On their own thresholds striving to detain Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak and vain Affection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour Of fate and fury Love hath lost his power ! For evil spirits are abroad, the air Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, Fired by that thirst for victims which of eld Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll : d, Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey The deepest crime that e'er hath dimm'd the day. Blood, human blood, hath stahrd then: vests and hair, On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, Scattering red showers around them ! Flaming brands And serpent scourges in their restless hands Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high The steel, th' envenom'd bowl ; and, hurrying by, With touch of fire contagious fury dart Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrain'dnomore, Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour; From every heart affrighted mercy flies, While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. Then the earth trembles, as from street to street The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 121 Heard at the dead of midnight ; or the moan Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone Of the far thunder ! Then what feelings press'd, O wretched Basvillo ! on thy guilty breast ; What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold Death's awful banner to the winds unfold ! To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high The dark impatience of the murderer's eye, Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good, Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood Dragg'd to a felon's death ! Yet still his mien, Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; And his step falters not. hearts unmoved ! Where have you borne your monarch 1 He who loved Loved you so well ! Behold ! the sun grows pale, Shrouding his glory in a tearful veil ; The misty air is silent, as in dread, And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o'erspread ; While saints and martyrs, spirits of the blest, Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest. In that dread moment, to the fatal pile The regal victim came ; and raised the while His patient glance, with such an aspect high, So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, That e'en th' assassins' hearts a moment shook Before the grandeur of that kingly look ; And a strange thrill of pity, half-renew'd, Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. Like Hun, who, breathing mercy to the last, Pray'd till the bitterness of death was past E'en for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour When his soul yielded to affliction's power, And the winds bore his dying cry abroad " Hast thou forsaken me, my God ! my God ]" E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer arose, Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes " To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried ; " And my lost people, Father ! be their guide ! " But the sharp steel descends the blow is given, And answer'd by a thunder-peal from heaven ; Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terrors owns, And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. THE Alcestis of ALFIERI is said to have been the last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which his former works present so few examples. It would appear as if the pure and exalted affection by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had impressed its whole character on this work, as a record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom his heart at length found a resting-place. Most of his earlier writings bear witness to that " fever at the core," that burning impatience of restraint, and those incessant and untameable aspirations after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must find its echo in every heart which has known the power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness . of their dissolution. The interest of the piece, how- ever, though entirely domestic, is not for a mo- ment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal affection, which forms the mainspring of the action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity of Metastasio. The character of Alcestis herself, with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our ima- gination the calm and tempered majesty distin- guishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in which the expression of mental or bodily suffering is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty and sublimity. The union of dignity and afflic- tion impressing more than earthly grandeur on the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the best illustration of this analogy. The following scene, in which Alcestis announces to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed by the author, even in his most celebrated pro- ductions. It is, however, to be feared that little of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, as the severity of a style so completely devoid of imagery, must render it dependent for many in- communicable attractions upon the melody of the original language. ACT L SCENE II. ALCESTIS, PHERES. A Ic. Weep thou no more ! monarch, dry thy tears ! For know, he shall not die ; not now shall fate Bereave thee of thy son. Phe. What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo is there then a hope ? Ale. Yes ! hope for thee hope by the voice announced 122 ITALIAN LITERATURE. From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine. Phe. But say ! oh ! say, Shall then my son be spared ? Ale. He shall, to thee. Thus hath Apollo said Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle be thou secure. Pke. sounds of joy ! He lives ! Ale. But not for this, Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. [death Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of Admetus rises ] "What deep mystery lurks Within thy words ? What mean'st thou 1 Gracious heaven ! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hcar'st The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak ! oh, speak ! Ale. The gods Themselves have limitations to their power Impassable, eternal and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus. Phe. In thy looks There is expression, more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores 1 A Ic. father ! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill'd Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; And since too soon, too well it must be known, Hear it from me. Phe. Throughout my curdling veins Runs a cold, deathlike horror ; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, fair and high-soul'd consort of my son ! More than a daughter ; and thine infant race, The cherish'd hope and glory of my age ; And, unimpair'd by time, within my breast, High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words ; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, To some one of my race. Ale. Death hath his rights, Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noonday, struck : Admetus, the revered, The bless'd, the loved, by all who own'd his sway By his illustrious pai'ents, by the realms Surrounding his and oh ! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis 1 Such was he, Already in th' unsparing grasp of death Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatch'd him, and another in his stead, Though not an equal (who can equal him 1) Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. Another, of his lineage or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, Who thus alone is saved. Phe. What do I hear] Woe to us, woe ! what victim ? who shall be Accepted in his stead 1 Ale. The dread exchange E'en now, father ! hath been made ; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom 'tis freely offer'd. Nor wilt thou, mighty goddess of th' infernal shades ! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim. Phe. All prepared the prey ! And to our blood allied ! Oh, heaven ! and yet Thou bad'st me weep no more ! Ale. Yes ' thus I said, And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those his death had caused. With some few tears, But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour 'd who resign'd Life for Admetus. Would'st thou know the prey, The vow'd, the willing, the devoted one, Offer'd and hallow'd to th' infernal gods, Father ! 'tis I. Phe. What hast thou done 1 Oh, heaven ! [saved What hast thou donol And think'st thou he is By such a compact 1 Think'st thou he can live Bereft of thee ? Of thee, his light of life, His very soul ! Of thee, beloved far more THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERL 123 Than his loved parents than his children more More than himself? Oh no ! it shall not bel Thou perish, Alcestis ! in the flower Of thy young beauty ! perish, and destroy Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate "Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think'st thou not of those whose tender years Demand thy care 1 thy children ! think of them ! thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die While I can die for thee ! Me, me alone, The oracle demands a wither'd stem, Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. My race is run the fulness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart, And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endow" d ; all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! Pheres commands thee, Alcestis live ! Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass An aged sire's devotedness. Ale. I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood. Phe. What canst thou say Which I should hear! I go, resolved to save Hun who with thee would perish ; to the shrine E'en now I fly. Ale. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endear'd My life by every tie the more I feel Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour'd. In thy presence here Again I utter'd the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill'd. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th' insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard he calls, He summons me away and thou art saved, my Admetus ! In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to com- plete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proser- pine's statue. The following scene ensues be- tween her and Admetus. A Ic. Here, my faithful handmaids ! at the feet Of Proserpine's dread image spread my couch ; For I myself e'en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children ! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health's genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days : and he shall live Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly. Eum. Can it be indeed, Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus Restored 1 What joy is ours ! A dm. There is no joy ! Speak not of joy ! Away, away ! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more ! 1 know not of affection, and I feel No more a father. Eum. Oh ! what words are these ? Are we no more thy children ] Are we not Thine own 1 ? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close ; he must return the fond embrace. A dm. children ! my children ! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis ! my Alcestis ! was she not Of all her sex the flower ? Was woman e'er Adored like her before ] Yet this is she, The cold of heart, th' ungrateful, who hath left Her husband and her infants ! This is she, my deserted children ! who at once Bereaves you of your parents. Ale. Woe is me ! 1 hear the bitter and reproachful cries Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 124 ITALIAN LITERATURE. Oh ! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, That he may hear and see me. Adm. Is it thou] And do I see thee still ] and com'st thou thus To comfort me, Alcestis 1 Must I hear The dying accents th us ? Alas ! return To thy sad couch return ! 'tis meet for me There by thy side for ever to remain. Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet for thee [are these, Adm. voice ! looks of death ! are these, Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, The eyes that -were the sunbeams and the life Of my fond soul 1 Alas ! how faint a ray Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, Upon my drooping brow ! How heavily, With what a weight of death thy languid voice Sinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. Alcestis ! thou art dying and for me ! Alcestis ! and thy feeble hand supports With its last power, supports my sinking head, E'en now, while death is on thee ! Oh! the touch Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, The image of yon ruthless Deity, Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. Vain is each obstacle in vain the gods Themselves would check my fury. I am lord Of my own days and thus I swear Ale. Yes! swear, Admetus ! for thy children to sustain The load of life. All other impious vows. Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain'd, Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, It is from them the inspiration flows Which in my language breathes ? They lend me power, [fuse They bid me through thy strengthen'd soul trans- High courage, noble constancy. Submit, Bow down to them thy spirit Be thou calm ; Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme To which I now approach, from whom but thee Should comfort be derived ? Afflict me not, In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. O faithful and beloved, support me still ! The choruses with which this tragedy is inter- spersed are distinguished for their melody and classic beauty. The following translation will give our readers a faint idea of the one by which the third act is concluded. Ale. My children ! all isfinish'd. Xow, farewell ! To thy fond care, Pheres ! I commit My widow'd lord : forsake him not. Eum. Alas ! Sweet mother ! wilt thou leave us ? From thy side Are we for ever parted 1 Phe. Tears forbid All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, More lifeless than the dying victim, see The desolate Admetus. Farther yet, Still farther, let us bear him from the sight Of his Alcestis. A Ic. my handmaids ! still Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose With sacred modesty these torpid limbs When death's last pang is o'er. Chorus. Alas ! how weak Her struggling voice ! that last keen pang is near. Peace, mourners, peace ! Be hush'd, be silent, hi this hour of dread ! Our cries would but increase The sufferer's pang ; let tears unheard be shed, Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! Sustain, friend ! Upon thy faithful breast, The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest ! And thou assistance lend To close the languid eye, Still beautiful in life's last agony. Alas, how long a strife ! What anguish struggles in the parting breath, Ere yet immortal life Be won by death ! Death ! death ! thy work complete ! Let thy sad hour be fleet, Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! No more keen pangs impart To her, the high in heart, Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. Chorus of Admetus. "Tis not enough, oh no ! To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; Still must our silent band Around him watchful stand, And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 125 Yet, yet hope is not dead, All is not lost below, While yet the gods have pity on our woe. Oft when all joy is fled, Heaven lends support to those Who on its care in pious hope repose. Then to the blessed skies Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! What other task have mortals, born to tears, Whom fate controls with adamantine sway ?- ruler of the spheres ! Jove ! Jove ! enthroned immortally on high, Our supplication hear ! Nor plunge in bitterest woes Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye But as a child, which only knows Its father to revere. IL CONTE DI CAEMAGNOLA ; A TRAGEDY. BY ALESSANDRO MANZONI. FRANCESCO BUSSONE, the son of a peasant in Carmagnola, from whence his nom-de-guerre was derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a boy, and employed in the care of flocks and herds, the lofty character of his countenance was observed by a soldier of fortune, who invited the youth to forsake his rustic occupations, and accompany him to the busier scenes of the camp. His persuasions were successful, and Francesco entered with him into the service of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessan- dria. At the time when Facino died, leaving fourteen cities acquired by conquest to Beatrice di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was amongst the most distinguished of his captains. Beatrice afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke of Milan, (who rewarded her by an ignominious death for the regal dowery she had conferred upon him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the same time; and having, by his eminent services, firmly established the tottering power of that prince, received from him the title of Count, and was placed at the head of all his forces. The natural caprice and ingratitude of Philip's disposition, however, at length prevailed; and Carmaguola, disgusted with the evident proof of his wavering friendship and doubtful faith, left his service and his territories, and after a variety of adventures took refuge in Venice. Thither the treachery oi the Duke pursued him, and emissaries were employed to procure his assassination. The plot, however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was elected captain-general of the Venetian armies, during the league formed by that republic against the Duke of Milan. The war was at first carried on with much spirit and success, and the battle of Maclodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of the most important and decisive actions of those times. The night after the combat, the victorious soldiers gave liberty to almost all their prisoners. The Venetian envoys having made a complaint on this subject to the Count, he inquired what was become of the captives ; and upon being in- formed that all, except four hundred, had been set free, ho gave orders that the remaining ones also should be released immediately, according to the custom which prevailed amongst the armies of those days, the object of which was to prevent a speedy termination of the war. This proceed- ing of Carmagnola's occasioned much distrust and irritation in the minds of the Venetian rulers; and their displeasure was increased when the armada of the Republic, commanded by II Trevi- sani, was defeated upon the Po, without any attempt in its favour having been made by the Count. The failure of their attempt upon Cre- mona was also imputed to him as a crime ; and the Senate, resolving to free themselves from a powerful chief, now become an object of suspi- cion, after many deliberations on the best method of carrying their designs into effect, at length determined to invite him to Venice, under pre- tence of consulting him on their negotiations for peace. He obeyed their summons without hesi- tation or mistrust, and was every where received with extraordinary honours during the course of his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted to St Mark's Place. When he was introduced into the ducal palace, his attendants were dismissed, and informed that he would be in private with the Doge for a considerable tune. He was arrested in the palace, then examined by the Secret Council, put to the torture, which a wound he had received in the service of the Republic rendered still more agonising, and condemned to death. On the 5th May 1432 he was conducted to execution, with his mouth gagged, and be- headed between the two columns of St Mark's Place. With regard to the innocence or guilt of this distinguished character, there exists no 126 ITALIAN LITERATURE. authentic information. The author of the tragedy, which we. are about to analyse, has chosen to represent him as entirely innocent, and probabi- lity at least is on this side. It is possible, that the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior, accustomed to command, and impatient of control, might have been the principal cause of offence to the Venetians ; or perhaps their jealousy was excited by his increasing power over the minds of an obedient army; and, not considering it expedient to displace him, they resolved upon his destruc- tion. This tragedy, which is formed upon the model of the English and German drama, comprises the history of Carmagnola's life, from the day on which he was made commander of the Venetian armies to that of his execution, thus embracing a period of about seven years. The extracts we are about to present to our readers, will enable them to form their own opinion of a piece which has excited so much attention in Italy. The first act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. The Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola ehould be consulted on the projected league be- tween the Republic and the Florentines, against the Duke of Milan. To this all agree : and the Count is introduced. He begins by justifying his conduct from the imputations to which it might be liable, in consequence of his appearing as the enemy of the Prince whom he had so recently served : He cast me down From the high place my blood had dearly won; And when I sought his presence, to appeal For justice there, 'twas vain ! My foes had form'd Around his throne a barrier : e'en my life Became the mark of hatred ; but in this Their hopes have fail'd I gave them not the tune. My life ! I stand prepared to yield it up On the proud field, and hi some noble cause For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey, Not to be caught ignobly in the toils Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain'd With you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here His snares were cast around me. Now all ties Are broke between us; to an open foe, An open foe I come. He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate engaged in delibera- tion. War is resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola, His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, with- out difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet A leader or a fugitive ] To drag Slow years along in idle vacancy, As a worn veteran living on the fame Of former deeds to offer humble prayers And blessings for protection owing all Yet left me of existence to the might Of other swords, dependent on some arm Which soon may cast me off; or on the field To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life Rush proudly through my veins to hail again My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice To wake ! to rule ! to conquer ! Which must be My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling Still poorly to ignoble safety here, Secluded as a homicide, who cowers Within a temple's precincts 1 Shall not he Who made a kingdom's fate, control his own ! Is there not one among the many lords Of this divided Italy not one With soul enough to envy that bright crown Encircling Philip's head ] And know they not 'Twas won by me from many a tyrant's grasp, Snatch'd by my hand, and placed upon the brow Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize On him who best shall call the prowess forth Which slumbers in my arm 1 Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the armies, at the same time advis- ing him to act with caution towards his enemies in the Republic. Car. Think'st thou I know not whom to deem my foes ? Ay, I could number all. Mar. And know'st thou, too, [art What fault hath made them suchl Tis that thou So high above them : 'tis that thy disdain Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one Hath done thee wrong: but who, when so resolved, Finds not his tune to injure 1 In thy thoughts, Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; But they remember thee. The high in soul Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart There is delight hi hatred. Rouse it not ; IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 127 Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul Revolts indignantly thou know'st it well : But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet For the most lofty nature, there is power Of winning meaner minds, without descent From the high spirit's glorious eminence, And would'st thou seek that magic, it were thine. The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a con- trary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours to convince them of its inexpediency. Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul Which fires each soldier's eye 1 Tor, I mark'd it well. I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice Of Hope and Courage ; and I turn'd aside, That on my brow the warrior might not read Th' involuntary thought whose sudden gloom Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, That this vain semblance of delusive joy Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought On wasted valour doom'd to perish here. For these what boots it to disguise the truth? These are no wars in which, for all things loved, And precious, and revered for all the ties Clinging around the heart for those whose smile Makes home so lovely for his native land, And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights ! These are no wars in which the chieftain's aim Is but to station his devoted bands, And theirs, thus fix'd to die ! It is our fate To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on ; But if delay'd, if between flight and death Pausing they stand is there no cause to doubt What choice were theirs ? And but too well our hearts That choice might here foresee. Oh ! evil times, When for the leader care augments, the more Bright glory fades away ! Yet once again, This is no field for us. After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the battle is de- scribed, and its fatal effects lamented with all the feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less powerful impression in the situation it occu- pies at present. It is even necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the characters are repre- sented as clothed with existence, and passing be- fore us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to our inspection, to the com- parative coldness of a lyric piece, where the author's imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into this error by a definition of Schlegel's, who, speaking of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, that " the chorus is to be considered as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action as the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race. The chorus, in short, is the ideal spectator." But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed of real characters, and ex- pressed the sentiments of the people before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing : thus the true spectator, after witnessing in represen- tation the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more en- lightened part of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had brought his chorus into action introducing, for example, a veteran looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its vicis- situdes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange a variety of national and moral reflec- tions it appears to us that the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the assertion that the Greek chorus is not com- patible with the system of the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and one to which the following title would be much more appropriate. 128 ITALIAN LITERATURE. The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode. Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's sound, A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! On every side hoarse echoes from the ground To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep and banners, all around, Meet hostile banners waving to the skies ; Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line. Lo ! half the field already from the sight Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes ! Swords crossing swords flash lightning o'er the fight, And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows ! Oh ! who are these ? What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose 1 What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? One race, alas ! these foes one kindred race, Were born and rear'd the same fair scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers and each face That brotherhood reveals ; one common tongue Dwells on their lips the earth on which we trace Their heart's blood is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth this chosen land, Circled with Alps and seas by Nature's guardian hand. Oh, grief and horror ! who the first could dare Against a brother's breast the sword to wield ? What cause unhallow'd and accursed, declare, Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? Think'st thou they know 1 they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd ! Sold to a leader, sold himsdf to die, With him they strive they fall and ask not why. But are there none who love them ? Have they none No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son Back to his home, from this polluted scene 1 And they whose hearts, when life's bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb why cannot they assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age ] Ask not ! the peasant at his cabin-door Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down o'er fields he hath not plough' d. Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain. There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze Fix'd on his mother's lips, intent to know, By names of insult, those whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. Woe to the victors and the vanquish'd ! woe ! The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain ; Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. But from th' embattled front, already, lo ! A band recedes it flies all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish'd in their wild despair, Chased, sever'd, scatter'd, o'er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight; and hark ! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit ! still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear. The day is won ! They fall disarm'd they yield, Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying ! Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying ? Haste ! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd ! E'en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs he speeds with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way. Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, eager multitudes ! around him pressing 1 Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing ! Know ye not whence th' ill-omen'd herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless- ing 1 ? Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold, Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 129 I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry ! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains : E'en now the homicides assail the sky With paeans, which, indignant heaven disdains ! But from the soaring Alps the stranger's eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below. Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- pending. Th' invader comes : your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ! Victors ! why pause ye ] Are ye weak and few? Ay ! such he deem'd you, and for this descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell. thou devoted land ! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son ; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career Parting thy spoils ! Thy chastening is begun ! And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd sit proudly at thy board. Are these infatuate too ! Oh ! who hath known A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest ? The wrong' d, the vanquish'd, suffer not alone, Brief is that joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. What though not yet his day of pride be flown, Though yet heaven's vengeance spare his haughty crest, Well hath it mark'd him and decreed the hour, When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power. Are we not creatures of one hand divine, Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born ? Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine, Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn ? Brothers ! one bond around our souls should twine, And woe to him by whom that bond is torn ! Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is composed of long discourses be- tween Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established military cus- tom ; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the suspicious observa- tions of the envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined. As the prisoners are departing, the Count ob- serves the younger Pergola, and stops him. Car. Thou art not, youth ! One to be number'd with the vulgar crowd. Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest Thou minglest, and art silent ! Per. Silence best, chief ! befits the vanquish'd. Car. Bearing up Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved Worthy a better star. Thy name 1 Per. 'Tis one Whose heritage doth impose no common task On him that bears it ; one which to adorn With brighter blazonry were hard emprise : My name is Pergola. Car. And art thou, then, That warrior's son ! Per. I am. Car. Approach ! embrace Thy father's early friend ! What thou art now 1 was when first we met. Oh ! thou dost bring Back on my heart remembrance of the days, The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou ! My dawn, 'tis true, with brighter omens smiled, But still fair Fortune's glorious promises Are for the brave ; and, though delay'd awhile, She soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee I ask'd it, yet my heart is well assured He counsell'd not this battle. Per. Oh ! he gave Far other counsels, but his fruitless words Were spoken to the winds. Car. Lament thou not. Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood Fix'd at his post of peril hath begun A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me, I will restore thy sword. 130 ITALIAN LITERATURE. The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skil- fully developed in many of the scenes. The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the Council of Ten. Cannagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is re- ceived with disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His astonishment and in- dignation at this unexpected charge are expressed with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence. Car. A traitor ! I ! that name of infamy Reaches not me. Let him the title bear Who best deserves such meed it is not mine. Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, For such my part is here ; yet would I not Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. A traitor ! I retrace in thought the time When for your cause I fought ; 'tis all one path Strew'd o'er with flowers. Point out the day on which A traitor's deeds were mine ; the day which pass'd Unmark'd by thanks, and praise, and promises Of high reward ! What more ? Behold me here ! And when I came to seeming honour call'd, When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith Of trusting faith ! Oh, no ! Doth he who comes Th' invited guest of friendship dream of faith ? I came to be ensnared ! Well ! it is done, And be it so ! but since deceitful hate Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, Praise be to heaven ! an open field at least Is spread before us. Now 'tis yours to speak, Mine to defend my cause ; declare ye then My treasons ! Doge. By the secret college soon All shall be told thee. Car. I appeal not there. What I have done for you hath all been done In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds Warriors alone should judge ; and such I choose To be mine arbiters my proud defence Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. Doge. The time for choice is past. Car. What ! Is there force Employ'd against me? Guards ! (raisinghis voice.) Doge. They are not nigh. Soldiers ! (enter armed men.) Thy guards are these. Car. I am betray'd ! Doge. 'Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem'd That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, Might prove a rebel too. Car. E'en as ye list. Now be it yours to charge me. Doge. Bear him hence, Before the secret college. Car. Hear me yet One moment first. That ye have doom'd my death I well perceive ; but with that death ye doom Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers, Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats The banner of the Lion, in its pride Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know / bore it thus to empire. Here, 'tis true, No voice will speak men's thoughts ; but far beyond The limits of your sway, in other scenes, Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach'd, Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds And your reward will live in chronicles For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need A warrior soon, and who will then be yours ? Forget not, though your captive now I stand, I was not born your subject. No ! my birth Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem The honour of each citizen its own. Think ye this outrage will be there unheard ? There is some treachery here. Our common foes Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know I have been faithful still. There yet is time. Doge. The time is past. When thou didst meditate Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy Those destined to chastise it; then the hour Of foresight should have been. Car. mean in soul ! And dost thou dare to think a warrior's breast For worthless life can tremble ? Thou shalt soon Learn how to die. Go ! When the hour of fate On thy vile couch o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet Its summons with far other mien than such As I shall bear to ignominious death. SCENE II. The House of Carmagnola. ANTONIETTA, MATILDA. Mat . The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet My father comes not ! Ant. Ah ! thou hast not learn'dv By sad experience, with how slow a pace Joys ever come ; expected long, and oft IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA, Deceiving expectation ! while the steps Of grief o'ertake us ere we dream them nigh. But night is past, the long and lingering hours Of hope deferr'd are o'er, and those of bliss Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, And he is with us. E'en from this delay I augur well. A council held so long Must be to give us peace. He will be ours. Perhaps for years our own. Mat. mother ! thus My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, And days in all the sickness of suspense, Our anxious love hath pass'd. It is full time That each sad moment, at each rumour'd tale, Each idle murmur of the people's voice, We should not longer tremble, that no more This thought should haunt our souls E'en now, perchance, He for whom thus your hearts are yearning dies ! A nt. Oh ! fearful thought but vain and dis- tant now ! Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief. Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led In triumph midst the noble and the brave, Thy glorious father to the temple bore The banners won in battle from his foes ] Mat. A day to be remember'd ! Ant. By his side Each seem'd inferior. Every breath of air Swell'd with his echoing name ; and vre, the while Station'd on high and sever"d from the throng, Grazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, While, with the tide of rapture half o'erwhelm'd, Our hearts beat high, and whisper' d "We are his." Mat. Moments of joy! Ant. What have we done, my child, To merit such 1 Heaven, for so high a fate, Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow Inscribed a lofty name a name so bright, That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, whate'er His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark For envy is the glory of our lot ! And we should weigh its joys against these hours Of fear and sorrow. Mat. They ate past e'en now. [hush'd ! Hark ! 'twas the sound of oars ! it swells 'tis The gates unclose. mother ! I behold A warrior clad in mail he comes, 'tis he ! Ant. Whom should it be if not himself? my husband ! (She comes forward.) (Enter GOXZAGA and others.) Ant. Gonzaga ! Where is he we look'd for] Where] Thou answer'st not ! Oh, heaven ! thy looks are fraught With prophecies of woe ! Gon. Alas ! too true The omens they reveal ! Mat. Of woe to whom ] Gon. Oh ! why hath such a task of bitterness Fallen to my lot ? Ant. Thou wouldst be pitiful, And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense ; Speak ! I adjure thee,'in the name of God ! Where is my husband ] Gon. Heaven sustain your souls With fortitude to bear the tale ! My chief Mat. Is he return'd unto the field ] Gon. Alas ! Thither the warrior shall return no more. The senate's wrath is on him. He is now A prisoner ! Ant. He is a prisoner ! and for what ? Gon. He is accused of treason. Mat. Treason ! He A traitor ! Oh ! my father ! Ant. Haste ! proceed, And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all. Say, \vhat shall be his sentence ] Gon. From my lips It shall not be reveal'd. Ant. Oh ! he is slain ! Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix'd. Ant. He lives ! Weep not, my daughter ! 'tis the time to act. For pity's sake, Gonzaga, be thou not Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. He was thy friend ah ! haste, then, be our guide ; Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child ! Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left Mercy upon the earth. Yes ! they themselves Are husbands, they are fathers ! When they sign'd The fearful sentence, they remember'd not He was a father and a husband too. But when their eyes behold the agony [melt : One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will They will, they must revoke it. Oh ! the sight Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdain'd To vindicate his deeds, or to recall His triumphs won for them. It is for us To wake each high remembrance. Ah ! we know That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, And we will pray. Gon. Oh, heaven ! that I could leave Tour hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 132 ITALIAN LITERA TURE. No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis launch'd Is veil'd in clouds. There is one comfort still, The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. Oh ! fearful is the trial, but the God Of mourners will be with you. Mat. Is there not One hope 1 Ant. Alas ! my child ! SCEXE IV. A Prison. CABMAOVOLA. They must have heard it now. Oh ! that at least I might have died far from them ! Though their hearts Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, The solemn hour of nature's parting pangs Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, And we must drain its draught of bitterness Together, drop by drop. ye wide fields, Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms ! proud delights of danger ! Battle-cries, And thou, my war-steed ! and ye trumpet-notes Kindling the soul ! Midst your tumultuous joys Death seem'd all beautiful. And must I then, With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate Be dragg'd, e'en as a felon, on the winds Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints ? And Marco ! hath he not betray'd me too ? Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul Before I die ! But no ! What boots it now Thus to look back on life with eye that turns To linger where my footstep may not tread ] Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 1 too have proved such vain and impious joys, And know their value now. But oh ! again To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, Last accents of their voices ! By those arms Once more to be encircled, and from thence To tear myself for ever ! Hark ! they come ! God of mercy, from thy throne look down In pity on their woes ! SCENE V. AXTONIETTA, MATILDA, GOXZAGA, and CARMAGXOLA. Ant. My husband ! Mat. my father ! Ant. Is it thus That thou returnest ? and is this the hour Desired so long ! Car. ye afflicted ones ! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts bcenusedtolookon Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness ; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid ? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh ! let yours Equal your sorrows ! Let us yet find joy In this embrace : 'tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep'st, my child ! and thou, beloved wife ! Ah ! when I made thee mine, thy days flow'd on In peace and gladness ; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death ! Oh ! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee ! Ant. Husband of my youth ! [bright, Of my bright days, thou who didst make them Piead thou my heart ! the pangs of death are there, And yet e'en now I would not but be thine. Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee ; Oh ! make me not too deeply feel it now. Mat. The homicides ! Car. No, sweet Matilda, no ! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments they are sacred. Yes ! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e'en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death ! death ! our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th' inevitable hour. Oh ! man hath not Invented death for man ; it would be then Madd'ning and insupportable : from heaven 'Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife ! my child ! Hear my last words they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, 'Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife ! Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starr'd girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred : she is theirs, Of their own blood and they so loved thee once ! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner ; and the object of their hate CAWS GRACCHUS. 133 "Will be no more. Oh ! there is joy in death ! And thou, my flower ! that, midst the din of arms, "\Vert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda ] Oh ! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know"st That the forsaken have a Father still On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour'd The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All His benign compassion ! Live ! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still ! Gonzaga ! take the hand which thou hast press'd Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred \ Gon. Rest assured, I will. Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died Guiltless ; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts and know'st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor's shame Stain'd my bright sword. Oh, never ! I myself Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, And banners proudly waving in the air, Think of thine ancient comrade ! And the day Following the combat, when upon the field, Amidst the deep and solemn harmony Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, With lifted hands, is offering for the slain His sacrifice to heaven ; forget me not ! For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain E'en so to die. Ant. Have mercy on us, heaven ! Car. My wife ! Matilda ! Xow the hour is nigh, And we must part. Farewell ! Mat. Xo, father ! no ! * [and then Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, For pity's sake depart ! Ant. No ! force alone Shall tear xis hence. (A sound of arms is heard.) Mat. Hark ! what dread sound ! Ant. Great God ! (The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of u-hom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless.) Car. God ! I thank thee. most merciful ! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment's conflict ! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day that naught is left to fear. Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has ex- cited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely eman- cipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted them- selves to those rules has been sufficiently remark- able to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so " full of fate " days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests there is, neverthe- less, as great a deficiency of incident, as if " to be born and die" made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions ; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts ; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is cha- racterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war " Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." CAIUS GRACCHUS. A TRAGEDY, BY MOXTI. THIS tragedy, though inferior in power and 134 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 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 tra- gedies 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 con- trasted with the softer and more womanish feel- ings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and pas- sionate 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 ani- mated by that restless and untameable spirit of freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascen- dency give so vivid a colouring, sb 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 ! mother ! 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 charac- ter 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 perpe- tration 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. Fitl. This is no time for grief and feeble tears, But for high deeds. Caius. And we will make it such. [friends But prove we first our strength. Declare, what (If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain True to our cause 1 Fid. 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 [word, Flock'd round thee in deep reverence. Then a A look from Caius a salute, a smile, [friend, Fill'd them with pride. Each sought to be the 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 stern 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 1 Have they lost The sense of their misfortunes 1 Is the name Of Gracchus in their hearts reveal the truth Already number'd with forgotten things] CAT US GRACCHUS. 135 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 [waves Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell'd ; the 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 teard 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 1 Why speak'st thou not 1 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 eam'd his name Of second Africanus ; and the bund, 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 [waste Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly Our tune 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 1 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 meet- ing with his family, may appear somewhat incon- sistent 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 unrea- sonable to try the conduct of a Roman (parti- cularly in a tragedy) by the laws of nature. Be- fore, 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 136 ITALIAN LITERATURE. their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without com- promising the dignity of his Romans, has disen- cumbered 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 andFulvius in wrath and suspicion Cornelia hav- ing 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 assassina- tion. The mysterious expressions of Pulvius, 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 Ful- vius 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 1 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 dun ; 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 1 Am I call'd For this a murderer 1 Go ! I say once more, Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! Caius. I know thee now, barbarian ! Would'sfc thou serve My cause with crimes 1 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 1 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 here 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 [clared That mock'd its power 1 Who to all Rome de- Thy brother's death was just, was needful 1 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. PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. J37 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 1 Ful. That which I now suppress. Caius. How ! are there yet, Perchance, more crimes to be reveal'd ? Fid. I know not. Caius. Thou know'st not 1 Horror chills my curdling veins ; I dare not ask thee further. Ful. Thou dost well Caius. What saidst thou 1 Ful. Nothing. Caius. On my heart the words Press heavily. Oh ! what a fearful light Bursts o'er my soul ! Hast thou accomplices 1 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 1 Ask then thy sister. Caius (alone.) Ask my sister ! What ! Is she a murderess 1 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 1 The very hair doth rise upon my head, ThriJl'd by the thought ! Where shall I find a place To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains From this dishonour'd brow 1 What should I do 1 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 fur 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 degrada- tion, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that devoted country, the warning voiceofher bards has still been heard to prophesy the impending storm, and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recol- lections 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, pro- duce 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, sur- rounded by the rums 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 tune 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 con- secrated to the nurture of every generous prin- ciple and ennobling recollection ; and whose "choice and master spirits," under the most 138 ITALIAN LITERA TURE. 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," * 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. 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 1 And see'st thou not th' ascending flame of war Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar? Is not thy misery's evidence complete 7 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 CRT aloud, and ye shall hear my call, Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, [sleep And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first roused from 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 ! 1 " 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, [care Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of 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 SHQEE 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-U ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB.", 139 JEU-D 1 ESPRIT OX THE WORD "BARB." [" It ns either during the present or a future visit to the same friends, 1 that the jeu-d'etprit was produced which Mrs Ilemacs 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, whieli were written down almost impromptu : the mystification suc- ceeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time after- wards." Memoir, p. 43.] THE warrior donn'd his well-worn garb, And proudly wared 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 1 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 Aspra- montania. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S Arcadia. See'st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule The storm of battle 1 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 JSschylus. Oh ! bonnie look'd my ain true knight, His barb so proudly reining ; I watch'd hun till my tearfu' sight Grew amaist dim wi' straining. Border Minstrelsy. 1 The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., AVavertree Lodge, near Liverpool. 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. [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 pro- duced 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. 140 THE FEVER DREAM. Of the vessel you sail'd in, 1 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. Ho w 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, Sincelknow you still love to instruct andamuseme, For hastily putting a few questions down, To which answers from you all mywishes will crown ; For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinue 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 ; [tour, From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old 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, [pother. And I can't find out which, they all make such a Oh ! another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not 7 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, [Florence. But should wish for a few observations from Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti Are finish VI ; if not 'tis a shame for the city To let one for ages was e'er such a thing 1 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, [doubt ; That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing? When to Xaples 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 bv vou to be really Maro's. DARTMOOR. 141 DAKTMOOK. 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 1 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 1 E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 1 "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 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 Tune, 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 1 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 1 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, 1 Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall." See COOKE'S Topographical Survey of Devonshire. 142 DARTMOOR. 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 hust, [dust. With what they hide their shrined and treasured 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 [storms. Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath (Xor 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 1 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 1 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. 2 But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, 3 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 1 Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor. 3 " Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona Multi ; sed omnes illachrymabiles Urgentur, ignotique longa Nocte, carent quia vate sacro." HORACE. " They had no poet, and they died." POPB'S Translation. 8 On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one 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, 4 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 Xorth. 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 1 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 of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table-stone, and form a kind of large irregular tripod. 4 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. DARTMOOR. 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 1 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 [streams, Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountaiii- 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 1 Amidst the dungeon-gloom, The void, the stillness of the captive's doom, Were there no deeper thoughts 1 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 ; 1 The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon , were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. Came he not thither, in bis burning force, The lord, the tamer of dark souls Remorse 1 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-bewildcr'd miiid, 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 dun 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! 144 DARTMOOR. 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 Hushing 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 1 Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, [sprung, When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 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 arc 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 ? 1 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. 145 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 star-light o'er the tomb. And bless'd and hallow'd be its haunts ! for there Hath ma*a'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. WELSH MELODIES. THE HARP OF WALES. INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHI.V WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY. HARP of the mountain-land ! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirlas 1 horn was crown'd, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at wain'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 ; 3 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, 1 Hirlas, from Mr, long, and glat, blue or azure. 2 Eryri, the "Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains. 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 ! DRUID CHORUS OX THE LANDING OF THE ROMANS. BY the dread and viewless powers Whom the storms and seas obey, From the Dark Isle's 3 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 1 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 1 Hence ! around our central oak Gods are gathering Romans, fly ! 3 Ynyt Dywyll, or the Dark Island an ancient name for Anglesey. 146 WELSH MELODIES. THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN. 1 WHERE arc they, those green fairy islands, reposing In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast 1 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, [death. For the guide to those realms of the blessed is . Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, Who steer'd for those distant green spots on the wave 1 To the winds of the ocean they left theirwildstory, 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 [death. For the guide to those realms of the blessed is THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN. 2 WATCH ye well ! The moon is shrouded On her bright throne ; Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, Waves make wild moan. 'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, And gay songs and wine-cups flowing ; But of winds, in darkness blowing, O'er seas unknown ! In the dwellings of our fathers, Round the glad blaze, Now the .festive circle gathers With harps and lays ; 1 The " Green Islands of Ocean," or " Green Spots of the Floods," called in the Triads " Gwerddonan Llion," (respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chief- tain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to discover these islands ; but they were never beard of after- wards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain. See Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, Steps are bounding, bards are singing, Ay ! the hour to all is bringing Peace, joy, or praise. Save to us, our night-watch keeping, Storm-winds to brave, While the very sea-bird sleeping Rests in its cave ! Think of us when hearths are beaming, Think of us when mead is streaming, Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming On the dark wave ! THE HIRLAS HORX. FILL high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave 3 When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the sea; And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! To those from whose spears, in the shock of the fight, [the field ; A beam, like heaven's lightning, 4 flash'd over To those who came rushing as storms in their might. Who have shiver'd the helmet, and cloven the shield ; The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, When lances were red from the harvest of war. Fill high the blue hirlas ! cup-bearer, fill For the lords of the field in their festival's hour, And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power : Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth horn Of honour and mirth, 5 for the conflict is o'er ; And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. W. O. PUGHE'S Cambrian Biography; also Cambro- Briton, 1124. 2 See note to the " Green Isles of Ocean." 3 " Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose gloss is like the waves of the sea ; whose green handles show the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold." From the Hirlas Horn of OWAIN CYFEILIOO. * " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, where fire flashed out of their spears ? " From the same. 6 " Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn badge of honour and mirth." From the same. WELSH MELODIES. Fill higher the Tiirlna ! forgetting not those Who shared its bright draught in the days which are fled ! Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, Their lot shall be lovely renown to the dead ! While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown'd So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, Andtheheartof the hero shall burn at the sound. The free winds of Maelor 1 shall swell with their name, And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fame. THE HALL OF CTODDYLAH. THE Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night ; 2 I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light ; The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er, The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more ! The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill ! Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been ! The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there ! Oh ! where are the warriors who circled its board ? The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup was pour'd ! The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, Since he is departed whose smile made it bright ! I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, The pathway is short to the grave of my chief ! 1 Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, ac- cording to the modern division. 2 " The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without bed I must weep awhile, and then be silent. The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, Without fire, without being lighted Be thou encircled with spreading silence ! The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, Since he that own'd it is no more Ah Death ! it will be but a short tune he will leave me. The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, [cling feast* ! " Without its lord, without company, without the cir- OH-ES'S Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 8 " What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me now." THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. [Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, sup- posed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having sustained the loss ol his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still extant ; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is remarkable for its simplicity and beauty. See Cambrian Biography, and OWEN'S Heroic Elegies and other poems of Llywarch Hen."] THE bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom ; But fairer than aught which the summer isbringing, The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! Oh ! why should I live to hear music resounding, Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave ? Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps surrounding 1 My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of your grave ! Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream ! Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer, 3 Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam; Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! grave ! why refuse to the aged thy bed, When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the dead ! Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your bearing, As on to the fields of your glory ye trode ! [ing, Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wear- Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod ! 4 I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, Which rouses ye not, my lovely ! my brave ! When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds are bounding, [grave ! 5 I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your * " Four and twenty sons to me have been AVearing the golden chain, and leading princes." Elegies of Llywarch Hen. The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British bards. & " Hardly has the snow covered the vale, When the warriors are hastening to the battle ; I do not go, I am hinder'd by infirmity." Elegies of Llywarch Hen. WELSH MELODIES. GRUFYDD'S FEAST. [" Grufydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the Eng- lish successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his palace in Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would come in peace from Gwynedd, Powyt, the Dcheubarth, Glam- organ, and the marches. Against the appointed time he prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors ; with every entertainment of vocal and instrumental song ; thus patronis- ing the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent away all those who had excelled in them with honourable gifts." Cambrian Biography."] LET the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, By the bright festal torches around us that wave ! Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall, And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the wall ! There is peace in the land we have battled to save : Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam high, 1 That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for fight, With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light ; 2 Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be crown'd, [sound ! For the strong hearts in combat that leap'd at its Like the billows' dark swell was the path of their might, Red, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, OnMaelor's wild hills and byDyfed's fair streams ! 3 Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and free, Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be. Sheath the sword which hath given them un- perishing themes, [high, And pour the bright mead : let the wine-cup foam That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! THE CAMBRIAN IN AMERICA. WHEN the last flush of eve is dying On boundless lakes afar that shine ; 1 Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the poems of the ancient British bards. - The horn was used for two purposes to sound the alarm in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. 3 Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of water,) the modern Pembrokeshire. When winds amidst the palms are sighing, And fragrance breathes from every pine : 4 When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, And fire-flies wander bright and free, Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee ! Alone o'er green savannas roving, Where some broad stream in silence flows, Or through th' eternal forests moving, One only home my spirit knows ! Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted !' To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; But happier could the weary -hearted Look on his own blue hills and die ! TALIESIX'S PROPHECY. [A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the following effect : " Their God they shall worship, Their language they shall retain, Their land they shall lose, Except wild Wales."] A VOICE from time departed yet floats thy hills among, [sung : Cambria ! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin " The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, The clouds which mantle things unseen away before me roll, [pass'd, A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in the blast, [tongue And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung. " Green island of the mighty ! 5 1 see thine ancient race Driven from their fathers' realm to make the rocks their dwelling-place ! 1 see from Uthyr's 6 kingdom the sceptre pass away, And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely men decoy. But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their sovereign forms, And wear the crown to which is given dominion o'er the storms, 4 The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been men- tioned by travellers. 5 Ynys y Cedeirn, or Isle of the Mighty an ancient name given to Britain. 6 UthyrPendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been the father of Arthur. WELSH MELODIES. 149 So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty tongue To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's hand was strung ! " OWEN GLYNDWR'S WAR-SONG. SAW ye the blazing star ? l The heavens look'd down on freedom's war, And lit her torch on high ! Bright on the dragon crest 2 It tells that glory's wing shall rest, When warriors meet to die ! Let earth's pale tyrants read despair And vengeance in its flame ; Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair Of conquest and of fame, And swell the rushing mountain air With songs to Glendwr's name. At the dead hour of night, Mark'd ye how each majestic height Burn'd in its awful beams ] Red shone th' eternal snows, And all the land, as bright it rose, Was full of glorious dreams ! eagles of the battle, 3 rise ! The hope of Gwynedd wakes ! 4 It is your banner in the skies Through each dark cloud which breaks, And mantles with triumphal dyes Your thousand hills and lakes ! A sound is on the breeze, A murmur as of swelling seas ! The Saxon on his way ! Lo ! spear and shield and lance, From Deva's waves, with lightning glance, Reflected to the day ! But who the torrent-wave compels A conqueror's chain to bear '} 1 The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing Star, which the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to the cause of Glendwr. It served to infuse spirit into the minds of a superstitious people, the first success of their chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigour to their actions. PENNANT. 2 Owen Glendwr styled himself the Dragon ; a name he assumed in imitation of TJthyr, whose victories over the Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a dragon beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge ; and on that account it became a favourite one with the Welsh. PENNANT. Let those who wake the soul that dwells On our free winds, beware ! The greenest and the loveliest dells May be the lion's lair ! Of us they told, the seers, And monarch bards of elder years, Who walk'd on earth as powers J And in their burning strains, A spell of might and mystery reigns, To guard our mountain-towers ! In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay: 5 Before his gifted sight, The march of ages pass'd away With hero-footsteps bright ; But proudest in that long array, Was Glendwr's path of light ! PRINCE MADOC'S FAREWELL. WHY lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep 1 Too fair is the sight for a wand'rer, whose way Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep ! Fall, shadows of twilight ! and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp's lofty soul 011 each wild wind is borne ] Be hush'd, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the hand Of minstrel with melody greet my return. No ! no ! let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas ! 'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. s " Bring the horn to Tudwrou, the Eagle of Battles." See the Hirlas Horn of OWAIN CYFEILIOG. The eagle is a very favourite image with the ancient Welsh poets. * Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales. s Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst the mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of his fol- lowers. 150 U'ELSH MELODIES. My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign ; But my soul's quenchless fire, my country ! is thine. CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH. [Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the purpose of opposing Caesar, under the title of Elected Chief of Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the subsequent departure of Cassar they considered as a cause of triumph ; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an as- sembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing. Cambrian Biography.] FROM the glowing southern regions, Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, Came the Roman's crested legions O'er the deep, round Britain swelling. The wave grew dazzling as he pass'd, With light from spear and helmet cast : And sounds in every rushing blast Of a conqueror's march were telling. But his eagle's royal pinion, Bowing earth beneath its glory, Could not shadow with dominion Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! Back from their cloudy realm it flies, To float in light through softer skies ; Oh ! chainless winds of heaven arise ! Bear a vanquish'd world the story ! Lords of earth ! to Rome returning, Tell how Britain combat wages, How Caswallon's soul is burning When the storm of battle rages ! And ye that shrine high deeds in song, holy and immortal throng ! The brightness of his name prolong, As a torch to stream through ages ! 1 " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry- flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong long-hamm'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high land of Bran." 3 " My loving heart sinks with grief without thy sup- port, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves ! I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn 1 " HOWEL'S Ode to Myfanwy. HOWEL'S SONG. [HOWEL ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those tunes, is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. The ruius of Myfanwy's residence, Castle Dinas Bran, may yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] PRESS on, my steed ! I hear the swell * Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell, Sweet floating from the holy dell O'er woods and waters round. Perchance the maid I love, e'en now, From Dinas Bran's majestic brow, Looks o'er the fairy world below, And listens to the sound ! I feel her presence on the scene ! The summer air is more serene, The deep woods wave in richer green, The wave more gently flows ! fair as ocean's curling foam ! 2 Lo ! with the balmy hour I come The hour that brings the wanderer home, The weary to repose ! Haste ! on each mountain's darkening crest The glow hath died, the shadows rest, The twilight star on Deva's breast Gleams tremulously bright ; Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! Though scorn may wound me from her eye, Oh ! better by the sun to die, Than live in rayless night ! THE MOUNTAIN FIRES. [" The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthf) on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of tho massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had reference originally to the Alban Elted, or new-year." Cambro-Briton. When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen, through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly pic- turesque.] LIGHT the hills ! till heaven is glowing As with some red meteor's rays ! Winds of night, though rudely blowing, Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. WELSH MELODIES. Light the hills ! till flames are streaming From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep, 1 To the waves round Mona gleaming, Where the Koman track'd the deep ! Be the mountain watch-fires heighten'd, Pile them to the stormy sky ! Till each torrent-wave is brignten'd, Kindling as it rushes by. Now each rock, the mist's high dwelling, Towers in reddening light sublime ; Heap the flames ! around them telling Tales of Cambria's elder time. Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, Many a solemn vigil kept, When, in ages long departed, O'er the noble dead they wept. In the winds we hear their voices ., " Sons ! though yours a brighter lot, When the mountain-land rejoices, Be her mighty unforgot ! " ERYRI WEN. [" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is still said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their title, that of Lord of Snowdon." PENNANT.] THEIRS was no dream, monarch hill, With heaven's own azure crown'd ! Who call'd thee what thou shalt be still, . White Snowdon ! holy ground. T/tey fabled not, thy sons who told Of the dread power enshrined Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, And on thy rushing wind ! 1 Yr Wyddfa, the Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean the conspicuous place, or object. - Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated prophet and magician : and there, tradition says, he wrote his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons. There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddu, the black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find It shadow'd o'er thy silent height, It fill'd thy chainless air, Deep thoughts of majesty and might For ever breathing there. Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell Yet holds unbroken sway, As when on that wild rock it fell Where Merddin Emrys lay 1 2 Though from their stormy haunts of yore Thine eagles long have flown, 3 As proud a flight the soul shall soar Yet from thy mountain-throne ! Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams ! And make the snows thy crest ! The sunlight of immortal dreams Around thee still shall rest. Eryri ! temple of the bard ! And fortress of the free ! Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, Their spirit dwells with thee ! CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR MASSACRE BY EDWARD I. 4 RAISE ye the sword ! let the death-stroke be given; Oh I swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven ! So shall our spirits be free as our strains The children of song may not languish in chains ! Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest] Are heroes reposing in death on her breast 1 Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, And think ye that still we would linger below? Rest, ye brave dead ! midst the hills of your sires, Oh ! who would not slumber when freedom expires] Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain The children of song may not breathe in the chain ! himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would become insane. WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snotcdon Mountains. 3 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these moun- tains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, though very rarely, amongst the precipices. WILLIAMS'S Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. * This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the bardic productions since the time of Edward make any alli> sion to such an event. Cambro-Briton, vol. i., p. 195. 152 WELSH MELODIES. THE DYIXG BARD'S PROPHECY. 1 THE hall of harps is lone to-night, And cold the chieftain's hearth : It hath no mead, it hath no light ; No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone ; The pilgrim turns him from the door [stone. "\\Tiere minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold "And I, too, go : my wound is deep, My brethren long have died ; Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride ! " Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country's noble slain Say to him Saxon, think not all is won. '' Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, The minstrel's chainless hand : Dreamer ! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land ! '' Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased, The soul of song is flown ] Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone 1 " No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood ! We leave it pure and free ; Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. " We leave it midst our country's woe The birthright of her breast ; We leave it as we leave the snow Bright and eternal on Eryri's crest. We leave it with our fame to dwell Upon our children's breath ; Our voice in theirs through tune shall swell The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. He dies ; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; And this is yet Aneurin's 2 land Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride ! 1 At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards by Edward the First. 8 Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. THE FAIR ISLE. 3 FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE " WELSH GROUND." [The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, always accompanied the army when it marched into an enemy's country ; and, while it was preparing for battle or dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called Unbennaeth Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has beer, conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon invaders. When the prince had received his share of the spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded with the most valuable beast that remained. JONES'S His- torical Account of the Welsh Bards.] I. SONS of the Fail- Isle ! forget not the time Ere spoilers hadbreathed the free air of your clime ; All that its eagles behold in their flight [height. Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled Though from your race that proud birthright be torn, Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle. Ages may roll ere your children regain The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain ; Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. [It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resem- bling a couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, cloud ; The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the 3 Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, and signifies fair or beautiful i$le. THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 153 Around it for ever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain- wind, solemn and loud. Twos a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan ; [i^g j Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleam- And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. I lay there in silence a spirit came o'er me ; Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw ; [me, Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe. I viewed the dread beings around us that hover, Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath ; And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover, For a strife was within me of madness and death. I saw them the powers of the wind and the ocean, The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms ; [" The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs Hemans to the public as a song-writer, had already made their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the melody of their numbers in particular, the song to the well- known air, " Ar hyd y nos." Her fine feeling for music, in which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, could she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these arts, assisted her not only in her choice of measures, but also of her words ; and, although in speaking of her songs, it must be remarked that some of the later ones are almost too fall of meaning to require the further clothing of sweet sound, Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion I felt their dim presence, but knew not their forms ! I saw them the mighty of ages departed The dead were around me that night on the Mil : From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance they darted, There was light on my soul, but my heart's blood was chill. I saw what man looks on, and dies but my spirit "Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour ; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power ! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; But oh ! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won ! : instead of their being left, as in outline, waiting for the musician's colouring hand, they must be all praised as flowing and expressive ; and it is needless to remind the reader how many of them, united with her sister's music, have obtained the utmost popularity. She had well studied the national character of the Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legen- dary history of the ancient Britons, which her songs con- tain, are happily chosen. But it was an instinct with Mrs Hemans to catch the picturesque points of national char- acter, as well as of national music : in the latter she always delighted." CHORLEY'S Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 80-1.] THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. [" Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition of her tragedy, ' The Vespers of Palermo,' which she originally wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through the medium of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture upon a step which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities. Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most espe- cially by the critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its acceptance and representation, were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr Milman : ' As I cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragement I have received from you and Mr Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape, than in attempting to overcome the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.' " Memoir, p. 81-2.] THE VESPERS OF PALERMO, DRAMATIS PERSONS. COUNT EI PROCIDA. RAIMOND DI PROCIDA, hif Son. ERIBERT, Viceroy. DE Couci. MONTALBA. GUIBO. ALBERT!. A.VSELMO, a Monk. VlTTORIA. CONSTANCE, Sister to Eribert. Nobles, Soldiert, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, &e. &c. SCENE Palermo. ACT I. SCENE I. A Valley, with vineyards and cottages. Groups of Peasants PKOCIDA, disguised as a> Pilgrim, among them. 1st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time Iri days gone by ! I can remember well The old familiar melodies that rose At break of morn, from all our purple hills, To welcome in the vintage. Never since Hath music seem'd so sweet. But the light hearts Which to those measures beat so joyously, Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice Of joy through all the land. 2d Pea. Yes ! there are sounds Of revelry within the palaces, And the fair castles of our ancient lords, Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear From thence the peals of song and laughter rise At midnight's deepest hour. 3d Pea. Alas ! we sat, In happier days, so peacefully beneath The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd, Encircled by our children, whose quick steps Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er The storm might gather. But this yoke of France Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd E'en to the earth. Pea.'s Child. My father, tell me when Shall the gay dance and song again resound Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days Of which thou 'rt wont to tell the joyous tale 1 1st Pea. When there are light and reckless hearts once more In Sicily's green vales. Alas, my boy ! Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside The weight of work-day care : they meet to speak Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts They dare not breatho aloud. Pro. (from the lackground) Ay, it is well So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far In silence to avenge them ! An Old Pea. What deep voice Came with that startling tone 1 1st Pea. It was our guest's, The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn' d here Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him well : He hath a stately bearing, and an eye L accorc ^ 3 Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien 111 with such vestments. How he folds around him His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe Of knightly ermine ! That commanding step Should have been used in courts and camps to move. Mark him ! Old Pea. Nay, rather mark him not ; the tunes Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts A cautious lesson. What should bring him here 2 A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! Old Pea. Peace ! we are beset By snares on every side, and we must learn In silence and in patience to endure. Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. Pro. (coming forward indignantly.) The word is death ! And what hath life for thee, That thou shouldst cling to it thus ? thou abject thing ! Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, And stamp'd with servitude. What ! is it life Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice Into low fearful whispers, and to cast Pale jealous looks around thec, lest, e'en then, Strangers should catch its echo? Is there aught In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought Of hazarding some few and evil days, Which drag thus poorly on 1 Some of the Peas. Away, away ! Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. Pro. Why, what is danger ] Are there deeper ills Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd The cup of bitterness till naught remains THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 155 To fear or shrink from therefore, be ye strong ! Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus At words which are but echoes of the thoughts Lock'd in your secret souls ] Full well I know There is not one among you but hath nursed Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs And thine and thine ; but if within your breast There is no chord that vibrates to my voice, Then fare ye well. [say on ! A Youth (coming forward.) No, no ! say on, There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, That kindle at thy words. Pea. If that indeed Thou hast a hope to give us Pro. There is hope For all who suffer with indignant thoughts Which work in silent strength. What ! think ye heaven O'erlooks the oppressor, if he bear awhile His crested head on high 1 I tell you, no ! Th" avenger will not sleep. It was an hour Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less Is Justice throned above ; and her good time Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, And hath been heard. The traces of the past Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth heaven forget. Pea. Had we but arms and leaders, we are meii Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these, What wouldst thou have us do ? Pro. Be vigilant ; And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. [Exit PROCTDA. 1st Pea. This man should be a prophet : how he seem'd To read our hearts with his dark searching glance And aspect of command ! and yet his garb Is mean as ours. 2d Pea. Speak low ; I know him well. At first his voice disturb'd me, like a dream Of other days ; but I remember now His form, seen oft when in my youth I served Beneath the banners of our kings ! 'Tis he Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, The Count di Procida. Pea. And is this he 1 Then heaven protect him ! for around his steps Will many snares be set. 1st Pea. He comes not thus But with some mighty purpose doubt it not ; Perchance to bring us freedpm. He is one Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved True to our native princes. But away ! The noontide heat is past, and from the seas Light gales are wandering through the vineyards ; now We may resume our toil. Exeunt Peasants. SCENE II. The Terrace of a Castle. EKIBERT, VITTORIA. VU. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart Blighted and cold 1 Th' affections of my youth Lie slumbering in the grave ; their fount is closed, And all the soft and playful tenderness Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet Deep wrongs have sear'd it all is fled from mine. Urge me no more. Eri. lady ! doth the flower That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry storms, Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, Wake at love's voice ? Vit. Love ! make love's name thy spell, And I am strong ! the very word calls up From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, array'd In arms against thee ! Know'st thou whom I loved, While my soul's dwelling-place was still on earth 1 One who was born for empire, and endow'd With such high gifts of princely majesty, As bow'd all hearts before him ! Was he not Brave, royal, beautiful ] And such he died ; He died ! hast thou forgotten ? And thou'rt here, Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly look'd, Coldly ! nay, rather with triumphant gaze, Upon his murder ! Desolate as I am, Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, my lost Conradin ! there should be still Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe The hearts of thine assassins. Eri. Haughty dame ! If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, Know danger is around thee : thou hast foes That seek thy ruin, and my power alone Can shield thee from their arts. Vit. Provencal, tell Thy tale of danger to some happy heart Which hath its little world of loved ones round, For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil joys 1 5 6 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. That make earth Paradise. I stand alone ; They that are blest may fear. Eri. Is there not one Who ne'er commands in vain 1 Proud lady, bend Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he, Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, O'er the bow'd neck of prostrate Sicily, Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon My deeds hare well deserved; and who hath power Against his mandates 1 Vit. Viceroy, tell thy lord That, e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land, Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now, Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet faildto tame Unto their purposes that restless fire Inhabiting man's breast. A spark bursts forth, And so they perish ! 'Tis the fate of those Who sport with lightning and it may be his. Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. Eri. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to bear The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again Bethink thee, lady ! Love may change hath changed To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. Look to it yet ! To-morrow I return. [Exit ERIBERT. Vit. To-morrow ! Some ere now have slept and dreamt Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd orne'erforthem; So silently their deep and still repose Hath melted into death ! Are there not balms In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep Like this on me 1 Yet should my spirit still Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear To his a glorious tale of his own isle, [work, Free and avenged. Thou shouldst be now at In wrath, my native Etna ! who dost lift Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, [still, Through the red heaven of sunset ! sleep'st thou With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread The glowing vales beneath 1 [PROCIDA enters, disguised. Ha ! who art thou, Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step Dost steal upon me ? Pro. One o'er whom hath pass'd All that can change man's aspect ! Yet not long Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. Know'st thou this, lady] [He shows a ring. Vit. Righteous heaven ! the pledge Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown By him who perish'd, and whose kingly blood E'en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high Oh, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, Th' Avenger, the Deliverer ! Pro. Call me so, When my great task is done. Yet who can tell If the returnd be welcome 1 Many a heart Is changed since last we met. Vit. Why dost thou gaze, With such a still and solemn earnestness, Upon my alter'd mien 1 Pro. That I may read If to the widow'd love of Conradin, Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, I now intrust my fate. Vit. Thou, Procida ! That thou shouldst wrong me thus ! prolong thy gaze Till it hath found an answer. Pro. 'Tis enough. I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters Of noble suffering : on thy brow the same Commanding spirit holds its native state, Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed This tyrant Eribert. Vit. And told it not A tale of insolent love repell'd with scorn Of stern commands and fearful menaces Met with indignant courage 1 Procida ! It was but now that haughtily I braved His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand, With its fair appanage of wide domains And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, To recompense his crimes. I smiled ay, smiled In proud security ; for the high of heart Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, Though it be dark and lone. Pro. Thou shalt not need To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words : I tell thee that a spirit is abroad Which will not slumber, till its path be traced By deeds of fearful fame. Yittoria, live ! It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see The mighty expiation ; for thy heart (Forgive me that I wrong'd its faith !) hath nursed A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 157 Deep on thy marble brow. Vit. Then thou canst tell By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there Time, or the blight, hath work'd ! Ay, this is in Thy vision's scope : but oh ! the things unseen, Untold, undreamt of, which- like shadows pass Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind To ruin struck by grief ! Yet doth my soul, Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, Wherein is bright vitality. 'Tis to see His blood avenged, and his fair heritage, My beautiful native land, in glory risen, Like a warrior from his slumbers ! Pro. Hear'st thou not With what a deep and ominous moan the voice Of our great mountain swells ? There will be soon A fearful burst ! Vittoria ! brood no more In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret stilL) And let thy breath give nurture to the spark Thoirlt find already kindled. I move on In shadow, yet awakening in my path That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. Vit. When shall we meet again 1 Are we not those [not Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near, While thus we hold communion ? Pro. Yes, I feel Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; He shall have nobler tribute ! I must hence, But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. [Exeunt separately. SCENE III. TJie Sea-shore. RAIHOND DI PROCIDA, CONSTANCE. Con. There is a shadow far within your eye, Which hath of late been deepening. You were wont, Upon the clearness of your open brow, To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round Joy like our southern sun. It is not well, If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul, To hide it from affection. Why is this! My Raimond, why is this! Raim. Oh ! from the dreams Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still A wild and stormy waken ing] They depart Light after light, our glorious visions fade, The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveil'd, Lies pale around ; and life's realities Press on the soul, from its unfathom'd depth Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, In all their fearful strength ! 'Tis ever thus, And doubly so with me ; for I awoke With high aspirings, making it a curse To breathe where noble minds are bow'd, as here; To breathe ! It is not breath ! Con. I know thy grief, And is 't not mine 1 for those devoted men Doom'd with their life to expiate some wild word, Born of the social hour. Oh ! I have knelt, E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake The cause of mercy. Raim. Waste not thou thy prayers, gentle love ! for them. There's little need For pity, though the galling chain be worn By some few slaves the less. Let them depart ! There is a world beyond the oppressor's reach, And thither lies their way. Con. Alas ! I see That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. Raim. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my words, Fromfeelingshourly stung, have caught, perchance, A tone of bitterness. Oh ! when thine eyes, With their sweet eloquent thoughtfulness, are fix'd Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came To tell thee Con. What ? What wouldst thou say] Oh speak ! Thou wouldst not leave me ! Raim. I have cast a cloud, The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes, O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, E'en as before we met before we loved ! Con. This is but mockery. Well thou know'st thy love Hath given me nobler being ; made my heart A home for all the deep sublimities Of strong affection ; and I would not change Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source, With all its checker'd hues of hope and fear, E'en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind ! Have I deserved this ? Raim. Oh ! thou hast deserved A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. Think not 'tis mockery ! But I cannot rest To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am In this degraded land. Its very skies, That smile as if but festivals were held i 5 8 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth To seek my noble father : he hath been Too long a lonely exile, and his name Seems fading in the dim obscurity Which gathers round my fortunes. Con. Must we part ? And is it come to this 1 Oh ! I have still Deem'd it enough of joy with thee to share E'en grief itself. And now ! But this is vain. Alas ! too deep, too fond, is woman's love : Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves The treasures of her soul ! Raim. Oh, speak not thus ! Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but To be more worthy of a love like thine; For I have dreamt of fame ! A few short years, And we may yet be blest. Con. A few short years ! Less time may well suffice for death and fate To work all change on earth; to break the ties Which early love had form'd ; and to bow down Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower Strewn in life's crowded path ! But be it so ! Be it enough to know that happiness Meets thee on other shores. Raim. Where'er I roam, Thou shalt be with my soul ! Thy soft low voice Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back Life's morning freshness. Oh ! that there should be Things which we love with such deep tenderness, But, through that love, to learn how much of woe Dwells in one hour like this ! Yet weep thou not ! We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love ! Ere r depart. Con. Then there's a respite still. Days ! not a day but in its course may bring Some strange vicissitude to turn aside Th' impending blow we shrink from. Fare thee well. (Returning.) Oh, Raimond ! this is not our last farewell ! Thou wouldst not so deceive me 1 Raim* Doubt me not, Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. [Exit CONSTANCE. Raim. (after a pause.) When shall I breathe in freedom, and give scope To those untameable and burning thoughts, And restless aspirations, which consume My heart i' th' land of bondage ] Oh ! with you, Ye everlasting images of power And of infinity ! thou blue-rolling deep, And you, ye stars ! whose beams are characters Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced With you my soul finds room, and casts aside The weight that doth oppress her. But my thoughts Are wandering far ; there should be one to share This awful and majestic solitude Of sea and heaven with me. [PROCIDA enters unobserved. It is the hour He named, and yet he comes not Pro. (coming forward.) He is here. Raim. Now, thou mysterious stranger thou, whose glance Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours Reveal thyself; what art thou! Pro. One whose life Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand storms, With still a mighty aim. But now the shades Of eve are gathering round me, and I come To this, my native land, that I may rest Beneath its vines in peace. Raim. Seek'st thou for peace 1 This is no land of peace : unless that deep And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's thoughts Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien With a dull hollow semblance of repose, May so be call'd. Pro. There are such calms full oft Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, That it should irk my spirit to put on Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best May suit the troubled aspect of the times. Raim. Why, then, thou 'rt welcome, stranger, to the land Where most disguise is needful. He were bold Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn From the same past their long remembrances, Xow meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, [winds Should pour out some rash word, which roving Might whisper to our conquerers. This it is, To wear a foreign yoke. Pro. It matters not THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 159 To Viim who holds the mastery o'er his spirit. And can suppress its workings, till endurance Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves To all extremes, and there is that in life To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, Even when its lofty aims are all reduced To the poor common privilege of breathing. Why dost thou turn away 1 Saint. What wouldst thou with me 1 I deem'd thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived And made its throne on thy commanding brow, One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn So to abase its high capacities For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. What wouldst thou with me ? Pro. I would counsel thee. Thou must do that which men ay, valiant men Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court, And in the stately camp, and at the board Of midnight revellers, whose flush'd mirth is all A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze Of mortal eye ] If vengeance wait the foe, Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths conceal'd Beneath a smiling surface. Youth, I say, Keep thy soul down ! Put on a mask ! 'tis worn Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth And specious intercourse of life requires Its aid in every scene. Raim. Away, dissembler ! Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, Fitted to every nature. Will the free And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey 1 It is because I will not clothe myself In a vile garb of coward semblances, That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, To bid what most I love a long farewell, And seek my country on some distant shore, Where such things are unknown ! Pro. (exultingly.) Why, this is joy : After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds, To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing Oppression hath not crush'd. High-hearted youth, Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again Visit these shores Raim. My father ! what of him s Speak ! was he known to thee ? Pro. In distant lands With him I've traversed many a wild, and look'd On many a danger ; and the thought that thou Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, Oft through the storm hath cheer'd him. Raim. Dost thou deem That still he lives 1 Oh ! if it be in chains, In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell, Say but he lives and I will track his steps E'en to earth's verge ! Pro. It may be that he lives, Though long his name hath ceased to be a word Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound May yet be heard ! Raimond di Procida, Rememberest thou thy father ? Raim. From my mind His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, Yet powerful image of deep majesty, Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love For his inspiring name hath long become Part of my being. Pro. Raimond ! doth no voice Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms That would enfold thee now ? My son ! my son ! Raim. Father ! Oh God ! my father ! Now I know Why my heart woke before thee ! Pro. Oh ! this hour Makes hope reality ; for thou art all My dreams had pictured thee ! Raim. Yet why so long E'en as a stranger hast thou cross'd my paths, One nameless and unknown 1 and yet I felt Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. Pro. Because I would not link thy fate with mine, Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth ! Thou hast told me of a subdued and scorn'd And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd And fashion'd to her chains : but 7 tell thee Of a most generous and devoted land, A land of kindling energies ; a land Of glorious recollections ! proudly true To the high memory of her ancient kings, And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast Her alien bondage off ! Raim. And where is this 1 Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! Her spirit is awake, and moving on, In its deep silence mightier, to regain Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour Of that tremendous effort is at hand. [life Raim. Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour'st new Through all my burning veins ! I am as one Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep To the full glorious day. i6o THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. Pro. Thou shalt hear more ! Thou shalt hear things which would which will, arouse The proud free spirits of our ancestors E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ! Be secret ! for along my destined path I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me, And join a band of men, in whose high hearts There lies a nation's strength. Raim. My noble father ! Thy words have given me all for which I pined An aim, a hope, a purpose ! And the blood Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, As a bright fountain from its icy bonds By the quick sun-stroke freed. Pro. Ay, this is well ! Such natures burst men's chains ! Now follow me. [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. Apartment in a Palace. ERIBEET, CONSTANCE. Con. Will you not hear me ? Oh ! that they who need Hourly forgiveness they who do but live While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, In their vain exercise of pageant power, Hard and relentless ! Gentle brother ! yet 'Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, Whose noblest joy is pardon. Eri. 'Tis too late. You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads With eloquent melody but they must die. Con. What ! die ! for words 1 for breath which leaves no trace To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, And is, being utter'd, gone 1 Why, 'twere enough For such a venial fault to be deprived One little day of man's free heritage, [deem Heaven's warm and sunny light ! Oh ! if you That evil harbours in their souls, at least Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, Shall bid stern justice wake. Eri. I am not one Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crown'd and ann'd. And, mark me, sister ! To a distrustful nature it might seem Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note^ I have said, and they must die. Con. Have you no fear] Eri. Of what 1 that heaven should fall ? Con. No ! But that earth Should arm in madness. Brother ! I have seen Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, With such deep hatred settled in their glance, My heart hath died within me. Eri. Am I then To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look 1 Con. Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the soul, Which may not speak in words, can find no way But theirs to liberty ! Have not these men Brave sons or noble brothers ] Eri. Yes ! whose name It rests with me to make a word of fear A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men. Con. But not forgotten ! Ah ! beware, beware ! Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one Of that devoted band, who yet will need Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now His mother left me, with a timid hope Just dawning in her breast : and I I dared To foster its faint spark. You smile ! Oh ! then He will be saved ! Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think What a fond fool is Hope ! She may be taught To deem that the great sun will change his course To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus Have mock'd the boy's sad mother : I have said You should not thus have mock'd her ! Now, farewell ! [Exit ERIBERT. Con. brother ! hard of heart ! for deeds like these There must be fearful chastening, if on high Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell Yon desolate mother that her fair young son Is thus to perish ! Haply the dread tale May slay her too for heaven is merciful. 'Twill be a bitter task ! [Exit CONSTANCE. SCENE II. A ruined Tower surrounded ly woods. PROCIDA, VITTORIA. Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then ] THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 161 Tit. Yes; they wait Thy summons to their task. Pro. Keep the flame bright, But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady, To join our councils at the night's mid watch, In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross ] Vit. What should I shrink from 2 Pro. Oh ! the forest-paths Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams Through their high arches ; but when powerful night Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds Of her mysterious winds ; their aspect then Is of another and more fearful world A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, [this Waking strange thoughts almost too much for Our frail terrestrial nature. Vit. Well I know [abodes All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' Where through the silence of my soul have pass'd Voices and visions from the sphere of those That have to die no more ! Nay, doubt it not ! If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, Unmadden'd could sustain the fearful joy And glory of its trances ! At the hour Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth And air with infinite viewless multitudes, I will be with thee, Procida. Pro. Thy presence Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls Of suffering and indignant men, arouse That which may strengthen our majestic cause With yet a deeper power. Kuow'st thou the spot? Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild and lone, In these dun woods, but I have visited Its tangled shades. Pro. At midnight, then, we meet. [Exit PROCIDA. Vit. Why should I fear ] Thou wilt be with me thou, Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soul, Spirit of him I love ! that meet'st me still In loneliness and silence ; in the noon Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, Known but to me ; for whom thou giv'st the winds And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy ! Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame That thou art unavenged ! [Exit VICTORIA. SCENE III. A Chapel, with a monument on which, is laid a sword. Moonlight. PROCIDA, KAIMOND, MONTALBA. Mon. And know you not my story ? Pro. In the lands Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs Were number'd with our country's ; but their tale Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. I would fain hear it now. Mon. Hark ! while you spoke, There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, Which even like death came o'er me. 'Twas a night Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth, Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years Of battle and captivity, I spurr'd [dreams My good steed homewards. Oh ! what lovely Eose on my spirit ! There were tears and smiles, But all of joy ! And there were bounding steps, And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck When his plumed helm is doff 'd. Hence, feeble thoughts ! [mine ! I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were Raim. And were they realised 1 Mon. Youth ! ask me not, But listen ! I drew near my own fair home There was no light along its walls, no sound Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower's height At my approach, although my trampling steed Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown All open. Then my heart misgave me first, And on the threshold of my silent hall I paused a moment, and the wind swept by With the same deep and dirge-like tone which pierced My soul e'en now ! I call'd my struggling voice Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names. They answer'd not. I roused my failing strength, And wildly rush'd within. And they were there. Raim. And was all well 1 Mon. Ay, well ! for death is well : And they were all at rest ! I see them yet, Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail'd To stay the assassin's arm ! Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven ! Who had done this 1 Mon. Who ! Pro. Canst thou question, wJto? Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, But those whose yoke is on us ? THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. Raim. Man of woe ! What words hath pity for despair like thine ? Jfon. Pity ! fond youth ! My soul disdains the grief Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies To ask a vain companionship of tears, And so to be relieved ! Pro. For woes like these There is no sympathy but vengeance. Mon. None ! Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round ! We are in th' awful presence of the dead ; Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood Weighs down the murderer's soul. They sleep ! but I Am wakeful o'er their dust ! I laid my sword, Without its sheath, on then* sepulchral stone, As on an altar ; and the eternal stars, And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, No more to wield it save in one great cause The vengeance of the grave ! And now the hour Of that atonement comes ! [He takes the sword from the tvnib. Raim. My spirit burns ! And my full heart almost to bursting swells. Oh, for the day of battle ! Pro. Eaimond, they Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, But not in battle. Raim. How, my father ] Pro. No! Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach Another lesson. But the appointed hour Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, Noble Montalba ? Mon. Leave me for a time, That I may calm my soul by intercourse With the still dead, before I mix with men And with their passions. I have nursed for years, In silence and in solitude, the flame Which doth consume me ; and it is not used Thus to be look'd or breathed on. Procida ! I would be tranquil or appear so ere I j oin your brave confederates. Through my heart There struck a pang but it will soon have pass'd. Pro. Remember ! in the cavern by the cross. Now follow me, my son. {Exeunt PROCIDA and RAIMOXD. Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) [life Said he, " My son ? " Now, why should this man's Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, And I be desolate 1 How strange a sound Was that " my son /" I had a boy, who might Have worn as free a soul upon his brow [him As doth this youth. Why should the thought of Thus haunt me 1 When I tread the peopled ways Of life again, I shall be pass'd each hour By fathers with their children, and I must Learn calmly to look on. Methinks 'twere now A gloomy consolation to behold All men bereft as I am ! But away, [hearts, Vain thoughts ! One task is left for blighted And it shall be fulfill'd. Exit MOXTALBA. SCENE IV. Entrance of a Cave, surrounded ~by rocks and forests. A rude Cross seen among the rocks. PROCIDA, RAIIIOXD. Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies Of midnight, and hi solitary caves, Where the wild forest creatures make their lair Is't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold The councils of their country ] Raim. Why, such scenes In their primeval majesty, beheld Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire Far deeper thoughts than pillar'd halls, wherein Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not O'ershadow'd by that Etna, which of old With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a home [now, In other climes 1 Hark ! from its depths, e'en What hollow moans are sent ! Enter MOXTALBA, Guroo, and other Sicilians. Pro. Welcome, my brave associates ! We can share [haunt The wolf's wild freedom here ! Th' oppressor's Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met .' Sicilians. All, all ! Pro. The torchlight, sway'd by every gust, But dimly shows your features. Where is he Who from his battles had return'd to breathe Once more without a corslet, and to meet The voices and the footsteps and the smiles Blent with his dreams of home 1 Of that dark tale The rest is known to vengeance ! Art thou here, With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, Childless Montalba 1 Mon. (advancing.) He is at thy side. Call on that desolate father in the hour When his revenge is nigh. Pro. Thou, too, come forth, From thine own halls an exile ! Dost thou make THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 163 The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, "While hostile banners o'er thy rampart walls Wave their proud blazonry ? 1st Sicilian. Even so. I stood Last night before my oivn ancestral towers An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat On my bare head. What reck'd it ) There was joy Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little deem'd Who heard their melodies ! But there are thoughts Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dread vows Known to the mountain echoes. Procida ! Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. Pro. I knew a young Sicilian one whose heart Should be all fire. On that most guilty day When, with our martyr 'd Conradin, the flower Of the land's knighthood perish'd ; he of whom I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, Calling upon his father, whose last look Turn'd full on him its parting agony. The father's blood gush'd o'er him ! and the boy Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up To the bright heaven. Doth he remember still That bitter hour] 2d Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh, [men Pro. Our band shows gallantly but there are Who should be with us now, had they not dared In some wild moment of festivity To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish For freedom ! and some traitor it might be A breeze perchance bore the forbidden sound To Eribert : so they must die unless Fate (who at tunes is wayward) should select Some other victim first ! But have they not Brothers or sons among us 1 Gui. Look on me ! I have a brother a young high-soul'd boy, And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow- That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is A glorious creature ! But his doom is seal'd With theirs of whom ye spoke ; and I have knelt Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his life I knelt E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on That heartless laugh of cold malignity We know so well, and spurn'd me. But the stain Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, And thus it shall be cancell'd ! Call on me, When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. Pro. I call upon thee now! The land's high soul Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues To deeper life before it. In his chains, The peasant dreams of freedom ! Ay, 'tis thus Oppression fans th' imperishable flame With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers For what she blindly works ! When slavery's cup O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant To dull our senses, through each burning vein Pours fever, lending a delirious strength To burst man's fetters. And they shall be burst ! I have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but a power Abides in human will, when bent with strong Unswerving energy on one great aim, To make and rule its fortunes ! I have been A wanderer in the fulness of my years, A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, To aid our holy cause. And aid is near : But we. must give the signal. Now, before The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye Is on our hearts whose righteous arm befriends The arm that strikes for freedom speak ! decree The fate of our oppressors. Mon. Let them fall When dreaming least of peril ! when the heart, Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget [sword That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines Red in the festal torchlight, meet we there, And bid them welcome to the feast of death. Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words Scarce meet our ears. Mon. Why, then, I must repeat Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth In some free festal hour and woe to him Who first shall spare ! Raim. Must innocence and guilt Perish alike ? Mon. Who talks of innocence 1 When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence ! Let them all perish ! Heaven will choose its own. Why should their children live ? The earthquake whelms Its undistinguish'd thousands, making graves Of peopled cities in its path and this Is heaven's dread justice ay, and it is well ! Why then should we be tender, when the skies Deal thus with man ? What if the infant bleed ? Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs J 164 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. What if the youthful bride perchance should fall In her triumphant beauty \ Should we pause \ As if death were not mercy to the pangs Which make our lives the records of our woes } Let them all perish ! And if one be found Amidst oui- band to stay th' avenging steel For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, Then be his doom as theirs ! [A pause. Why gaze ye thus .' Brethren, what means your silence ! Sicilians. Be it so ! If one among us stay th' avenging steel For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! Pledge we our faith to this ! [to this .' Raim. (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith Xo ! I but dreamt I heard it ! Can it be 1 My countrymen, my father ! is it thus That freedom should be won ] Awake ! awake To loftier thoughts ! Lift up exultingly, On the crown'd heights and to the sweeping winds, Your glorious banner ! Let your trumpet's blast Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud, Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear The stranger's yoke no longer ! What is he Who carries on his practised lip a smile, Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings? That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, And our blood curdle at ay, yours and mine A murderer ! Heard ye 1 Shall that name with GUI'S Go down to after days 1 friends ! a cause Like that for which we rise, hath made bright names Of th' elder time as rallying-words to men Sounds full of might and immortality ! And shall not ours be such 1 Mon. Fond dreamer, peace ! Fame ! What is fame ] Will our unconscious dust Start into thrilling rapture from the grave ! At the vain breath of praise '< I tell thee, youth Our souls are parch'd with agonising thirst, Which must be quench'd, though death were in the draught : We must have vengeance, for our foes have left Xo other joy unblighted. Pro. ruy son ! The tune is past for such high dreams as thine. Thou know'st not whom we deal with : knightly faith And chivalrous honour are but things whereon They cast disdainful pity. We must meet Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. And, for our names whate'er the deeds by which We burst our bondage is it not enough That in the chronicle of days to come, We, through a bright " For Ever,'' shall be cali'd The men who saved their country ? Raim. Many a land Hath bow'd beneath the yoke, and then arisen As a strong lion rending suken bonds, And on the open field, before high heaven, Won such majestic vengeance as hath made Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own It is enough of glory to be cali'd The children of the mighty, who redeem'd Their native soil but not by means like these. Mon. I have no children. Of Montalba's blood Xot one red drop doth circle through the veins Of aught that breathes 1 Why, what have / to do With far futurity ] My spirit lives But in the past. Away ! when thou dost stand On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree Which the warm sun revives not, then return, Strong in thy desolation : but till then, Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need Of more unshrinking hearts. Raim. Montalba ! know I shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice Might yet have power among you, I would say, Associates, leaders, be avenged ! but yet As knights, as warriors ! Mon. Peace ! have we not borne Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains 1 We are not knights and warriors. Our bright crests Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. Boy ! we are slaves and our revenge shall be Deep as a slave's disgrace. Raim. Why, then, farewell : I leave you to your counsels. He that still Would hold his lofty nature undebased, And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. Pro. And is it thus indeed ] dost thou forsake Our cause, my son ! Raim. father ! what proud hopes This hour hath blighted ! Yet, whate'er betide, It is a noble privilege to look up Fearless in heaven's bright face and this is mine, And shall be still. [Exit RAIHOSD. Pro. He's gone ! Why, let it be '. I trust our Sicily hath many a son Valiant as mine. Associates ! 'tis decreed Our foes shall perish. We have but to name The hour, the scene, the signal. Mon. It should be In the full city, when some festival Hath gather'd throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts To brief securitv. Hark ! is there not THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 165 A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze 1 We are betray 'd. Who art thou ? YITTORIA enters. Pro. One alone Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil That shades thy noble brow. [She raises her veil the Sicilians draiv lad with respect. Sicilians. Th' affianced bride Of our lost king ! Pro. And more, Montalba ; know Within this form there dwells a soul as high As warriors in their battles e'er have proved, Or patriots on the scaffold. Vit. Valiant men ! I come to ask your aid. You see me, one Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held In token and memorial of the dead. Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, But to behold one great atonement made, And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, A tyrant's will should force me to profane Heaven's altar with unhalloVd vows and live Stung by the keen unutterable scorn Of my own bosom, live another's bride ] [lady ! Sicilians. Never! oh, never ! Fear not, noble Worthy of Conradin ! Vit. Yet hear me still His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears With his insulting eye of cold derision, [works, And, could he pierce the depths where feeling Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. Say, is this meet ? GUI. We deem'd these nuptials, lady, Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find Thou'rt noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs, This shall not be. Pro. Vittoria, thou art come To ask our aid but we have need of thine. Know, the completion of our high designs Requires a festival ; and it must be Thy bridal ! Vit. Procida ! Pro. Nay, start not thus. 'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair With festal garlands, and to bid the song Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No nor yet To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, Where death, not love, awaits him ! Vit. Can my soul Dissemble thus ] Pro. We have no other means Of winning our great birthright back from those Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them Into vain confidence, that they may deem All wrongs forgot ; and this may be best done By what I ask of thee. Mon. Then we will mix With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feast The harvest of the grave. Vit. A bridal day ! Must it be so ] Then, chiefs of Sicily, I bid you to my nuptials ! but be there [alone With your bright swords unsheathed, for thug My guests should be adorn'd. Pro. And let thy banquet Be soon announced ; for there are noble men Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would pur- chase Reprieve with other blood. Vit. Be it then the day Preceding that appointed for their doom, [boasts GUI. My brother ! thou shalt live ! Oppression Xo gift of prophecy ! It but remains To name our signal, chiefs ! Mon. The Vesper-bell ! Pro. Even so the Vesper-bell, whose deep- toned peal Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, Wearing the guise of antic revelry, Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell ! That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come, The time when power is in a voice, a breath, To burst the spell which bound us. But the night Is waning, with her stars, which one by one Warn us to part. Friends to your homes ! your homes ? That name is yet to win. Away ! prepare For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. The Vesper-bell ! Remember ! Sicilians. Fear us not. The Vesper-bell ! [Exeunt omnes. ACT IH. SCENE I. Apartment in a Palace. ERIBERT, VITTORIA. Vit. Speak not of love it is a word with deep Strange magic in its melancholy sound, To summon up the dead ; and they should rest, At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 1 66 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. We must throw from us, when the heart would gather Strength to fulfil its settled purposes ; Therefore, no more of love ! But if to robe This form in bridal ornaments to smile (I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand At th' altar by thy side ; if this be deem'd Enough, it shall be done. Eri. My fortune's star [love, Doth rule th' ascendant still ! (Apart.) If not of Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, And with exulting heart Vit. There is no joy ! Who shall look through the far futurity, And, as the shadowy visions of events Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, " This will bring happiness T Who shall do this] Who, thou and I, and all ! There's One, who sits In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond Their thickest clouds ! but we, from whose dull eyes A grain of dust hides the great sun e'en u'e Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, Of future joy and grief ! Eri. Thy words are strange. Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria ! Oh ! if my cares Vit. I know a day shall come Of peace to all. Ev*n from my darken'd spirit Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down Serenely to repose. Of this no more. I have a boon to ask. Eri. Command my power, And deem it thus most honour'd. Vit. Have I then Soar'd such an eagle pitch, as to command The mighty Eribert 1 And yet 'tis meet ; For I bethink me now, I should have worn A crown upon this forehead. Generous lord ! Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing A sense of deep repose, have lull'd me oft To peace which is forgetfulness ; I mean The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be The summons to our bridal. Hear you not 1 To our fair bridal ! Eri. Lady, let your will Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless'd, Proving my homage thus. Vit. Why, then, 'tis mine To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, And I may be content. Yet much remains For thought to brood on, and I would be left Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! (Whom I command so absolutely,) now Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when I'm at thy side once more, but I shall stand There to the last ! Eri. Your smiles are troubled, lady May they ere long be brighter ! Time will seem Slow till the Vesper-bell. Vit. 'Tis lovers' phrase To say Time lags ; and therefore meet for you ; But with an equal pace the hours move on, Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, Pleasure or fate. Eri. Be not so full of thought On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves Look on my joy with a triumphant smile Unshadow'd by a cloud. Vit. 'Tis very meet That heaven (which loves the just) should wear a smile In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, Forgive me if I say farewell until Th' appointed hour. Eri. Lady, a brief farewell. [Exeunt separately. SCEXE II. The Sea-shore. PEOCIDA, RAIMOSD. Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share the glory Of this, our daring enterprise 1 Raim. father ! I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds Whereby 'twas won the high exploits, whose tale Bids the heart burn, were of another cast Than such as thou requirest. Pro. Every deed Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim The freedom of our country ; and the sword Alike is honour'd in the patriot's hand, [gave Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart Avliich Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, At dead of night. Raim. (turning away.) There is no path but one For noble natures. THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 167 Pro. Wouldst them ask the man Who to the earth hath dash'd a nation's chains, Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by what means The gloi-ious end was won ] Go, swell th' acclaim ! Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path, To that most bright and sovereign destiny, Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it call'd A stern necessity, but not a crime ! Raim. Father ! mysoul yet kindlesatthethought Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn'd, Ev'n from thy voice. The high remembrances Of other days are stirring in the heart [men Where thou didst plant them ; and they speak of Who needed no vain sophistry to gild [mine ! Acts that would bear heaven's light and such be O father ! is it yet too late to draw The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts On our most righteous cause ? .Pro. What wouldst thou do? Raim. I would go forth, and rouse th' indignant land To generous combat. Why should freedom strike Mantled with darkness 1 Is there not more strength Ev'n in the waving of her single arm Than hosts can wield against her 1 /would rouse That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on To its proud sphere the stormy field of fight ! Pro. Ay ! and give time and warning to the foe To gather all his might ! It is too late. There is a work to be this eve begun When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before To-morrow's sun hathreach'd i'th' noonday heaven His throne of burning glory, every sound the Provencal tongue within our walls, As by one thunderstroke (you are pale, my son) Shall be for ever silenced ! Raim. What ! such sounds As falter on the lip of infancy, In its imperfect utterance 1 or are breathed By the fond mother as she lulls her babe ] Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air Pour'd by the timid maid ? Must all alike Be still'd in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart There is no crime in this ? Pro. Since thou dost feel Such horror of our purpose, in thy power Are means that might avert it. Raim. Speak ! oh speak ! Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless thy name Shouldst thou betray us ! Raim. Father ! I can bear Ay, proudly woo the keenest questioning Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems To claim a part of heaven's dread royalty, The power that searches thought. Pro. (after a pause?) Thou hast a brow Clear as the day and yet I doxibt thee, Raimond ! Whether it be that I have learn'd distrust From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; Whether my paths have been so seldom cross'd By honour and fair mercy, that they seem But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus My unaccustonYd gaze : howe'er it be I doubt thee ! See thou waver not take heed. Time lifts the veil from all things ! [Exit PBOCIDA. Raim. And 'tis thus Youth fades from off our spirit ; and the robes Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith We clothed our idols, drop ! Oh, bitter day ! AVhen, at the crushing of our glorious world, We start, and find men thus ! Yet be it so ! Is not my soul still powerful in itself To realise its dreams 1 Ay, shrinking not From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well Undaunted meet my father's. But, away ! [yet Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! Love is Mightier than vengeance. [Exit RAIMOND. SCENE III. Gardens of a Palace. CONSTANCE alone. Con. There was a time when my thoughts wander'd not Beyond these fairy scenes ! when but to catch The languid fragrance of the southern breeze From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough Of happiness. How have these calm delights Fled from before one passion, as the dews, The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled By the great sun ! [RAIMOND enters, Raimond ! oh ! now thou'rt come I read it in thy look to say farewell For the last time the last ! Raim. No, best beloved ! I come to tell thee there is now no power To part us but in death. Con. I have dreamt of joy, But never aught like this. Speak yet again ! Say we shall part no more ! Raim. No more if love Can strive with darker spirits ; and he is strong In his immortal nature ! All is changed Since last we met. My father keep the tale Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 1 68 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. From Eribert my father is return'd : I leave thee not. Con. Thy father ! blessed sound ! Good angels be his guard ! Oh ! if he knew How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate Even a Provencal maid ! Thy father ! now Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see The sunny happiness of earlier days Look from thy brow once more ! But how is this ] Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ; And in thy look is that which ill befits A tale of joy. Raim. A dream is on my souL [ing I see a slumberer, crown'd with flowers, and smil- As in delighted visions, on the brink Of a dread chasm ; and this strange fantasy Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, I cannot but be sad. Con. Why, let me sing One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, And this will banish it. Raim. It may not be. gentle Constance ! go not forth to-day : Such dreams are ominous. Con. Have you then forgot My brother's nuptial feast ] I must be one Of the gay train attending to the shrine His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy [love] Will print earth lightly now. What fear'st thou, Look all around ! the blue transparent skies, And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase All thought of evil. Why, the very air [realms Breathes of delight ! Through all its glowing Doth music blend with fragrance ; and e'en here The city's voice of jubilee is heard, Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds Of human joy ! Raim. There lie far deeper tilings Things that may darken thought for life, beneatli That city's festive semblance. I have pass'd Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark'd A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, Which deem'd their flash unnoticed, and a quick, Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe Its mien with carelessness ; and now and then, A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide Much from unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs Have been prophetic oft. Con. I tremble ! Raimond ! What may these things portend ? Raim. It was a day Of festival like this ; the city sent Up through her sunny firmament a voice Joyous as now ; when, scarcely heralded By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths The earthquake burst; and the wide splendid scene Became one chaos of all fearful things, Till the brain whirl'd, partaking the sick motion Of rocking palaces. Con. And then didst thou, My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, [given WTiose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had One burial unto thousands, rush to save Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives to bless Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven Wafts gladness to her soul ! Raim. Heaven ! heaven is just ! And being so, must guard thee, sweet one ! still. Trust none beside. Oh ! the omnipotent skies Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man Doth compass those he hates with secret snares,. Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, Mask'd as a reveller. Constance ! oh, by all Our tried affection, all the vows which bind Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell Doth sound for vesper prayer ! Con. And know'st thou not 'Twill be the bridal hour] Raim. It will not, love ! That hour will bring no bridal ! Naught of this To human ear ; but speed thou hither fly, When eveningbrings that signal. Dost thou heed ? This is no meeting by a lover sought To breathe fond talcs, and make the twilight groves And stars attest his vows ; deem thou not so, Therefore denying it ! I tell thee, Constance ! If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair As falls on man, beholding all he loves Perish before him, while his strength can but Strive with his agony thou'lt meet me then. Look on me, love ! I am not oft so moved Thou'lt meet me ] Con. Oh ! what mean thy words ? If then My steps are free, I will. Be thou but calm. Raim. Be calm ! there isacoldand sullen calm, And, were my wild fears made realities, It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense This conflict of all terrible fantasies, There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love ? I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell Until that hour ! Con. My Raimond, fare thee well. [Exeunt- THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 169 SCENE IV. Room in the Citadel of Palermo. ALBEBTI, DE Couci. De Cou. Saidst thou this night 1 Alb. This very night and lo ! E'en now the sun declines. De Cou. What ! are they arm'd ? Alb. All arm'd, and strong in vengeance and despair. De-Cou. Doubtful and strange the tale ! Why was not this reveal'd before 1 Alb. Mistrust me not, my lord ! That stern and jealous Procida hath kept O'er all my steps (as though he did suspect The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought To read in mine) a watch so vigilant I knew not how to warn thee, though for this Alone I mingled with his bands to learn Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st my faith To Anjou's house full well. De Cou. How may we now Avert the gathering storm ? The viceroy holds His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart Which kept me from these nuptials. Alb. Thou thyself May'st yet escape, and haply of thy bands Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush Before him with the tidings, in his pride And confidence of soul, he would but laugh Thy tale to scorn. De Cou. He must not die unwarn'd, Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, And shalt not pass unguerdon'd, should I live Through the deep horrors of th' approaching night. Alb. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti'?. {Exit ALBERTI. De Cou. The grovelling slave ! And yet he spoke too true ! For Eribert, in bund elated joy, Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes fast, And through the city, recklessly dispersed, Unarm'd and unprepared, my soldiers revel, E'en on the brink of fate. I must away. [Exit DE Couci. SCENE V. A Banqueting Hall. Provencal Nobles assembled. l$t Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! Whc hath seen The viceroy's bride ] Id Noble. I saw her as she pass'd The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall These proud Sicilians that her wide domains Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 3d Noble. 'Twas their boast With what fond faith she worshipp'd still the name Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves Brook this new triumph of their lords 1 2d Noble. In sooth, It stings them to the quick. In the full streets They mix with our Provencals, and assume A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. 'Twere worth a thousand festivals to see With what a bitter and unnatural effort They strive to smile ! 1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair? 2d Noble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet her beauty Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, From which thoult shrink as I did. 1st Noble. Hush ! they come. Enter ERIBERT, YITTORIA, CONSTANCE, and others. Eri. Welcome, my noble friends ! there must not lower One clouded brow to-day in Sicily ! Behold my bride ! Nobles. Receive our homage, lady ! Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer Prove worthy of such guests ! Eri. Look on her, friends ! And say if that majestic brow is not Meet for a diadem ] Tit. 'Tis well, my lord ! When memory's pictures fade 'tis kindly done To brighten their dimm'd hues 1 1st Noble (apart.) Mark'd you her glance ? 2d Noble (apart.) What eloquent scorn was there! Yet he, th' elate Of heart, perceives it not. Eri. Now to the feast ! Constance, you look not joyous. I have said That all should smile to-day. Con. Forgive me, brother; 170 THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp At times oppresses it. Eri. Why, how is this ? Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds . There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, Since 'tis your wish. In truth, I should have been A village maid. Eri. But being as you are, Not thus ignobly free, command your looks (They may be taught obedience) to reflect The aspect of the time. Vit. And know, fair maid ! That, if in this unskill'd, you stand alone Amidst our court of pleasure. Eri. To the feast ! Kowletthe red wine foam! There should be mirth When conquerors revel ! Lords of this fair isle ! Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and pledge The present and the future ! for they both Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride? Vit. Yes, Eribert ! thy prophecies of joy Have taught e'en me to smile. Eri. 'Tiswell. To-day I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, To waft me happiness ! my proudest foes Must die ; and then my slumber shall be laid On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar The luxury of its visions ! Fair Vittoria, Your looks are troubled ! Vit. It is strange but oft, Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul Death comes, with some dull image ! As you spoke Of those whose blood is claim'd, I thought for them Who, in a darkness thicker than the night E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, How blessed were the stroke which makes them things Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, There is at least no bondage ! But should ice, From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys Contend for mastery, and the very sense Of life is rapture should -we pass, I say, At once from such excitements to the void And silent gloom of that which doth await us Were it not dreadful ? Eri. Banish such dark thoughts ! They ill beseem the hour. Vit. There is no hour Of this mysterious world, in jov or woe, But they beseem it well ! Why, what a slight Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs Being from death ! And who can tell how near Its misty brink he stands ? 1st Nolle (aside.) What mean her words] 2d Noble. There's some dark mystery here. Eri. No more of this ! Pour the bright juice, which Etna's glowing vines Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice Dispel these ominous dreams ! Wake, harp and song ! Swell out your triumph ! A Messenger enters, bearing a letter. Mes. Pardon, my good lord ! But this demands Eri. What means thy breathless haste, And that ill-boding mien ? Away ! such looks Befit not hours like these. Mes. The Lord De Couci Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings Of life and death. Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a tune for aught But revelry ? My lord, these dull intrusions Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence ! Tell the Lord De Couci, we will talk Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. Let there be Around me none but joyous looks to-day, And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals,